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.