I should have stuck in at school. I mean, I took Latin and French and what good was that to me when 2.33 million from other EU countries are now camped here (and wallowing in it)?
Latin? ‘‘You might grow to need it some day, son,’’ my Sunday School teacher would lecture me. ‘‘It will be invaluable if you become a doctor.’’
Doctor? That’ll be right. Latin’s a dead langwidge. Dedd. Dedd.
A scruffy Zara Philips talking: “People assume I always look like I do in my riding kit or in a dress at a social event. But the day-to-day me is driving in my filthy car with my dogs in the boot, wearing a pair of jeans and a hoody.”
Afterwords . .
Too late for the departed stultifying stand-ups at the Fringe to try to hold a candle to Phyllis Diller who has died, still smiling, replete with liposuction, cheek implants and a tummy tuck. Typical killer Diller: “There are two parts of my body the same age” and “You know you’re old when your birth certificate was a scroll.”