I was half tempted to not blog today. If you’re savvy, you know I post a day in advance. It’s Sunday for me. The day after those fuckers went mad in London. But I feel if I change the way I operate, the fucking murderous bastards have won. I’m not playing that game. I narrowly dodged the fucking IRA on a few occasions. I’m not being cowed now.

Right, back to the story. On Thursday, my friend George and I made a deal. It turned into a bet. As you know, I shave my head. This does tend to piss off my more follically challenged mates. Hey ho.

Anyway, George challenged me to not shave my bonce for four weeks. ‘You can’t do it.’

I’m like many people. Tell me I can’t do something, I’ll go out and do it, if it is within my remit. I know I cannot climb the Matterhorn wearing roller-skates* but this should have been a sitter, eh?

It was hideous I have no idea how I once had heavymetal thunderer hair so long that if I tilted my back it reached my waist. Eating spaghetti was a sodding nightmare, twirling my locks up with the pasta. Now it was itchy, too hot, and thoroughly unpleasant.

However, there seemed to be a getout clause. George had said she would write a guest blog about how this all came about, for me to post on Sunday. She fell at the first fence. I went home, got the razors** out, and I am now as smooth as a baby’s bum. And cool. And not itchy.

*This has been done.

** Wet razors. I’m old school. I don’t get on with leckie ones.