Inside the Cathedral

Yesterday I had the immense pleasure of showing off my City, and it made me realise something about my Cathedral - I've never blipped inside. Sure nowadays I'm sure the gothic towers of Lincoln Cathedral are as well known to blippers as any Edinburgh landmark you might name, but internally? Nothing.

Therefore I've decided to bring you a series of shots this week from inside the magnificent building. I had a quiet word with the guys on the door and have been allowed access at a lunch time every day: in exchange for a single £10 donation. Lovely.

So here is an autostitched shot looking down towards the twin towers and main entrance. It's ace.

In other news work is rubbish.

I have to confess to being absolutely shattered today. After an early start and nearly full day on my feet I finally finished my household chores around 9.30pm. Once bathed I found I had to sit through Match of the Day 2 (because it's the only football I'll watch right now), which in turn led to a post 11pm bedtime slot. Again. Mind you I did get to see a scintillating 3-2 Man City v Bolton game, and a not so interesting match involving Norwich City, whom I hate.

In fact there are a few teams I hate for odd reasons, so rather than try and make you laugh the usual way, I shall furnish you with those reasons.

Norwich City - My ex left me for a Norwich fan, someone she was with before she left me. He had the badge tattooed on his leg, and the thought of him makes me want to insert my right boot into his Chevy Chase.

Kettering Town: Imraam Ladak = Wanker. We went away here in 2008 full of optimism for a great FA Cup day out, and we returned having been assaulted, abused and (as a team) embroiled in a race row. Idiots from a small minded town.

Grimsby: Do you have to ask? If Grimsby were a body part of the UK it'd be the appendix: we don't need it and eventually it'll cause you some grief.

I could have said the sphincter because only shit comes out of it and it stinks.... but that's not true as know a few reformed ex Grimsbyarians. One can even write his own name. In faeces. On a wall.

Man Utd: Everyone hates them. Everyone except half the population of Surrey and Thai businessmen. Not even the presence of King Eric of Cantona could make me have any affection for the Mancs. King Eric? See the true story below.

Sunderland: Took Trevor Carson back in April last year and left us stranded high and dry. Plus Steve Bruce is an ex Manc.

Crawley Town: Steve Evans. Look him up. Crook, charlatan and most importantly a complete and utter tool.

Port Vale: Could they snatch a point on the final day of last season to relegate Barnet instead of us? Could they buggery. In a bizarre twist of fate did they manage to turn the same Barnet side over two months later in the opening game of this season? Yes they could.

Thanks for reading today. Tomorrow: find out about the Lincoln Imp (I suppose if you can't really wait you could wikipedia it, but if you do you'll ruin my mirth filled write up tomorrow. Do you really want that shit on your conscience? No? Well then).

*** TRUE STORY ***

On the day George Best died he was met at the pearly gates by St Peter. He was greeted with much enthusiasm as St Peter explained that Best was the final part of the jigsaw for the Heaven XI team. Besty cast his eye over the list and saw some genuinely great names. Bobby Moore was on there. Alan Ball made the cut. The Besty noticed the name of Eric Cantona.

"But Eric isn't dead" Said Besty

"Correct," replied St Peter "that's God, he just likes to be known as Catona"