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The Sunday Papers

Sundays are for... Sundays are... for. Okay, try this again.

Sundays are for crashing into bed after serious drunken Stafford Wedding dancing, having a scant few hours sleep, be up before 8 to get a train which somehow finds a route from the Midlands to Euston which takes three hours, going to a big hall full of thousands of people dressed as Death Note characters, limping to the pub for a couple of desperate hairs of dogs, crawl into a train, get dragged home and then pushed in front of your computer to try and compile a list of interesting reading from across the week for the RPS readers, while trying to avoid posting a piece of early nineties pophouse that was dropped at the wedding and warning the audience that if anyone says anything about the grammar, spelling or anything else in this formed-through-denial-of-physical-pain-post then next week will be the first skip-week for the Sunday Papers ever, you bastards.

Failed.

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