Aintree races playing havoc with my commute home. Revellers in their finery everywhere, trains cancelled, the sound of helicopters humming in the sky and the occasional clang of a shovel putting a distressed horse out of its misery.

It’s basically an act of defiance now. He’s also, somehow, six years older now than Willie Rushton ever was, which has made me feel quite dizzy.

I don’t know how Wayne Coyne manages to still look like Wayne Coyne after all these years when the bloke at work who used to look like Wayne Coyne now looks like Willie Rushton.

No way to treat a full head of hair, that. He’s only got himself to blame.

I would certainly trust his judgement in the realm of buttocks, perhaps less so when it comes to hair loss.

At some point future Fourpence will also have to a long, hard think about whether his buttocks are still suitable for his ass-less leather chaps.

Ah nice try but what if all that primping and teasing was what made Dave’s hair fall out?

Didn’t realise it was raining until I left the house so now I’m on a busy train trying to fix my hair without it being too obvious that I’m trying to fix my hair. It can go a bit Ian Beale if I’m not careful.

Poor old Neil Sedaka. I’ve always wondered if Solitaire was one of those songs that was obliquely about masturbating - like Pictures of Lily, or Turning Japanese, or, I don’t know, Lonely Wank In A Travelodge by Kunt & The Gang.

Missed this re-run but at least that meant no fever dreams about evil Pierrot mimes or gangland knuckle-sandwich merchants.

Et tu, Carolly7!

Aha, good to know the Knowles discourse continues somewhere. Very little of it on the old Twitter these days. Outlawed by Musk, presumably.

Had to get in early to secure the all-important D4P username. Still waiting to reap the rewards of DangerFourpence@LotusNotes.