Actor, writer and comedian taking a wry look at Lancashire life.

This mysterious summer sun has finally made an appearance and is out in full glory ­- we know what this means don’t we?

All those flabby, pasty bodies we’ve been hiding away over the past year come out for all to see.

All those who worship the gym are now thankful that they can show off their shimmering abs and bulging biceps, that they pay £25 a month to sculpt.

As soon as that sun peeks out from the clouds, the tops are off and we’re treated to the delight of watching overly muscular men slowly turn a shade of rouge, with their hilariously small, side-kick dogs sat next to them, panting under the heat, occasionally taking a sly lap of their lager.

This summer sun finally arriving, it’s coming off the back of a tumultuous week, with the notorious iago of modern politics, Dominic Cummings, coming out and exposing all the chaos behind the government’s handling of the pandemic.

Then to Boris Johnson’s secret wedding (in which I swear he wore the same suit he always wears!) which I have heard has been coined as ‘One Wedding and a Hundred and Twelve Thousand Funerals’.

It was a farce which is ironically not funny at all and bafflingly depressing, with the biggest shock being that the main character wasn’t wearing a wig.

With Cummings’ exposé of the government and inadvertent exposé of his own anatomy (we all knew he was invertebrate!) he probably feels he’s now free to visit Barnard Castle and let that shining, bald head get burnt, guilt free. But alas, we won’t forget! Or will we?

We probably will, now that the sun is out and pubs are open. As long as normal life is running smoothly, they might just get away with their pantomime incompetence. Maybe.

At least the footy has been entertaining lately. With Blackpool back in the Championship and Morecambe in League One, it’s not been a bad year for Lancastrian football teams.

Not for everyone, as an ‘old Lancashir’e team, Manchester City, found themselves losing to a team that matches it in plasticity, Chelsea.

It was either the team run by Saudi royalty and oil tycoons or the team ran by a mysterious, Russian oligarch.

But I suppose that’s what we should expect at the top of the football pyramid eh?

Next season I’ll be chanting “Come on you Shrimps!”. Mainly cos it’s nice weather to visit Morecambe beach.