We Need to Talk about Bertie

It has been pointed out to me that this blog, which I hope one day Bertie will take over and make her own (who am I kidding), could be the longest paternal suicide note in history. When darling Bartholomew blooms into self-consciousness and then realises that her dear Pa-pa has been chronicling her chuddiness on the internet for posterity's sake and that it will sit on the internet in perpetuity waiting for the NOTW to uncover it there could be a little bit of a hoo-ha.

So Bertelsmann in a bid to quell your future angst in a moment of pre-cog genius your Pa has decided to publish these snaps from the year ninteen hundred and eighty three.

The Argies were taking a spanking to save Maggie's face, Chelsea languished in obscurity, your mother was an explosion of blonde locks, Admiral Nugget was wild-peeing on sleepy commuter trains and the your father was, perhaps, a proto-Bertie. Happily though my eyes betray the same steely intelligence that yours do.

And in no way do I resemble a chuddy ball of baby goop.

Wrong Way Bonzo.

"The Belgrano has been sunk? Great news, now where are my sausages?"

I suppose I should thank my mother for these images.