Sweating like a pig that knows it's dinner

We've all done it. Don't pretend you haven't. You've organised a party and then sweated wondering if anyone will show up. And if they do will they find a forgotten cotton bud lurking behind the radiator; will they be running their fingers over your shelves; taking the piss out of your record collection (insert CD, cassette, whatever) or be Twittering sad pics of the Capodimonte your parents / equally sad mates bought you.

I'm sweating like a pig that knows it's dinner because the world has been invited to our party...and they're coming. That is an unassailable truth. They’re already here. Our reputation…our collective reputations are at stake: no pressure then.

It seems like forever that London has been imitating your gran when involved in a competitive cleaning competition having been given notice that the hated or viewed with suspicion long-lost rellie / sibling / perceived competitive anyone, is coming round, and they embark on a massive clean-up: roads, pavements, painting, signage. Even new street thingys had plastic wrappers, just like your gran’s sofa. And just as you’re doing the final hoovering and you’ve even got the right marks in the carpet, some fucker puts his oversized muddy boots all over it: G4S standard issue natch.

To be continued…