Dave Twentyman: Maude must feel a right fuel

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A MASSIVE round of (ironic) applause to Francis Maude and Dave ‘Call me Dave’ Cameron for all the chaos they caused last week with the fuel.

If Saints are looking to boost ticket sales it might be worth giving Maude a shout, he’ll easily sell more tickets.

I had a struggle buying fuel. I needed it to get to Dumfries. I noticed despite all the panic that people weren’t buying the Supreme/Excellium fuel. Nobody can afford it, it’s like Stella for cars.

Still, you can’t accuse the Tories of not caring as they’ve made sure everybody’s got petrol stored for the impending summer riots.

THE England manager fiasco continues with Steve McClaren now ruling himself out of the job.

Sorry Steve, but who was going to ask you? Personally I’d rather have the great Sir Bobby Robson back in charge through the medium of a Ouija board than have McClaren back.

And that’s taking into consideration the fact that Bobby was well known for getting players names wrong.

I WOKE up the other morning in the bed on my own. In my experience this means one of two things, either the Next sale was on or I’d been that bad with my heavy breathing/borderline snoring that she’d resorted to sleeping on the sofa.

It turned out to be the latter. It’s strange going to bed on pleasant terms but waking up and being treated like you’ve done something awful like murder or used all her bath bombs in one go.

It certainly doesn’t help her mood when you’ve got Aerosmith’s ‘Don’t wanna miss a thing’ stuck in your head. “I could stay awake just to hear you breathing, Watch you smile while you are sleeping,Well you’re far away dreaming”.

THE weather’s been fantastic so I thought I’d treat her to one of them Chiminea’s for the garden.

To be honest, it was more for me. Every fella deep down absolutely loves to burn stuff. The old wooden garden furniture is gone now, I’m never going the tip again.

There are some ladies who somehow think us blokes are complicated creatures. We’re really not.

This is a very simple equation that describes every single bloke on this planet ... if we can’t eat it and we can’t have nookie with it, we’ll burn it.