Bryson's Beard

After becoming breathlessly bored with my pathetic web log over the past few weeks, I have to decided to end the drought of humourless literature and finish the four part trilogy quickly and painlessly by cramming the rest into the final installment. Unfortunately, I am no George Lucas or Peter Jackson and so expect this futile attempt of "post suicide" to be downright deplorable.

However, it is on the subject of national transport and this is where my talents lie. Jingo once compared me the great Bill Bryson, master of extracting humour and incident from the darkest corners of England. To use his exact words: "Torquer, get a bloody shave dammit! That nasty thing on the end of your chin is starting to remind me of Bill Bryson, only with the combined grease content of Robin's scalp and my oven!"


Despite walloping him in the beard and hairy legs contest, Jingo however still has a moustach like a yard brush.

So, after whittling on semi-pointlessly for the past however long it took you to read it, I end this post with a promise to bring you the final part of my epic seven hour train ordeal the following Monday. Until then, you can bloody wellread this. Don't forget to comment, strewth.