Good morning, dear reader. I correspond to you from the inside of Heathrow’s Terminal 5 where I am waiting upon the tardy Rosé and availing myself of the first cocktail of the holiday, a delicious Mojito. Well, it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere, isn’t it?
There’s no sign of Eurovision artistes to travel with this year and I believe that Molly is heading out tomorrow. Oh well, more room on the plane for us but no exclusive mid-flight scoops for you this year sadly.
That Phil is leaving us in charge tomorrow as he goes off in pursuit of Viking horns. He’s promised to find me one with a nice helmet as a souvenir. I shall look forward to being pillaged when he gets back.
So off we jet into what, if the petitions against Conchita Wurst are to be believed, will be a hot bed of sodomy. How jolly! I could do with a holiday romance. If I’m late to work on Friday morning you’ll know what has kept me delayed…
Monty x
