I'm frankly gutted to discover my name has been omitted from the Queen's New Year's Honours list. Lorraine Kelly and Stuart Hall get a mention so why not me? Not an OBE, a CBE or nothing. I think she's anti-Terrier. That's her off my Christmas Pooh list for next year that's for sure. She reeks of wee you know, and I heard that she has them corgis in bed with her too, the senile old duffer.

Liverpool have apparently made enquiries about unsettled Villa striker Darren Bent, I hear. Heskey might be available in the January transfer window King Kenny if you're interested. Luis Suarez says that he's not happy about "one of those" coming up here and "taking our jobs" apparently. Come to think of it Bent has been "unsettled" everywhere he's been hasn't he? He's had more clubs than Tiger Woods that lad. Still, his bank manager isn't complaining and neither is his agent I expect. "Come in Darren lad, ooooh you do look all unsettled. I'll see if I can get you in at Liverpool, but don't bother unpacking your stuff when you get there as there's not a lot of point is there really?"

This bloke down our road got done last week for "interfering" with some sheep. The man confessed to a similar offence with a pig several years ago, but said that he hadn't done it in donkeys. Honest. Would I lie to you????

Luis Suarez has been banned by the FA for one match for being racist. The other seven games in the ban are for being a greasy Kopite spick. Apparently...

My mate Woody always used to chase people on a bike. So they took his bike off him. Then he just sat in the garden and barked all day. So they gave him his bike back 'cos they reckoned that his bark was worse than his bike. Pooh count: just the one, and no sign of that penguin wrapper yet either. Smokin....

I'm almost back to my old self today. I have to be, otherwise they'll be taking me back to the vets where who knows what that wretched woman would try inserting up my arse next. I've developed a new trick in which I swallow two separate pieces of string and when they come out the other end they're tied together. I shit you knot...

Not feeling too bright this morning. Ate half a penguin whilst out on me walk on Saturday morning. The bisqwitty confectionery kind, not the sort that you find in the Antarctic. I mean I wouldn't go for a walk in the Antarctic would I? Not without the right equipment anyway. No, I ate half a penguin and the wrapper, which put me right off me food over the weekend, so much so that me Dad has had me down to the vets this morning. There was an Afghan hound in there with only three legs. Bloody Taliban bastards. Anyway this woman wanted to stick this thing up me arse, a white plasticy thing with numbers on it. I was having none of that caper, what sort of a dog does she think I am? I may have sniffed a few in me time, as you do, just to be sociable like but I certainly don't partake in that sort of Barrymore malarky. So I bit her. Not hard, just enough so she got the message. She got the message all right, she stuck this bloody needle thing in me neck the cheeky mare. So I bit her

Darren Fletcher and David De Gea are both hoping for same thing this Christmas I gather....clean sheets! Pooh count: three, two little Sarkozys and a mighty Merkel...

There was confusion last night amongst tens of thousands of Man City fans that used to support Chelsea and Arsenal before that who are now not sure if they are supposed to switch back to supporting Chelsea or revert to Arsenal or stick with Man City. Pooh count: two, one of which reminded me of Frank Lampard. So I left it on the bench....

Getting my goat again this morning is Nicolas Sarkozy who continues to jettison his toys from his perambulator with aplomb, now saying that there are now "two Europes". The French dwarf. There'd just be one big Europe called Germany if we'd left it to the frogs, the useless bastards. Pooh count: 26 - all of them lacking moral fibre.

Quote today from one incensed French diplomat: Britain is acting "like a man who wants to go to a wife-swapping party without taking his own wife." I say the French are acting like a man who says he's going to war with Germany then lets them march into town and do what they want whilst he goes and hides in the bushes. Pooh count: a pleasing brace, Merkel and Sarkozy I've called them, one a sizable effort and the other quite small and wrinkly.

This new planet that they've found which the tabloids are calling "the new earth" - just like Devon and Cornwall it's apparently heavily populated with Man Utd and Liverpool fans. Keplar 22b - me Dad reckons he saw a bus with that on the front of it on his way home from the pub last night. Moron. Why don't they give them exciting names like Kerspangle 99 instead? Pooh count: two, it's so cold out there both of which gave off more steam than Drax. In fact I might post them down there, I reckon there'd still be enough energy left in them to boil a couple of kettles at the very least.

What's all the excitement about? Them pandas that the Chinese have lent to Edinburgh zoo, I reckon they'll be dead by Christmas. Scottish 'keepers are rubbish, it's a well-known fact. It's ironic though that a couple of Chinese pandas can potentially do more for the Scottish economy than a nation of Jocks can do for themselves. Me Dad says he went to Perth once and it was rubbish. He didn't see one kangaroo, a koala or nothing. This Scots fella walks into a fish and chip shop and asks for a steak and kiddly pie. The guy behind the counter laughs and says "you just asked for a steak & kiddly pie." The Jock says "no I diddly." Pooh count: just the one, I might send it up there and they can deep fry it.

Jeremy Clarkson has been reprimanded for saying that striking public sector workers should be shot in front of their families, I read on the Beeb today. I however agree with him, they wouldn't be whining on about their pensions then would they? And think of all the jobs it would create. Pooh count: three, one for the hospital workers, one for the teachers and a sloppy Joe for air traffic control at Heathrow.

You lazy buggers. Drove past Harrogate Hospital on me way for a walk this morning and they're all hanging around outside there with their placards expecting people to honk their horns in a show of support. Well there wasn't much honking going on I can tell you. I'd have honked all over them given half the chance. Was planning on chucking them a sample of my finest on the way back but couldn't fathom out how to use the electric windows in time. Bugger. Watch out for a suspiciously odourous jiffy bag in the next couple of days Harrogate Hospital. The Grammar School better look out too. I can't curl them out fast enough this week.

The M1 was apparently closed in both directions near Sheffield last night after a lorry load of Marmite crashed on the motorway, say the BBC with not a pun in sight. No mention of skid marks on the marmite motorway, or soldiers being sent to clear up the mess or even if it crashed into 25 tonnes of toast heading in the opposite direction. Nothing. This isn't what we pay the licence fee for is it? Not that I pay a licence fee of course, I'm a dog, border terriers are exempt. All I need to do now is find out where the lorry was headed and I can mail them off a few tonnes of my own personal marmite concentrate. It's the same colour but tastes far nicer.

A woman takes her dog to the vet because it has an ear infection. The vet cleans the dog's ear and treats it with anti-biotic drops. He then says to the woman "That's fine now, but you are going to need to treat both ears with hair-removal cream every month from now on to prevent the infection recurring." On the way home, she stops off at the chemist and asks the pharmacist for some hair-removal cream. The pharmacist hands over the cream and says "If you are using this under your arms, then avoid using deodorant for 2 days." The woman says "Oh, it's not for under my arms." "Well" says the pharmacist "If you are going to use it on your legs, don't shave for 5 days." "But it's not for my legs either it's for my schnauzer," ," says the woman. "Well in that case," says the pharmacist "Don't ride your bike for a week."

So it's Thanksgiving Day in the US today. What's that all about? Just an excuse to have two Christmas dinners in rapid succession if you ask me. An American walks into an English pub and asks for a pint of Budweiser. The barman says "You're American aren't you?" The man says, "Hey, yeah. Could you tell by the drink I ordered, or my accent?" The barman says "No - because you're morbidly obese." I heard on the radio the other day, and this is true right so you can Google it if you don't believe me, a school lunches bill going before Congress says that pizza should be counted as one of your five-a-day because it's got tomato paste on it! What will they come up with next? Chasing the American dream is exercise?

My God I'm bored. Last week we had all the excitement of a new bathroom being fitted with lots of building types in and out all day, dropping bits of bacon butty and feeding me chocolate hobnobs. B&Q are great at installing bathrooms, they're just a bit lax when it comes to taking away all the old shite it seems. So this week there's nothing going on apart from the odd visit from a passing gyppo to enquire if we want that radiator/those taps that are piled up at the bottom of the drive. You've got to bark at every passing gyppo though haven't you, it comes with the job. Some people say that their wedding day was the happiest moment of their lives. They're the ones who haven't seen a gypsy getting knocked down by a truck. Pooh count: not sure, I turned me back for a minute and the gyppo's must have taken them as well.

Me Dad's donation cheque to Children In Need. Terry Wogan's looking rough these days though isn't he? I tell you what, you can certainly tell it's been a mild winter so far. A bit of a cold snap and I reckon he'll be recording his breakfast show with Jimmy Saville. Pooh count: just the one, and what a steamer it was too. It's a good job the leaves are wet or half the park would have gone up in smoke I reckon. Still, it keeps me Dad's hands warm on a bit of a chilly morning, bless.

German FIFA leader Sep Blatter reassures us by saying that there is no racism in football, and IF there was then it could all be sorted with a handshake after the match. Thanks for your comforting input there Sepp. He went on to say that this problem doesn't exist in German football "as we don't allow the blacks in - they have an unfair advantage due to their very wide nostrils" before going on to condemn a Jewish refusal to shake hands at the end of WWII as "unsporting". Sounds a bit like Cockney rhyming slang for something you do when you've got the trots doesn't it "Sepp Blatter" - "I'd stay out of trap three if I was you mate, I've got a terrible dose of the Ertha Kitts and there's Sepp Blatter all over the shop in there."

Having famously devoured a hamster a few years ago now, the I'm a Celebrity mob obviously decided to get their own back on behalf of pets all over the world and force their captive has-been talentless "comic" to eat so much rubbish that poor old Freddie has had to be sent home with a gippy tum tum, I read. According to the Beeb the unfunny man was made to eat "mice tails, a pig's anus, cooked camel toe and turkey testicles" amongst other delicacies before coming over all queasy and having to get the next bus out of the jungle and whisked into hospital. "They couldn't find anything wrong with me physically," he says, which suggests to me that your problems are mental Freddie. Still, on a brighter note you've got a nicely coiled terrier pooh on a mahogany plinth to look forward to when you get home me old son, so it's not all bad is it now?

Now then...now then pop pickers, this weeks non-mover is Jimmy Saville. Hows about that then? Come on, I'm only a dog....

Not that I follow these things, but I see that Fatima Whitbread is to make an appearance in I'm A Celebrity. Have you seen the state of her these days? I mean she was never a looker, but even so. Like David Dickinson on steroids she is. Single Mum Fatima (yes single Mum, that poses a fairly obvious question doesn't it) says that the hardest part about her personal Rumble in the Jungle will be leaving her son a home. She's obviously never thought that he might be relieved not to have her hanging round the school gates at home time. "Look at Whitbread's Mum over there, the one with the beard, wrestling with that bear." It's always an embarrassment when your Mum looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger after he's fallen into a bucket of creosote isn't it? Pooh count: two, one of which could have passed for Ms Whitbread in a certain light I feel.

Me Mum has been pressing the teenager for a Christmas wish list, amongst which is a set of "Dr Dre cans" whatever the hell they are. Upon asking for a translation it seems that the normally shy and retiring one (if you can get two words out of her we normally put the bunting up for a week) means a set of headphones. So me Mum pops onto the world wide web to see how much these things are and they start at £100 and go upwards from there! I don't know who Dr Dre is, but I strongly suspect that his medical qualifications are somewhat limited. I mean you never hear anyone say: "I think he's having a heart attack, quick, send for Dr Dre" do you? So I've checked him out online and it appears that he's really called Andre Romelle Young who has produced albums for the likes of Snoop Dogg - who it appears isn't a real dog either! "The doctor" has apparently achieved critical acclaim with the unforgettable classics "Nuthin' but a 'G&#

Yesterday was my birthday, but there was to be no "did I really sleep with a six month old Labrador?" morning hangover for me, oh no. My hopes of a night on the lash with me Dad were cruelly dashed on the rocks of despair when he took me Mum out for a bloody Chinese instead. On MY birthday. Can you believe it, because I surely can't. The dirty rotten tight bastards didn't even bring me a doggie bag back, not a spring roll nor kiss my canine arse. Zilch. Two hours in the dark. Just me and a pig's ear, that's all I got for my chuffin' birthday "present" - I use the word in it's loosest form. Well now we all know where we stand, I'll be making sure that they take the hint by leaving them lots of little presents of my own. Starting with the chocolate sausage I secreted round the back of the telly this morning. She NEVER cleans behind there the slovenly cow, so let's see how long it takes them to spot that rascal. I can't wait for me D

Yes folks, three years young today is what I am. I can't wait to open all my presents later, I wonder what they've got me? I do hope it's the iPad. Three is what, twenty one in human terms? Me Dad is probably going to take me out for a few pints, we'll go for a curry and end up in that new club in town, Springerfellows. The spaniels in there will do anything for a bit of bonio I hear. I'd better spruce myself up a bit, give the old 'nads a bit of a lick and see if I can do something about me pooh-encrusted collar before I get in amongst those puppies. Woohoo, bring it on, I haven't been this excited since next door's cat got knocked down by the bin lorry.

The BBC report that six men locked away in steel tubes for a year-and-a-half to simulate a mission to Mars have emerged from isolation at a Moscow institute. Conjures up all sorts of mental images that doesn't it? Luckily for me however I suffer from no such restrictions and have already curled out my first yule log of the winter this morning combined with a "George Papandreou" lookalike which was very reluctant to leave. Time for a snooze now and rest me bum 'til half an hour after tea. Shabba.

Beer in those "handy fridge dispenser" boxes. What's that all about? "Insulate your beer from the cold nastiness of your fridge by placing it inside this handy tight-fitting cardboard box. For best results place your box in the airing cupboard or on top of a radiator. Warning: please ensure that you are wearing steel toe-tipped slippers when opening for the first time." Pooh count: just the one so far which looked a bit like John Terry "sans armband"...

Is John Terry a low life racist scumbag? A) Yes B) Very much so or C) Without a shadow of a doubt. He was apparently at the training ground this morning and he dribbled round Kalou, Malouda, Sturridge and Anelka before slamming the ball high into the roof of the net. A despairing Andre Villas-Boas sinks his head into his hands and shouts "How many times is this? I said dribble round the CONES John, the CONES..."

A little girl sits on Santa's lap and says "This year I want a Barbie doll, a Nintendo DS Lite, a new teddy bear, a..." And Santa interrupts with "Whooooaaah there, do you mind if I finish this pooh first???"

Went to the local paper shop with me Dad this morning and as he was handing over his cash the woman behind the counter said "are you all right love, you look like you're crying?" Me Dad wiped away a little tear from his eye and said "yes, sorry pet, it's just that you look so much like my ex wife." Handing him his change the woman said "ah bless, did she pass away?" And me Dad said "no, but she was a big fat munter like you too." Pooh count: just the two. No Monopoly houses in today's offerings either, although there was a hint of a look of Blackpool Tower about one of them. In fact come to think of it most of my pooh's do look like the Blackpool/Fleetwood area.

We had our first one at half past four today, half past bleedin' four. His opening line was a predictable "Trick or Treat, Mister?" Me dad said "What have you come as?" He said "A werewolf." Me Dad said "But you haven't even got a costume on or anything, you're just in normal clothes." The kid said "Well it's not a full moon yet is it, dickhead?"

For once the two-leggeds didn't book me into Stalag 45 whilst they went away on holiday, they actually took me with them this time. I reckon that the fake cough I put on the last time I came back from kennels must have done the trick. Either that or the fleas. Any road up, I had a bracing week away on the east coast to recharge the old batteries and enjoyed plenty of walks along the beaches of Redcar, Saltburn, Staithes and Sandsend. For some reason the two-leggeds get all excited about fossil-hunting on these walks, with the air frequently punctured by an excited "come and have a look at this one" and such like. Exactly what is so impressive about finding a 70 million year old ammonite is beyond me. It's inedible for one thing, so where's the excitement in that? Still, whilst they are walking along with their heads almost literally in the sand I get plenty off opportunistic truffling opportunities so everybody's happy at the end of the day. Pooh count two, on

A bit like John Craven's used to be except this one is presented by a border terrier. Gaddafi was "killed in crossfire" it says on the BBC this morning. I think that they mean someone got cross and fired at him. At last, after years of atrocities and the appalling treatment of millions, it's over. Details are still sketchy, but finally....Westlife ARE splitting up. Police marksmen covering the disturbances at Dale Farm opened fire three times apparently. They won a goldfish, a teddy bear and an inflatable hammer. Black schoolboys are failing at school on purpose as being successful is seen as uncool or even "gay" is another story that grabs my attention on the Beeb. I didn't know Richard Branson was black. Pooh count: just the one, a special steaming (it's cold out there) coiled pyramid with a little Libyan flag on a cocktail stick stuck in the top of it.

Now she's got two wrinkly little scroats to look after. Pooh count: just the one, which strangely bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr Sarkozy and would quite possibly be of more use in sorting out the European debt crisis than he is. It's in the post to Angela Merkel right now.

And we turned the corner into the Market Square and there was this great big drunken coloured gentleman dancing on the roof of a car outside the pub. Making a right mess he was. Suddenly this young copper appears and hisses into his walkie talkie "there's a great big pissed-up darkie dancing on the roof of a car in the Market Square here Sarge." The sergeant chastises: "You can't say that officer, please use proper police terminology." So the copper says "OK, Whisky, Zulu, Tango, Sierra." Honest, I saw it with me own eyes and heard it with my fluffy little ears.

I see that Kev off Corrie has split with his wife of 25 years. I'm not surprised, she's obviously far too old for him at that age. Meanwhile Liam Fox has fallen on his sword, not the only one then eh Adam? Wales coach Warren Gatland said that he considered cheating in Saturday's Rugby World Cup Semi Final but decided against it as "the French are too stupid to have noticed." Tesco are to start employing dwarfs to pack up your grocery shopping at the checkouts for you. "Every little helps." Classy X Factor finalist Frankie Cocozza apparently stunned the live audience at his audition by revealing a tattooed list of girl's names on his bottom. Did anybody look close enough to make sure that they were tattooed on there and not just smeared in brown I ask myself. Talking of which, today's pooh count: five - one of which has your name on it Frankie so get checking the post for jiffy bags sex machine.

I see that Moonbeam has got himself a launchpad in New Mexico from where he plans to operate "Virgin Galactic" which offers the opportunity to have five minutes weightlessness in space for just $200,000 a pop. Me Dad says that he'd happily kick Branson up the arse so hard that he can enjoy as much weightlessness as he wants for free should their paths ever cross. Pooh count: four, and impressive start to the day it has to be said making me certainly less weighty if not exactly weightless myself. Check the post tomorrow Branson.

Was out for a walk with me Dad this morning and upon me answering an urgent call of nature he was confronted by this buffoon screaming "stop him, stop him, your dog's having a crap!" To which me Dad replied "don't worry mate I've got some bags, I'll clean it up." They're so bloody fussy in Waitrose aren't they? Then as we were walking down the main road this bloke comes up to me Dad and says "excuse me pal, what's the quickest way to the hospital?" Me Dad says "just close your eyes and cross the road here mate and you'll be there in about 15 minutes."

Me Dad was upstairs yesterday when a very large wasp flew into the lounge. Me Mum doesn't like wasps, in fact nobody does do they, they are the Carlos Tevez of the insect world. So she swiftly shuts it in the lounge and yells upstairs for me Dad to come and see this MASSIVE wasp/sort the problem out. "Yeah right, I'll be down in a minute or two he says." Dead casual like. Then the phone starts to ring. Except me Mum isn't going to answer it is she, as that would mean entering the lounge where this buzzing Cesna thing is is. So me Dad realises after five or six ring rings that this is the case, so in a Basil Fawlty type "right, leave it to me, I'll do that as well then shall I, shove a brush up me arse and I'll sweep the floor as I'm running round" sort of moment he comes running down the stairs. Vaults the stair gate (there to stop me going UP the stairs), bangs his knee..ring, ring...takes a stunned 20 seconds or so to open the lounge door (

My cousin "I'll eat anything" Mad Paddy Padster the deranged cocker spaniel apparently ate all the little fridge magnet letters off the side of the fridge last week. Now he keeps leaving little messages all over the house! Pooh count: two, a very rare three-fingered Kit Kat and a Double Decker....

All this stuff in the news about this politician geezer puts me in mind of that Little Britain show that me Mum and Dad watch. You know the sketch where the bloke, his wife and two kids are at the gates of their country pile in the Home Counties and the politian fella says something along the lines of thsi to the gathered media: "Driving home from Devon last week I took a wrong turning and accidentally found myself at Kings Cross railway station at 3am. In my desperation to use the loo I entered an already occupied cubicle by mistake whereupon I slipped on a carelessly placed bar of soap...." I don't know if I'm allowed to put the rest of it as it includes the words penis and bottom.

Scientists have apparently unravelled the entire genetic code of the potato, me Mum informs me. Exactly why she thinks I need to be armed with this information I'm not sure. I unravelled the entire genetic code of three cheese muffins carelessly left below waist height yesterday and got a kick up the arse and no tea for me troubles. Hopefully the scientists concerned will pick up more of a reward than that. A McDonald's spokesperson was heard to say "what's that got to do with me?" when given the news. "When they've unravelled the entire genetic code of salt and a chicken McNugget give us a call back," he added.

There's an app for that. As me old Mum (the four-legged one) used to say "Chummy, son, you can have all the money in the world but what use is that if you're dead?" She was mad as a box of frogs mind. Today all my Jobs will be big Apple-scented Jobs as a mark of respect.....

Apparently scientists have discovered that dogs and humans share the same DNA. Me Dad says that would explain why the kids don't like taking a bath and his ex missus was a bitch. Personally I think he's just jealous that he can't lick his own gonads. Pooh count: three, one that you could hang your hat on and a couple of "sloppy Joes" - nice business.....

A young Korean couple are lying in bed when the guy starts farting continuously. "That's disgusting!" shouts the girl. "It's the dog," proclaims the guy. "Don't blame him," she replies, "he was cooked perfectly." Honest, that really did happen.

They say that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I say that's bollocks. Well when I say "I say that's bollocks" I don't actually physically say it do I as I can't speak, I think it. Last week I learnt to pooh on the lawn not in the flower beds unless I want a kick up the arse from me Mum. This week I learnt how to roll on me back so that me Dad could tickle me tum. Next week I think that they are going to teach me how to get shit off me back. Pooh count: just the two, it's too hot to bother on days like this isn't it ......

Me Dad just told me Mum that he used the expression 'bumfoolery' on Twitter today. She said "you'll have Stephen Fry on your back you will" - I do hope so....

It's boring now there's no Julia Bradbury isn't it? And as for the aged John Craven, surely he should have been retired years ago along with Michael Aspel and Dennis Norden? Me dad says that he used to rush home from school to watch his newsround on the telly, and seeing as me Dad is bloody ancient then I'm surprised that JC is still going. As for the "John Craven investigates" feature they seem to running very short of ideas, it's only a matter of time before it's "John Craven investigates what's down the back of his settee" if you ask me. I could post him something to investigate I suppose, but they'd need to put that on after the watershed. Here's one for you the BBC: "John Craven investigates why Lenny Henry is about as funny as piles." There's a wealth of material in that one.

Gizmo the hamster becomes the latest pet to shuffle off this mortal coil, not that the kids seem that bothered, the heartless buggers. She used to hate the sound of the hoover going round did poor little Giz, so as a compromise we used to let her do the ironing instead. It's just me an Muffy the window cleaning guinea pig now, and I reckon that her hutch will be going to the tip too once the cold weather arrives. Then I'll have to do all the bloody housework myself. Bugger...

Watched it on catch-up last night. Can't make up me mind whether I like it or not. It's all very "yah Mummy, Sebastian's given one this simply divine pearl necklace, does Mummy think it suits one?" To which Mummy replies "Why of course it does dahling. If one plays one's cards correctly one will have his ring on one's finger by the end of the week. What, what, what." It's not quite like real life is it, especially bearing in mind that this thing is set in Yorkshire. I mean you won't catch me saying "pass the fox shit Jeeves one's simply dying for one's luncheon, and make sure it's fresh this time, the last lot you brought upstairs was covered in mould and left me with a severe dose of the Ertha Kitts for nigh on a fortnight."

Complete tosser. Discuss. Pooh count: only the two, but both of the especially for you Mr Balls. And your Uncle Joe's minty things are rubbish too.

Postman Pat is thirty today, according to the Guardian. Which I guess means that Jess the cat is thirty too, that's thirty as well, not 32. That's a ripe old Guinness Book of Records age for a cat. Get me Norris MuckSquirter on line two. You don't see them on the telly any more do you? I think still in his prime Pat is on strike over his pension contributions, whilst an aged and feeble Jess has withdrawn from the celebrity limelight and spends most of her day pissing on her owners lap in a retirement bungalow in Brighton. Think of someone like Barbra Cartland gently stroking her incontinent pussy down on the pier. Pooh count: a monster six, yes six, Norris MuckSquirter could have two new records quite literally on his hands by the end of the day.

I see that the Fonz actor Henry Winkler has been awarded an honorary OBE by the Queen. Happy days. The award is for his work with children with dyslexia. Or Diks as he likes to call them.

Watching "celebrity" MasterChef with me Dad last night I could scarcely believe my little terrier ears when Greg Wallace said something like "these celebrities have reached the very top of their chosen professions, but can they cope with stress like this?" - or something very similar. One "celebrity" being none other than "actress and model" Linda Lusardi. I think that if my sole claim to fame was having reached the pinnacle of "get your tits out for the lads" society then I'd be keeping quiet about it twenty years on. Throwing a blanket over it/them, so to speak. Unless of course they're referring to her glittering acting career: In 1992 she appeared in the "Dead Ringer" observation round of The Krypton Factor and she also sells a range of skin-care products on shopping television. Bugger me, Helena Bonham Carter must be shitting herself. Talking of which today's pooh count is a feelgood three just on case you'

Took me Dad to the Monet exhibition at the Tate Britain the other day and we stumbled across the famous Water Lilies. "Typical bloody French," me Dad said. "Lazy bastards - can't be bothered to do anything properly." I was about to explain that the emphasis on the subtle depiction of light in its changing qualities and the attempt to capture 'movement' on canvas with liberal brushstrokes culminated in what's universally accepted the world over as an impressionist masterpiece. But me Dad continued before I could open my mouth: "Only a lazy bloody Frog would let his garden pond get into that state."

Me Dad was putting me in the back of the car today to take me out for my morning constitutional and the little dyslexic ginger kid from over the road was badgering his Mum. "Mummy, Mummy, can we go for a McDonalds after school? Please." So his Mum said "I tell you what, if you can spell McDonalds son then we'll go, how's that?" So he thought for a minute and said "Nah, bollocks to it, lets go for a KCF instead." Honest. Are you calling me a lira?

Nice walkies yesterday down that lane where all the rabbits are. Managed to get a shed load of "terrier truffles" down my neck mixed with copious mouthfuls of grass before rounding off my al fresco full English with a large helping of Poodle pooh. Scrum-diddly. Strangely started to feel a tad queasy mid-afternoon so decided to eject my morning repast in order to make room for tea. Me Dad appeared less than amused, despite the fact that I helpfully took myself off into the hall to have a quiet word with Rolf, as I recalled his acute displeasure the last time I had a conversation with Huey in the lounge. You just can't please some people can you?

Me dad says that the most surprising thing about that bloke who drove his Frontera up Snowdon was that the wretched thing had the ability to get anywhere near the top. He says that the one and only time he had a Frontera he was lucky if it could make it round the block without conking out. The guy says that the reason for doing it was that it topped his "fifty things to do before you die" list. The sad bastard. Wonder what else was on there? Cycle to the shops for a paper?

The google.co.uk homepage today, celebrating what would have been Freddie Mercury's 65th birthday, is being called "genius" and "a work of inspired art" on Twitter. I look forward to what they come up with in four years time then.....

Got left "home alone" for four hours on Saturday whilst me Mum & Dad sloped off to the pub to celebrate the end of the school holidays. Six o'clock it was when I got me tea. Six o'stinking clock. Then forced to walk all the way into town on Sunday morning to pick up the car. Even a game of "itchy and scratchy" and "zig zag" en-route failed to lift my spirits. Then to cap the whole sorry episode was made to wait until six o'clock again for me tea on Sunday as they seem to have come up with the crazy notion that I shouldn't be entitled to two teas any more, the tight bastards. My own tea first, followed by a large helping of whatever they're having. If we had a cat I'd kick it. On second thoughts though I might be better off eating it. Kit-e-mince. Yum yum. Pooh count: just the one, I'm running on empty as they say.

The leaked memoirs of a "big cheese" at a large northern compound feed manufacturer threaten to blow the lid off the industry, I can exclusively reveal. Speaking to Nogger's Dog's Blog on strict condition of anonymity the man, who I can only refer to as Brown Nose for legal reasons, confessed that competition for a feed order was now so intense in his part of the country that reps are being forced to "stoop to all sorts of depravity" to get an order. "Even bottom fettling?" I asked. "That's just the shameful tip of it," he replied. "One large dairy farmer nearby will only give us his order if the rep lets him ride him into town on all fours stripped naked whilst the farmer plays that tune from the film Deliverance on his banjo," he revealed. "And if our guy won't do it then the next chap up the drive will," he sobbed.

They're really doing my head in now. Every thirty seconds there's a knock at the door. "Is George in?" It must be doing me Mum and Dad's head in even more than mine as they're the poor sods who are up and down like an up and down thing to answer the bleedin' door. And it's not just that, the knock is preceded by the trundle of those wretched scooters that all the 8-12 year olds in the neighbourhood seem to think are ever so cooool even though they in fact make the "scootee" look as camp as a row of tents. Christ they will look back in abject horror that they ever trailed round in one of those "gay bicycles" a few years from now. I strongly urge all parents right now to make sure that they get a picture of their offspring on their scooter for future posterity. "Yes, of course we'd like to meet your new girlfriend, bring her in whilst I upload those picture of you on your gay scooter onto the 56 inch plasma telly....."

Charity. They say it begins at home, it seems like it ends at home as well. I was shocked to see how difficult it was for me Dad to give stuff away today. The sullen teenager with the electrical thing glued to her hand, what's her name, I don't know she never talks to me. Mind you she never talks to anyone. Apart from the little fella, although I'm not sure that's officially you'd call talking. Colourful shouting more like. Anyway she's getting her room done up, new bed, redecoration, the lot. What she has done exactly to warrant such lavishness is however beyond me. I think she stopped swearing for a few hours last week. Mind you that was when she was on a sleepover round the corner so it probably doesn't count. There were reports circulating last week that she was considering having a bath, but they came to nothing. Anyroad up, so there's a load of books, DVD's etc and a few clothes looking for a new home so we pop down to the local "recycling

Apple co-founder and CEO Steve "Big" Jobs has resigned I see. Co-incidentally on the same day that a European court bans the sale of the Samsung Galaxy S, Galaxy S II and Galaxy Ace mobile phones in some countries for being "too Appley". Me Dad swears by the Samsung products, but he's a fat bastard that doesn't know what he's on about. I'll keep my eyes peeled for some white pooh next time we go for a walk in the woods, polish it up, and send it off to Mr Jobs as a token of my affection. An iPooh if you will. To be closely followed by the Samsung Galaxy Plop, it's a bit like the iPooh except it's got USB connectivity and runs Flash.

Me Dad is back! He paid the ransom note and I'm back home with the two-leggeds. From what I can tell they had a good time and thought that Portugal was great. Until they got to the airport to find that in the food hall at Faro they were asking 14 euros for a cheeseburger! The robbing bastards. You can see why their economy is in trouble at those rates can't you? Needless to say there wasn't much of a queue. For that price I'd want it cooked at Gidleigh Park by that geezer with the funny arm, whatsisname? You know the one off the telly who looks like an overweight David Craig. I think he starred in The Italian Job and Get Carter. Or am I getting mixed up. If it was him then he must have had a "reverse Michael Jackson" colour change since, but I'm sure it's the same bloke. And he doesn't do the funny voice any more. "My name is Michael Caines" he gave that up years ago. Well I'd want him to be doing the flipping, lightly toasting me bun

Stuck here in bleedin Stalag 45 whilst the two-leggeds get their puffy white skin burnt to a crisp. Harris in number four smuggled in an iPad which he's lent me for half an hour to type this missive. I've scratched the number of days I've been in here on the wall of my cell and it's now up to nine. I'm sure that the most they've ever left me in here for is seven or eight. The bastards. Freddie in number six says that he got left here for fourteen days last year by his inconsiderate bastards. I'm going to shit all over the kitchen when they finally do turn up. The tight bastards.

The school holidays, don't you just HATE them. Especially the school bloody summer bloody holidays. My peaceful snooze in the sunny spot by the log basket is perpetually interrupted every twenty minutes or so by another bloody caller for the boy. Every bleedin bloody buggering twenty chuffing minutes there's a knock at the bleedin bollocking door "Is George in?" It's got so bad now that me Mum had had a sign made up, and laminated mind in case of inclement weather, "George is not in. So please don't knock and don't ring. Thank you." Does that make any difference, does it balls. Every twenty buggering minutes. "Ring/knock. Is George in?" Can't they bloody buggering bollocking well read these idiots? "Erm, I though he may be in and you'd forgotten to take the sign down." No we haven't right. He's not in so bugger off you bleedin buggers or I'll bite your bleedin bollocks right off I buggering well will.

If a little fat ginger kid falls over in the forest, and there's nobody there to hear them cry for help, is it still funny? Pooh count: two, one Curly Wurly and a Twix....

Walkies was a swift one round the Valley Gardens with me Dad this morning. Well, when I say a swift one it turned into more of a dawdle after we me Nobby the 14 1/2 year old Border Terrier. Why do dog owners do that? He's 14 1/2. That's like saying yer Grandma is 72 1/2 isn't it? So we walked round with him a bit. He looked all grey and distinguished like Michael Aspel, except with four legs of course, and a collar and lead. You never used to see Michael Aspel in a collar and lead did you? That was more Frank Bough's sort of thing I understand. Talking of boff's I did one in me sleep last night that was so loud that I woke meself up, gave me a right funny turn it did. There's been whispering going on at home, me Mum's doing a lot of packing which always makes me nervous, and the kids seem to have stopped going wherever it is that they normally go every day. You know what that means don't you? They're going on bloody holiday aren't they. Stalag 45

Was walking round Knaresborough with me Dad on Saturday morning, and as soon as we got out of the car there was this sound of "moaning" in the distance, across the other side of the Market Square. So I immediately think, bless, it's one of our less fortunate brethren. They can't help it can they? But no, it wasn't someone with with Tourettes effing and jeffing across the way. Or a handicapped person taking a good-humoured thrashing off one of their "carers". This was an Elvis impersonator giving us "Suspicious Minds" at full volume. And a not particularly talented Elvis impersonator at that. The girls in the deli were far from impressed as "Elvis" was right outside their door, their enquiries of "do you do requests, well here's a tenner now bugger off" sadly fell on deaf ears. You could just tell that in this guy's mind he WAS Elvis, there was no mistake about that. Passers-by had a bemused look on their faces that s

Me Dad tells me that he's gutted to read that his arch enemy Richard "We'll try and have your internet connection back on by Christmas 2020" Branson carelessly swam into the mouth of a whale shark off Cancun recently only for it to "puff him out". Me Dad says he's have cashed his entire PayPal account in to keep the bloody think in plankton for the rest of it's life if it had just done the decent thing. I ate a whole plum on me walk earlier, that may hurt on the way out later in the week....

Is doing my head in. I used to actually quite like the guy but the teenager has been playing "You're beautiful" over and over again this week and now I find his voice only marginally less irritating than Joe Pasquale's. That puts him in the running for a turd of the week award, although I think that overtly gay teenagers look likely to finish top of the table this week. Which is strange as they're normally likely to be found down near the bottom. Or "and finally bringing up the rear, in the colours of Sir Elton John, pink with a brown cap, we have Rampant Fudge Packer," as John McCririck would say.

Me Dad tells me that his weekend trip to Ireland was somewhat spoilt by an overtly camp and gobby 17 year old-ish passenger sat next but one to him who provided a loud running commentary on everything that was happening around him for the whole trip. "Look there's the sea. Oh, look there's the beach, I love to feel the warm sun caressing my naked body, I do. Isn't it amazing that one of these things can get off the ground? Oh, it makes my tummy go all funny just thinking about it. Gives me the right collywobbles it does. Hello Mr Stewardman, you look smart in your nicely ironed uniform. Do you do that yourself? I'll have a Kit Kat please. Just the two fingered type, I can't mange four. Oh you are awful. No, I'd better not have anything to drink or I'll get the giggles. One gin & tonic and I'm anybody's.....chase me, chase me. Fiona, Fiona look at the clouds, like giant pieces of cotton wool aren't they..." Me Dad says that it's

Some things just don't go together do they? Like Daphne off Eggheads and suspenders. Or seeing yer Grandad in a mankini. Walkies was round Jacob Smith Park with me Dad this morning and there was this old bloke there looking at his mobile phone, just stood there looking at it, and you could just see he was thinking to himself "what is this strange and magical thing I have in my hand?" A bit like you'd just given King Canute an iPad. And then it rang and he was so startled that he dropped it, I swear. It was like "Jesus Christ what's it doing now!" The guy nearly shat himself, which is quite an undignified thing to do in the middle of Jacob Smith Park. I mean I'm sure that me Dad would have helped out, as he never goes anywhere without a pocket full of pooh bags, but even so. Old people, mobile phones, JUST SAY NO.

I was walking past the bookies with me Dad before and there was a big sign in the window saying that Liverpool are 17/2 to win the Premier League next season. For those of you that don't understand betting, that means if you put £10 on, you lose £10. Pooh count: four, one of which curiously looked exactly like Steven Gerrard. Except it didn't beat anybody up in a bar obviously.

Did you see that guy throw a custard pie in Rupert Murdoch's face on the telly last night? The Clown Prosecution Service are investigating that one I hear. Pooh count: three, two toblerones and a very rare Milky Way....shabba....

It could be an interesting Turd of the Week competition this week with British Unfairways, a very strong contender, now facing major opposition from News International. These two look like finishing well clear of Ukraine Customs and Faulty Airconditioning. The latter, amusingly, was tucked behind a hotel curtain (great place to put an air conditioning unit) and despite making strong whirring noises all night didn't actually push out any cold air at all. It was also remote controlled, so me Dad couldn't physically press any buttons to switch it off, but of course there was no remote control present. So he kind of got all the downside of a noisy air conditioning system running all night without any of the benefits of it actually keeping the room cool. Cool! Pooh count: a load lightening three so far. Groovy.

Comfortably winning this week's Turd of the Week award is British Airways who can look forward to receiving one of my finest through the post any day now. The cheeky buggers made me Dad pay twice to fly back from Ukraine on Friday after claiming that his original return flight booking was invalid for some reason that they could only explain in Ukrainian. He's not famed for his multi-linguistic abilities me Dad, he can just about order a beer in most languages but after that most things are beyond his capabilities. Clearly when faced with a grim looking female shot-putter in a British Airways blouse saying "computer says niet" thirty minutes before he was due to depart was somewhat un-nerving for the poor sod. I will try and get a copy of his letter of complaint to BA and post it up here for your further amusement next week. That could be quite colorful I sense, judging on his demeanour when he finally did arrive home. He said that if we had a cat he'd kick it. Unf

Me Dad tells me he was dragged out for breakfast down by the River Nidd on Sunday morning to a well-known cafe with delightful panoramic views. The odd rowing boat gliding past, a few ducks swimming by in the morning sunshine. What could be a more idyllic British Sunday morning scene to enjoy than that I hear you ask, whilst waiting for your breakfast to arrive. It was when breakfast finally did arrive that the problems started. At 11am I'd have thought that "a bacon bun and a cup of tea" would be just that. £5.75 for a bacon bun IS undoubtedly a bit toppy, but he decided to let it go on this occasion. Well, what he couldn't let go of, evidently, is a bacon bun accompanied by slices of strawberry, melon, orange and lettuce drizzled in some fancy lah-di-dah vinaigrette with a side order of chips. Chips, who ordered chips, who eats chips at 11am? And strawberry, melon, orange and bacon? The dirty bastards.

It's going to take an effort of momentous proportions to shift the NOTW from top slot for the turd of the week award, but the bloody teachers are giving it their best shot. Having already pissed me Mum off last week with their strike, they then got her goat even more on Monday with another of their stupid teacher training days. Now they've asked her to run the little fella, wotsisname, to a bloody rounders tournament 3/4 of an hour away, hang around for two hours in the rain and then bring him and all his mates back. Then last night he had to attend the poxy school play until half past eight where he has a bit part containing one line, and the bloody arse-covering headmaster rang up to say that he didn't think it was right that he should be made to walk 500 yards home alone at that time of night. Me Mum was far from happy, pointing out that walking home in broad daylight in mid-July at the same time that he's normally playing out until was the least of his worries as he

The Grim Reaper has been round again, this time picking up Speedy the hamster. The pets in this place are deserting faster than advertisers at the News of the World at the moment. "Leave her outside for the cats," was me Dad's cruel suggestion. Followed by "OK then, let's tie her to a bit of string and whirl her around our heads to see if we can attract one of those Red Kites that keep flying over." The heartless bastard, I think he watched Kes on Film4 the other night. Me Mum held a simple but moving ceremony at the bottom of the garden and tucked Speedy up for the last time under the Acer, next to Stanley the cross-dressing guinea pig. I hope that the cats don't keep digging her up as we didn't have a spare shoebox handy to put her in. She's gone in "au naturale" as they say. That's it then, just three pets left. Gizmo the hamster, looks a bit frail he does, about 4 or 5 he is which is 180 in human terms I think. Then there's

Have already forged into a commanding lead for this week's Turd of the Week award. What a bunch of low life scumbags they are. The only thing that surprises me about their antics is why they would think that anyone would be interested in anything left on Vanessa Feltz's voicemail. "It's Pizza Hut here Vanessa, we're running a bit late with your 84" deep crust hot 'n' spicy as the delivery truck's just lost it's back axle." Pooh count: two, a family-sized Toblerone and a Double Decker, just for Vanessa.

I see that Reuters are reporting that after "six prime ministers in six years of sometimes bloody political upheaval" Thailand has just elected it's first ever female Prime Minister. Are they sure? Are they really sure? Nice walk around the Valley Gardens this morning, chanced across a 3/4 melted cornetto, which is always a bonus. You get a better class of litter dropper round the Valley Gardens. There was an old lady sitting in the cafe, supping a cup of tea and eating a Kit Kat. As she bit into it she got all excited, as they are running this competition at the moment and if you find one with red in the middle you win ten grand. She's jumping up and down going "it's red, it's red!" Her carer said, "no Doris, you've got gum disease, remember?" The Beckhams are expecting a new addition to their happy throng today I hear. Their first girl by all accounts. I'm forecasting 6lb 2oz. I'm not going to bother predicting the weight of t

Cheryl and Ashley Cole are apparently back together and are planning on starting a family. Ryan Giggs and John Terry have already put tenders in to be the father if it turns out that Ashely is firing blanks, according to my sources. Their marriage originally got into trouble when Ashley found out that Cheryl was miming her orgasms. Real Madrid are said to be interested in signing the England left back, they've offered him 150 grand a week and unlimited texts. Woof.

In a three way photo finish to a very exciting turd of the week award, Richard Branson defied top weight to get up on the line, beating Andy Murray on the nod into second with the bloody teachers a neck back in third. Branson is said to be "over the moon" to pick up the prestigious award for appalling service in the face of such stiff opposition. No clear favourite has emerged yet for this week's award although Americans in general could be in with a shout, Stevie Wonder is expected to run well with the blinkers on, and it's also highly possible that Ratko Mladic will defy a penalty to feature prominently in this week's race. By the way, what's the difference between David Haye and me Dad's trousers? Me Dad's trousers don't fall down every 3 minutes. Pooh count, a respectable four, one of which reminded me of a Yule Log. Except without the sprig of holly obviously.

Teachers. The big kid, I can never remember her name, the one that mumbles and slams doors. She's off today 'cos the bloody teachers are on strike, the workshy penpushing bohemian bastards. I mean I can see that the run-up to the six week summer holidays is probably a stressful time for them, with all those kids playing Monopoly and Kerplunk, but surely they could have dragged their sorry arses into school for the day. I gather that she's back in tomorrow and then off again on Monday for yet another teacher training day! The irony is that if me Mum and Dad suddenly decided to take her away for a long weekend (hypothetically, she's a right surly cow so it's unlikely to happen) then they'd no doubt get into bother for taking her out of school for a day "as she's at a critical time working towards her GCSE's and every day counts you know". They may not be able to edge Richard Branson off top slot this week, but I may go up tho school later and pis

Me Dad took me to sit in the beer garden at the local pub last night for a very convivial hour or two. A few of his mates were there and he couldn't resist the opportunity to take centre stage and rattle off some of those awful historic "jokes" of his. He started off with the what do you do if you see an epileptic having a fit in the bath, throw your washing in "joke" which even I know is as old as Lenny Henry's act. This surprisingly met with raucous laughter all round as if they'd never even heard it before. Unfortunately one bloke sat nearby wasn't laughing. "Excuse me, that's in very bad taste. My brother was an epileptic and he died whist having a bath," he said stern-faced. "Oh, er, I'm terribly sorry to hear that mate, did he drown?" enquired me Dad stumbling desperately to find some degree of humility. "No, he choked on one of my socks," was the reply. Pooh count: just the two, a baby's arm and a fun-

No sooner do I announce the launch of my exciting new turd of the week award than Richard Branson brushes all opposition aside to surge into a commanding lead in week one. I've got a feeling that this is going to be a bit like the Premiership, there may be plenty of other people in the running but the same motley handful of three or four habitual turds are going to win most of the time. That reminds me of the story about a walk in the woods last week with me Dad in which we amazingly chanced upon a fairy. No not that Chatty Man fruitcake, a real proper cute little wings and a wand fairy. She told me Dad that he could have one wish to which he replied that he'd like to live forever (fcuk knows why like, I think it was just the first thing that came into his head). She said that she was sorry but under recently introduced EU fairy legislation, budget cutbacks and new coalition government wish austerity measures that she wasn't allowed to grant wishes involving the word "

Always one to bring innovation to canine blogging I've decided to introduce a weekly Turd Of The Week award. Each week someone in the media spotlight will qualify to receive one of my prized poohs via the wonders of the modern postal service. I mean it will be in a jiffy bag obviously, not just posted in the letterbox outside Costcutter. I mean you'd struggle to stick a label and a couple of first class stamps on some of them due to what you might call their "excessive moisture content". Unless someone would like to volunteer to stick a half tonne or so through their drier before harvest kicks off? No, I thought not. I wonder who is going to win this week? Andy Murray? David Cameron? Richard Branston has to be in the running. Stephen Hawking even, I mean we can't discriminate can we? Me Dad went to do a talk to a group of grain market players and big wigs once and was told to make sure that he didn't say anything that could offend. So he opened up with the lin

Me Dad says that when he was walking round Peterborough last week that he suddenly thought that with all the publicity that My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding got, that it would be a brilliant place to open up a clothes shop selling all sorts of hideously cheap and nasty sparkly tat. Until he found out that Primark already plan to open a store there. The best laid plans and all that, eh? Still, it keeps the kids in work doesn't it...Pooh count: a pleasing brace so far this morning, it's a bit to hot to squeeze any more than that out today.

I nearly fell off me beanbag I can tell you. What on earth is the BBC coming to? Just because they've passed a law in New York that says benders can get welded I for one never thought that the Beeb would stoop so low as to show grown men with their tongues down each others throats with what I can only call gay abandon. I don't expect heterosexual couples to be doing that on the national news, so I certainly don't want to see a gang of batty boy bottom fettlers at it do I? Whatever next? Bestiality on Blue Peter? Trannies on The Apprentice? You've gone too far the BBC, if I paid a licence fee I'd demand it back. As I can't protest in that way, I'm proceeding in the time honoured manner. Mark Thompson, director general of the BBC, you can be expecting a squishy little present in a jiffy bag any day now.

Once again accosted by the Bichon Frisé nymphettes Ella and Maisie in the Valley Gardens this morning. What is a boy to do? Like I've said before what can you do when these young things with their bits in all the right places are literally throwing themselves at you? Once Ella gets going trying to stop her is like attempting to put toothpaste back in the tube, you know what I'm saying. Hence my empathy with poor old Ryan Jiggety Jig Giggs. I have to say that the last person in the world you would expect to kiss and tell would be a low IQ fame-hungry ex-Big Brother contestant and former Nuts Magazine topless model. Pooh count, just the one, but what a whopper. Reminded me of a Mr Whippy ice cream it did, except without the nuts. And a different colour obviously.

Me Dad said to the barman "Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps." The barman said "That's not funny." Me Dad said "I know, it's crap isn't it." Greece, eh? They got bills, they're multiplying, and they're losing control...Pooh count, three, one curly wurly and a couple of kit kats...smokin...

If you say "Jesus" backwards it sounds like "sausage" - pooh count a shocking "nil points" so far this morning, I think I must be coming down with something.....

Had a nice walk into Knaresborough with me Dad yesterday. That's about a four miler that is. The thing with a long one like that is that you need to make you own amusement on the way or it gets a bit boring. I elected to start off with a game of snudge for some of the way. Snudge involves rubbing your wet nose against the back of your Dads leg, the one that houses the pocket that houses the biscuit that you are going to get when you get to the other end. That's about all there is to it really, there's not much more than that. Obviously it's only effective if he's got shorts on. You don't bother otherwise, he needs to feel that wet nose on the back of his leg you see, it reassures him that you're there. After that we played "Where is he?" That's a bit more complicated. What you do is you pull like mad on the lead for about half a mile or so, until it drives him mental. Then you stop and then start dragging on the lead for about another half mile

I see that the BBC are reporting that that Facebook juror got eight months for contempt. I reckon she got off lightly looking like that, she could have slapped a bit of makeup on or something couldn't she? Put me right off my tea she did. I only ate it 'cos it was sausages. She's no oil painting that's for sure, and if she was it'd be a Jackson Pollock. Urgh, I may not sleep tonight just thinking about it...

Nearly had one in the park this morning, hate the little bastards. Grey squirrels obviously. Another useless American invention they are. My mate Spike tells me that they're great for cleaning winnets off though, so I'm planning on giving it a go. Me Mum has got an aloe vera plant on the windowsill in the kitchen so I'm planning on rubbing a bit of that in and see how I get on. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile Ryan Giggs and his brother walk into a bar. Ryan says to the barman, "I'll have whatever he's having..."

I see that the teachers have voted overwhelmingly in favour of strike action starting on June 30th, the lazy gang of bastards. Not content with having to wait a whole six weeks until they get a full six weeks off they've decided to make a bit of an early start on things. Me Dad says that they're about as much use as a fart in a spacesuit the lot of them, and I can see where he's coming from. And another thing "teacher training days" what's all that about? If they were any bloody good they wouldn't need training would they? If I had kids, and I don't as I'm a dog, then I think I'd quite like mine to go to a school where the teachers were already trained. I mean you wouldn't want to get on an aeroplane to find that the guy in charge was having a "pilot training day" would you? Pooh count, just a brace so far, but it's not even dinner time yet.

Have more in common than you might think. Accosted by those hot nymphs, the Bichon Frisé bitches Ella and Maisie for a bit of no holes barred fun and frolics whilst walking round the Valley Gardens again this morning. They simply can't get enough of me. Fame you see, that's what it is that drives females horny. Even David Blunkett is apparently fighting women off with the proverbial excrement covered stick (a white one in his case of course - the stick not the pooh, you simply don't see it in white anymore do you). I bet even his dog is no stranger to a bit of "strange" tail, once the girls in the park recognise him off the telly. I'm reliably informed by me Dad that Shep off Blue Peter was the canine equivalent of Georgie Best. Crufts winners, he had them all, even a threesome with a couple of royal corgis on the bandstand in Hyde Park I understand. Fame is a heady aphrodisiac. And I've got it. Pooh count: a weight relieving four.

Apparently the male Capuchin monkeys piss into their hands and rub it all over their bodies as female tufted capuchins "become more active when they smell the urine of sexually mature adult males." The dirty bastards, what's wrong with fox shit, don't they have that in the jungle? We've got loads of it round here, I could sell them some if they wanted. Or I could bottle up some of my finest Border Terrier wee and sell them some of that if they were interested, me Mum says it leaves funny patches on the garden anyway. I'll see if me Dad will set me up a little website to get marketing the stuff. weeBay I think I'll call it. Satisfaction guaranteed, me bitches in the park find it irresistible. You can have your money back if you don't pull with a couple of dabs of that behind the old lug holes I'm tellin' yer.

What's going on with News At Ten? Fiona Bruce appears to be having the week off, fair play to her. I simply hate those stupid braided edged jackets that she wears anyway. Now the bird that is replacing her seems to shop at the same place too. They must have seen her coming as they simply have to be be the only two women on the planet that think those things look nice. What is going on? And who is that other blonde chubby munter that they've got on there? Christ, it looked like the opening scenes from the Trinnie and Suzannah show tonight. Still, at least we didn't have to endure the thoughts from Washington of that "one eye up the chimney, the other in the pot" bloke. I mean I'm all for equal opportunities for all and all that, but why can't we just have topless women reading the news? No silly jackets. Just fit birds with their kit off reading the news. "We'll now pass you over to Moscow where it's so cold that Fifi's nips are standing ou

Me Dad had me wetting meself today recounting the story of one old timer in the grain business who insists on have the collection details for anything he buys within about 30 seconds. "Dave, Dave, I've got to fax the details to the haulier NOW." This is for something that is for collection in three weeks time. The same bloke once sold one of me Dad's customers a load for collection "as available" May. Me Dad's customer asked all the way through May if the boat was in yet, only to be told no it wasn't. Eventually on the 30th of May they said OK well we'd better have a fixing for tomorrow then, as it's the last day of the month it has to be available then. The old guy eventually came up with the numbers at 4.30 in the afternoon on the 31st. Obviously the customer didn't collect the load at that late stage as he amazingly didn't have a lorry hanging around on Humberside on doing nothing on the off chance that some numbers were eventually

This sort of thing happens to A list celebrity canine bloggers like me all the time. Walking round the Valley Gardens this morning and was virtually dragged to the ground and raped by a couple of young playful Bichon Frisé bitches called Ella and Maisie. I mean what is a testosterone filled border terrier like moi to do apart from join in with gusto. The thing is when your as famous as me you never know what they're going to be saying in the papers tomorrow when this sort of thing happens. "Dogging in the Park" or "My three in a flower bed sex romp shame". I'm starting to realise what it's like to be an England footballer. These two little hotties this morning were positively being egged on by their enthusiastic owners who I can only refer to Ms X, aged 21 and a size 8 and Mx Y, also aged 21 and also a size 8 (amazing coincidence that one). One of them even gave me a biscuit at the end of it all with a promise to "see you again next time". Soun

Yes boys and girls miracles do happen, as Muffy the death's door guinea pig is running around her little hutch like Zola Budd this morning. Maybe she was just having an off day or something, but the empty shoebox has been put back into the cupboard, at least for now. They didn't throw it away obviously as you never know when it might be needed again, pets pop their clogs with alarming regularity around here. Pooh count: just the one, but the morning log is a particularly satisfying one I find. A bit like you lot and your first cup of tea of the day I suspect.

Three Brits have gone down with that E.coli jobbie according to the Beeb. All of them had visited Germany recently, so it serves them right if you ask me. The health authorities here are saying that "people travelling to Germany should not eat raw cucumber, lettuce or tomatoes and that they should seek medical advice if they have bloody diarrhoea." I had that once. And very tasty it was too. And that boys and girls is what chicken jalfrezi is, except without the chicken.

The Grim Reaper looks like he's coming round our way again. Muffy the guinea pig apparently has the look of something that isn't likely to be with us in the morning. How many is that we've lost of late, I'm losing count. Stanley the cross-dressing transsexual guinea pig seems to have kick-started some sort of trend. What is it they say, in the midst of life we are buried in an Adidas shoe box at the bottom of the garden. My only concern is will the two-leggeds be able to dig deep enough to shoehorn another one in after the lack of rain? If not we may need to resort to a funeral pyre. But if we do that we'll have all the cats in the neighbourhood round, and a few stray Patagonians too I shouldn't wonder. It's almost put me off my tea. Almost, but it was sausages. Looks like it's just me, Speedy and Gizmo left now. They're only little them two, we wont need a shoebox for them, but they're probably too big to flush down the toilet. I'll email th

He was on the telly again last night, did you see him? They have elections where there's only one candidate in places like Zimbabwe don't they? I see that (some of) us Brits made a plucky little "erm, we're not quite sure that this is right old bean" objection, which not surprisingly fell on stony ground. Reminds me of an old war film. John Mills is England, all grubby-faced and wandering around the exercise yard dropping bits of earth nonchalantly down his trouser leg. That Scottish actor with the funny eye and a mad look on his face is there backing England up muttering to himself "aye wee laddie I'm right behind you." Wales and Ireland, they're neither use nor ornament. They want to escape but they'd also like to see England and Scotland get caught and shot, so they stay in the hut pretending to be forging papers and making uniforms out of old blankets. The rest of the camp are lined up outside the commandant's office where he hands ou

I wouldn't trust the guy as far as I could throw him. There he was on the news last night speaking pretty much perfect English, then fumbling to put his headphones on when being asked a question, in English, and pretending that he couldn't understand what was being said. He's as bent as an Arabs dagger that lad, you mark my words. "Crisis? What is a crisis? Football is not in a crisis...we are only in some difficulties and these difficulties will be solved." As soon as the brown envelope arrive eh Sepp? He's right about one thing though, there is no need for an enquiry into bungs for votes "allegations" as we all know that they are true. Qatar my arse, what are they having the World Cup there for, It's hardly a bastion of international football is it. There can only be one reason and that is that they paid more than everybody else.

This one has me puzzled, the bloke over the road right, the one that lives next door to Taff. No not that way the other way, with the big silver car, yeah now you've got him. What's he up to? He's out all day, I assume at work, I mean I'm no Poirot but it's a fair assumption that one isn't it. He's not there, the cars not there, from around 8.30 to 5.30, so I reckon he's gone and got himself a job. You are with me this far I take it. Right, well here's the puzzling bit. Most nights between say 6 and 10 he's in an out of that house like I don't know what, off somewhere quick in the car then back again. He's usually "away" for between 5-15 mins and then he's back. No sooner has he reversed onto the drive and popped into the house than he's back out again. Last night between 9-10 he "popped" out no fewer than eight times. He could be running a plate-less taxi firm from home I suppose, one that never gets a journey

Me Dad was busy doing a website for someone or other, he'd been at it for hours the poor lamb, with me sleeping dutifully at his feet. How was I supposed to know that the trip switch was under me left paw? He wont forget to save his work again in a hurry though will he? I reckon I've done him a favour, the fat bastard. Talking of lamb it said on the telly tonight that the per capita consumption of lamb in the US is less than one pound per person per year! What are they eating to get so fat, that's what I want to know. If you've ever watched Man vs Food then there may be some clues in there for you. "A full twelve pounds of pulled pork, eighteen hamburgers, three tonne of fries, eight slabs of Monterrey Jack cheese, a hundred and forty two Scotch bonnet chilli peppers and two gallons of their own special jalapeno concentrate instant death sauce all to be consumed inside three minutes." And the crowd are cheering him on like he's some sort of super-hero. The

Barack Obama: if he's part Irish does that make him a leprecoon? Imogen Thomas: has formed a girl band to take her mind off things, apparently she's doing gigs all round Manchester. The end of the world: I don't want to sound like I'm bragging or anything, but this is the fifth one I've survived. Planking: This "Planking" craze has really taken off. The pensioner next door has been lying face down in the middle of his patio for three days solid now. Bin Laden: 10 years, trillions of dollars, thousands of soldiers dead, state of the art technology, but the US finally found him. In his house. Football: a new Premier League record of over 1000 goals has been recorded for this season. Over 200 of those came in injury time at Old Trafford. Somalian pirates: What do they take us for..

Took Sasha the cute Lhasa Apso out into town for a meal on Saturday night, in a dog about town sort of a way. Attempted to leave a review of the restaurant on Trip Advisor yesterday, but was dismayed to find that I need to be registered on Facebook to do so. I don't go in for all that rubbish. I mean don't get me wrong I'm pretty computer savvy as border terriers go, I have after all got my own blog and a cult following in Romania. But as me Dad says, in a Groucho Marx sort of a way, he wouldn't want to belong to a club containing both his ex bitches and his ex bitch-in-law would he? And rightly so. Whilst we're on the subject hands up who's on that Friends Reunited codswallop. First off if they were that much of a friend then you'd still be in touch with them wouldn't you? I got an email from them once, I'll interpret for you (in brackets), it went something like this: Hi (I've just split up with my husband), how are you doing (I bumped into Fio

Just signed up for it and installed it on me laptop (they got me one of those little netbook things for Christmas in exchange for not pissing on the kitchen floor for a fortnight). Why does it sound like you're about to take a shuftie at what prizes are on offer in an episode of Bullseye? I used to love that programme me. "In one, going to the toilet's never a drag, with this leatherette-look colostomy bag..." They should get me one of those if they're that bothered about me pissing in the kitchen shouldn't they? The tight bastards. Pooh count, two, slowly, slowly catchy turdy.

Me Mum has started doing some voluntary gardening work at a local old people's home, and apparently today they had a singer in. The idea is that she rattles off a few of Vera Lynn's finest, to boost morale like, and everyone has a grand old sing song. Robert is your uncle. Today's singer apparently had a voice more like Vera Duckworth's than Vera Lynn's and emptied the residents lounge faster than a dose of salts. Even the ones who couldn't walk got up and walked out by all accounts. They've got Lenny Henry on next week, it's the only work he can get these days, apart from bouncing up and down on beds that is. That guy's about as funny as a flatulent spaniel. Pooh count a weight reducing and reassuring six.

They've revealed the route to be taken by the Olympic torch in 2012 today. It will start it's journey at Lands End, taking 70 days to reach London via Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland including taking in the Isle of Man, Guernsey, Jersey, Shetland, Orkney and the Isle of Lewis. I got that taxi once. The robbing bastards. Pooh count: a restrained two.

It's not quite ten o'clock, yet I've already managed to squeeze out a very healthy four logger this morning. Whilst in human terms that might send you running to the doctors, in border terrier terms it's a clear sign of health and vitality. Plus I feel about two stone lighter as well. I wonder if humans get that bottom clenching all's well with the world I feel like I've just run the London Marathon feeling that we dogs get after a particularly satisfying dump? Or the urge to round off the entire performance with a couple of hearty hind leg grass flicks? I hope so, there's nothing quite like it, especially since they had me "done" - the tight bastards. Might settle down and listen to a bit of Tchaikovsky on me iPod now and have a snooze in the lounge. It's fully six hours to tea-time, I do hope it's sausages, with gravy, northern dogs love sausages with gravy....

So ManYoo have won the Premier League again with a (shock) debatable penalty earning them a draw against relegation faced Blackburn, and Man Shitty have bought the FA Cup with a streaky 1-0 win against lowly Stoke. Hoo chuffin ray. Hardly the stuff of giants is it? Pooh count: four, more excitement there than watching those overpaid ladyboys running around kissing each other. Ya Ya, what sort of a name is that? Two hundred grand a week he's supposed to be on the lanky streak of piss. Tevez, the dirty cheating Argy bastard, said he needed a cortisone injection in order to play the second half, and Ya Ya pipes up with "well if he's having a new car I'm having one too Boss," the thick get. Hanging's too good for them. And Rooney, he's not exactly the brightest biscuit in the barrel either is he? And is it just me or is that Balotelli gadger complely and utterly cack? If that's the best team you can put together for fifty squillion billion then we're a

Walkies was a quick scoot around the Valley Gardens this morning. Saw the usual three lovely little bitches out with their respective two-leggeds, including Sasha who is a particularly cute Lhasa Apso. As (bad) luck would have it I was mid-pooh at the time, and a particularly reluctant one at that, which isn't ideal when it comes to attracting the ladies. They didn't seem too impressed, so I gave them my "look how far I can piss up a lamppost" trick, a real crowd pleaser that one is normally, but even that failed to draw much interest. In desperation at this point I proffered them my pied de résistance back paws in the air two-legged bum scrape across the grass, which usually never fails to draw gasps of admiration from passers-by - one old lady fainted with joy at the sight of that once - but alas not on this occasion. Love is a fickle bastard at times I find.

Me Dad had one of them jumbo sausage rolls for his lunch yesterday, not a cheapo one, a "premium" version - he does like to spoil himself. So naturally I was hanging around at his feet, working on the assumption that he'll never eat a whole one of those. "Premium Jumbo Sausage Roll - filled with prime British sausage meat" it said on the packet. Now I've just looked up the word "filled" on dictionary.com and it says "to make full; put as much as can be held into; to occupy to the full capacity; to supply to an extreme degree or plentifully." Nowhere does it say "picture a small cocktail sausage placed into the mouth of the Mersey Tunnel." The robbing bastards. Needless to say there weren't any leftovers for yours truly. I was saddened to hear of the premature death of golfing great Seve Ballesteros, who was buried on top of his father yesterday in the family tomb. One over Pa eh Seve?

There's another great and totally original idea for a game show. Take two random celebrities, erm, I don't know...Ian Hislop and Paul Merton for example, throw in a witty and articulate border terrier like me to host the show, to pull it all together like and Bob's you uncle. Slip in a few token pooh jokes and you're laughing. Reeves and Mortimer's Big Shite Out, there's another one for you. Let's think of something totally off the wall... here you go we have a giant dove called Ulkicack, cack, cack caaa who is lowered down from the ceiling at the start of every show. Nobody's ever done that before. Stool Academy, we could sell that one to the Septics. Faeces the Music, there's another, hosted by Tom O'Connor - he's never worked since so he's bound to be free. Contestants have up to seven seconds to name which type of dog a fart came from..."I'll name that pong in one, Tom. Was it a border terrier?"..."You're right

Nice walkies round Studley Royal yesterday. Learnt that swan pooh isn't for me. They say I'll eat anything, well now I've proven them all wrong. Swan pooh appears to be the Marmite of the pooh world, whilst other terriers around me were tucking in to a hearty swan pooh brunch with gusto, I found the whole thing a little too, erm, swanny. Which gave me a great idea for a TV show. MasterPooh. John Torode and Greg Wallace taste a variety of culinary delights dished up by dogs like me with our own special twist, if you know what I mean. Seared scollops with black pudding on a dog pooh purée followed by saddle of roast venison, "terrier truffles" and a dog pooh quinelle finished off with a palate cleansing white dog pooh mouse with chocolate sprinkles (no expense spared there). They could get Michel Pooh Jnr to assist. I think it'd be a nailed on winner that one.

Nice little walkies round the Valley Gardens yesterday, interrupted by me Dad wittering into his mobile phone all the way with me just keen to admire the natural beauty of the landscape and roll in some shit given half the chance. From what I could gather front-end tightness in London wheat (may closed a fiver over July last night) is down to a certain merchant being short cash against long futures and wanting to take delivery of the physical wheat. Which me Dad says ties in nicely with reports he's heard that they have been collecting ex-farm wheat on contract a month early pretty much all through the winter. The merchant involved? I couldn't quite catch it, it's a shame that nobody likes them though, just because their ear is in the wrong place. I'll send them one of my poohs in a jiffy bag, that'll cheer them up.

The NFU have apparently picked a three-legged sheepdog as their farm dog of the year. Three-legged Jack took the top prize after his Welsh owners wrote in to tell them how he had suffered a serious leg injury last year and despite an amputation, made a miraculous recovery and continues to work on the farm. The tight bastards, let him have a rest, he's only got three legs. Still, that's the bloody Welsh for you. His owners probably talk to each other in English when the dog's not there, out working, and then immediately switch to talking to each other in Welsh when he enters the room. Me Dad's Dad got evacuated to a farm in Wales during the war and they took his bloody sweet coupons off him and gave them to their own kids, the tight bastards. It's probably the same people.

Well, well, didn't the Queen look nice, all teeny weeny and wrinkly in yellow, like a little sherbet lemon carrying a handbag. The bride was beautiful of course, and her sister's pretty tidy too, I wouldn't know who's leg to hump first if I was round at their house. What about Harry though, was it just me or was he walking like he'd filled his pants? Will's clearly has the DoE/Charles bald patch, but Harry seems to have a most unroyal thick mop of hair doesn't he? Strange that, the lucky bastard. The Duchess of Kent looked like she'd just had a couple of wisdom teeth extracted, and as for Eugenie and Beatrice, oh lord, let's just say that they've obviously inherited their mother's class. I had no idea that they lived in Middlesbrough until I saw them. That grand old British institution Sir Elt was there, with his chum David, no strangers to going up the aisle either of them. Beckham was there too, with his praying mantis. And did anyone apart

This morning I found a pooh in the woods that looks a bit like the Duke of Edinburgh, so I've posted that off to the happy couple, I do hope they like it. Long and thin, with a bit of grey fluff stuck to one end it was. I could have put it on eBay, but I thought no, that'll be something to adorn any mantelpiece that will. I was going to have it mounted on a polished wooden plinth but there simply wasn't the time. So I just popped it into a clingfilm roll holder and DHL'd it off. Is nothing sacred though? Sponsorship is creeping into everything these days, with tomorrow's wedding taking place at Westminster Santander as it's now called. I'm fully expecting the buffet to be sponsored by Iceland and have Jason Donovan and that stupid Kerry Katona tart dancing round the living room at Buck House passing round the vol-au-vents, an absolute bargain at two quid for three dozen, whilst stocks last. And call me bitter if you like, seeing as I just got edged out at th

If they're not really sure if he's American, how confident are they that Michelle is actually a woman. I mean she's pretty big for a woman isn't she? She towered over the Queen like Usain Bolt getting introduced to Daphne off Eggheads the last time I saw them on the telly. And those kids, they're just too perfect to be real kids as well aren't they? It must be like a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers when they go to be at night I reckon. Pooh count: three, or four if you count the one behind the settee.

...is shit isn't it? I only watch it to keep the two-leggeds happy. Talk about far-fetched as well, not like reality TV shows such as DeadEnders or Corrie. They show it like it really is. I mean, when was the last time you saw Ken Barlow toting a magic screwdriver? Exactly, you aren't going to get that in Wetherby or wherever it is they live are you? No. Endex. Or large jellyfish-like monsters supping at the bar in the Rovers, well not since Fred died anyway. It's all baloney. A waste of the licence payer's money, that's what me Dad calls it. And bollox as well, he calls it that sometimes. Pooh count: a comfy seven (unless you count the runny one down by the cycle path in which case it's fifteen).

Are you going? Apparently the last place up for grabs was a toss up between me and Victoria Beckham, and she just got the nod due to her husband's "services to industry". We all know what industry he's been supporting, and lets just say it's quite an old fashioned profession shall we? I mean, we've all got skeletons in our cupboard, it's just a little odd that he chooses to take his out in public with him isn't it? I think I'll watch it on Sky....

I love it, a time for religious reflection, Chunky Kit Kat eggs, morality, the old fashioned values of what Easter is all about, wind-up bunnies and Dr Who not this commercialised junket in which we have found ourselves unceremoniously embroiled within. And a great opportunity to eat (and roll in) shit, obviously. I also managed to shovel down a couple of dozen seasonal rabbit droppings whilst out on the morning sojourn with cousin Paddy this morning, or M&M's as we call them. Jesus wasn't too keen on them, they kept slipping through the holes in his hands, apparently. Pooh count: a devout six. Shabba.

A farmer got married and was riding home from church with his new bride in a horse and cart. Part way home the horse stumbled before righting itself and carrying on. "That's once" muttered the farmer quietly, shaking his head. Soon after the same thing happened again. "That's twice" said the farmer quietly, again shaking his head whilst his new wide sat quietly by his side. Before they made it back to the farm the horse stumbled for a third and final time. The farmer pulled up, slowly retrieved a shotgun from underneath his seat and calmly shot the horse dead. Aghast his bride said "well I think that was a little uncalled for, just because the poor thing stumbled a few times." The farmer sighed and muttered "that's once".

My Dad said that he'd be surprised if Vivergo turned a cog in 2011. His caller said that he'd be surprised if it did so before harvest 2013! It's an interesting point, who'd want to take on a contract like that with ex-workers picketing outside the gates, and surely any decent engineering company worth their salt have already got bags of work lined up for the next 12 months? I'm not bad with a spanner, for a Border Terrier.

Nice walk around Jacob Smith Park this morning, let off the lead and got up to absolutely no mischief whatsoever. No rolling, shit eating nor nothing. Came when called, jumped straight into the back of the car when requested and sat patiently in me cage whilst me Dad and the little feller went off to have their hair cut. They obviously had a fry-up as well as they brought me back a sausage for being a good boy. All in all I've been better behaved than a five year old on Christmas Eve. Still, there's always tomorrow.....

Lovely walk round Ripley this morning, soaking up all the noble majesty of the British countryside at it's magnificent spring best. Couldn't help but admire the subtle delicate splendour of the newly emerged bluebells, contrasting with the now ever so slightly over the top yellow daffodils fading gracefully away. Of course it was all lost on me Dad, all I got out of him was "you stay away from that shit or you'll feel my boot up your arse!" Then we turned the corner and saw what for me has to be one of the most stunning sights ever, a field of around twenty deer grazing peacefully away. It was a beautiful sight and one that will remain indelibly ingrained on my mind until they bury me at the foot of the garden along with Mrs Snow and Stanley the cross-dressing guinea pig. I'm quite literally choking back tears as I write this. All he said was "it's a deer farm FFS, what did you expect?" He's got absolutely no romance in him. So I squeezed out