Saturday.

6:16 I've been up for a while, listened to Kermode and Mayo's film reviews, my treat every week, either live on a Friday or podcast on the Saturday. Danny Baker isn't on this morning, so I'll have to rely on the BBC and Twitter for World Cup bollocks. The world cup is a week away. I'd love to tell you I don't care. truth is I'll be glued to the screen watching all the way through, even after
"Come on England!!"
 is but a hollow hopeful memory.
The art festival is this weekend, if I can get myself in one piece Beth and I will be walking around looking suitably interested. There is always really good art at the festival, but as so often happens, the mediocre bleat a lot louder.
Mediocre bleating is endemic everywhere.
 A terrible idea can be moved to the normal, by dint of an unimaginative repetitive pitch hurled from the stands. People who have genuinely interesting ideas worry over them, and work until they are finally prepared to let them breath out into the public sphere. Every now and again I find something I adore, that I didn't see coming. Of course no mediocre, no contrast. You can't know somethings great, until you know the pile of shit it pulled itself from. Coffee.