17th April 1999
£10 for a bloody Margherita pizza.
I’m still not over it. No meat feast, no ketchup, and not a stuffed crust in sight. “That’s not how they do it,” apparently. Well how do they do it then? Rosemary seemed to enjoy it, mind you — but then she’s very easy to please. Bit of tomato, bit of cheese, job done as far as she’s concerned. I spent most of the evening trying to work out what exactly was “express” about it.
Anyway.
Decent set of Premiership fixtures today. Arsenal not playing, which at least means they can’t be top of the bill this week — small mercies. Liverpool at home to Villa as well, which sees Collymore back at his old stomping ground. He’s had his troubles, poor chap, but on his day there’s a player in there. Stanley, that is.
Although I refuse to call him Stan.
Don’t like it. Never have. This modern habit of shortening names — unnecessary. If your name’s Stanley, it’s Stanley. End of. Went to a christening the other day and the child was named Rob. Not Robert. Just Rob. What next? Bob straight out the womb? No sense of occasion anymore.
Not that I’ve got much room to talk, apparently. I’m “Des” to everyone now. Not Desmond. Never Desmond. There was already a Desmond Lynham knocking about at Radio Sussex when I started, so they asked me to pick something different. “Des will do,” they said. Will it? Didn’t feel like I had much say in the matter at the time. Still doesn’t sit quite right, if I’m honest.
Off on a short city break next midweek as well. Amsterdam. Rosemary booked it.
Not entirely convinced she knows what goes on over there. The ganja, the prostitution… she’ll be expecting tulips and bicycles. Might come as a surprise when she realises the red light district has nothing to do with traffic signals. Sheltered life, bless her.
Right, need to write my script for tonight's intro. Wish me luck.
Not that I need it.
– Des