I don't care wot the weatherman sez
When the weatherman sez it's rainin'
You'll never hear me complainin'
I see the sun shining...
Me, on the other hand, will moan massively, for my spikey bonce will get demolished under a hood or hat, and instead ends up plastered to me noggin for I possess naught in the way of umberella, Ella, Ella (Eh? Eh?).
And if it's gusty out, old gutsy gets blown about and ends up with some lucicrous cranial adornment worthy of some turner prize that the moulding wax has decided to sculpt of its own accord.
Then again, I don't care wot the weatherman sez, for I'm far more interested in the weathergirl with the big pressure front moving in from the west.
And how come weather[people] can say 2 different things. According to BBC East Anglia's set for snow - but we get no snow over on ITV! Are the MET office telling porkies to BBC or ITV? BBC? Stuffy old fart - tell him it's gonna snow. Over on ITV, let's tell the hottie with the hooters it's fun in the sun.
And just what experience do you need to be a weather presenter? Apart from pointing at a green screen, clicking a button and reading an autocue, it's not exactly challenging. And you get paid wodges of cash for getting the weather wrong!
I could do that! But then, I'm not some rampant trollop bursting out of her blouse like some vast labourers cleft as he reaches over for his tool.
I can tell you though, that it's a bit chilly out.
And it ain't raining.
Which is a shame, coz I could be dancing in the street without a care in the world about ruining my brand new topmost topiary.
Or...
dancing in Chicago.
Down in New Orleans.
In New York City!
All I need is music.
Sweet music.
Mmmmm...sweeties...
