Christmas my arse, I for one hate it. All I get is left at home on me own whilst they all go out on the piss. Didn't get me tea until half past six one night. Half past bastard six. Me stomach thought me throat had been cut. We're nearly out of pigs ears as well, and I don't expect these tight-fisted buggers to cough up for any more in the New Year. Just 'cos they're planning on going on a diet, why do I have to go on a fucking diet? I'm not a great big fat bloater. They are. And another thing, Christmas presents, what are they all about? People spending loads of money to buy other people, many of whom they can't stand, presents which they don't like or shit that they've got already? Me Dad got one of them Bonnie Tyler Sat Navs. Shit it is. Keeps telling him to turn around and every now and then it falls apart. Fucking rubbish. Arse.

Me Mum and Dad are just back from doing "the big Christmas shop" and rarely have I seen me Dad so thoroughly pissed off. If ever you go to Morrison's then avoid the checkout "girl" called Rachel like the fucking plague. He says "girl" - although apparently old hag would be closer to the mark. Old deluded hag who woke up this morning thinking that she was a female Peter Kay in fact. Listen Rachel nothing you have ever said, or will ever say, is funny right? You are not enhancing the customer's Christmas shopping experience with your incredibly dull and painfully transparently contrived attempt to "get in the Christmas spirit" - you're just a fucking window-licking dullard, more intelligent specimens of which I've seen floating upside down in the pond in the park. Get to fuck, and take your fucking Christmas fucking hat with you. You're about as funny as piles. No "we're not all set for Christmas" if we were we wou

Surprised that that little diving lad didn't get nominated, you know, what's his name....oh, it's on the tip of me tongue.....Suarez that's it! I tell you who was never going to be in the running, that twat that presented Match of the Day on Saturday night, struggling to come up with his name as well. No not Lineker, some other git, who's opening gambit was to tell us how many goals had been scored in the Premier League that day. Which is all very well unless the game that you are particularly interesting in is the last one on. So me and me Dad spent the entire programme trying to avoid adding up how many goals had been scored in total, so as to attempt to avoid our televisual entertainment being entirely ruined, only for this knob-head to introduce the game with "this is the last game on 'cos it had the fewest goals in it." Seeing as we already knew that 3 was the lowest number of goals scored that day, then this urinated all over our chips of enjoyme

Has it ever occurred to you that there's a lot of similarity between Manchester Citeh fans and their owners? They both think nothing of throwing money at players. Woof. Watching Match of the Day last night with me Dad there was a striking difference between Mario Balotelli's demeanour on being substituted for Citeh and Nikica Jelavic coming off to high fives all round for Everton. Balotelli is "an enigma" says Citeh coach David Platt, at least that's what I think he called him. A fuckin cocky, egotistical, lazy heap of shit is what I'd call him, but what do I know, I'm only a Border Terrier.

Went to the bank with me Dad at the weekend, and a sign above the cash machine said "If you see anything unusual ring 0845 222 333" so me Dad rang them up and said "I once saw a Shetland pony shagging a sheep, is that any good?" Tosser.

Walkies on Saturday with me Dad took us past four men digging the road. Well, when I say "four men digging" I mean one man digging and three men standing around pointing. "I think we'll make Frank dig over there in a minute" I'm sure one said, and the other one goes *point* "Nah, I reckon we should make him dig over there." To which the third non-digger chips in with *point* "What's wrong with over there, that will cause maximum traffic disruption and mean that pedestrians and their dogs have to either wade through a waist-deep pile of shite, or walk on the road thereby increasing the possibility of a nasty, and if we're really lucky fatal, accident." To which they all nod sagely and say "Yes, Fred's right lets make Frank dig over there *point collectively* where it's really dangerous next." Twats. And what about all this fucking rain? Exactly how bad do things need to get for the Met Office to go up a notch from

We appeared to be having some minor issues with design/images going missing here this morning, for a minute I thought that the bastards were censoring me due to me poor affliction, it's a fuckin curse it is to be piss bastard sure. For one minute I thought I was going to have to erase all me posts containing swear words. Or all me posts to put it another way. Turns out it was summat else entirely. Me Dad reckons that he's sorted it now anyway. A fuckin genius that bloke. Even if he is a fat, lazy, ugly get. I've never seen him so mad as he was this morning when he caught our neighbour's dog doing a shit in our back garden. So he picked it up and shoved it through their letterbox. Well, at least he got it's front legs and head in anyway. Woof.

Me Dad says that the chances of being killed in an air crash is 1 in 4,600,000, whereas being killed in a fire is a 1 in 40,000 chance. That's why he never travels by fire. That's what he reckons anyway, the fat get. Still, he did take me out for a nice long walk on Saturday, which kind of partly made up for him leaving me in the house on my own all day Sunday. Bored out of my skull I was, not to mention starving hungry as I didn't get me tea until half past seven. Christ, they'd been out that long that even the fecking log basket was starting to look tasty. Talking of which did you hear about the blind guy who got a packet of Brillo pads mixed up with a packet of shredded wheat and ate two Brillo pads for his breakfast? He's in intensive care but the doctors say that they think he'll scrape through. In other news, I see that a petition for Scotland to be granted it's independence has attracted more than a million signatures. And that's just from Englan

Will I be the only one who finds the BBC's coverage of in this year's "Children In Need" an even more gigantic pile of absolute wank than normal this year, given recent events involving BBC employees having a history of providing children with exactly what they don't need over a period of many years?

Me Dad is stranded in fucking Peterborough after his train to Leeds has been cancelled. East Coast Bastard Trains would like to apoligise for any inconvenience caused, so that's alright. As it happens leaving you stranded in bastard Peterfuckingbastardborough when you want to be in Leeds does indeed cause quite a fucking bit of bastard inconvenience actually, you twats. Not for you of course, just for the fucking rest of us poor buggers. I vomit in your general direction East Coast Bastard Trains. You don't even qualify for a polished pooh on a plinth so a terrier shit on a stick is yours. I'll leave it in platform 4 at Peterbastardborough station for you. Arseholes.

Managed to snaffle a piece of toast with Utterly Butterly on it this morning. What a load of shite that is. And as you know I'm not a picky eater. It says on the packet that it's supposed to be spreadable straight from the fridge and packed full of the buttery taste you love. Well they score 1/2 on that front. Spreadable straight from the fridge it is, but then again so is diarrhoea (not that we keep any in our fridge you understand). The taste it's packed full of sadly also resembles the latter rather than the former too. Utterly Diarrhoealy it should be called. Shite. I'd send the makers a polished pooh on a plinth but I suspect that they may liquidise it and put it to other uses. As you may have guessed from the lack of blogging lately I've been in Stalag 45 again whilst the two-leggeds went off on holiday. It's not to bad in there in the summer I suppose, apart from the lack of wifi, but it's fuckin freezing in the winter time. Have you ever tried pissin

Me Dad popped into the Deli in town today for a bit of shopping, leaving me tied up outside for hygiene reasons he said. Hygiene my arse, there's nothing wrong with my hygiene, I lick it clean every day whether it needs it or not. Anyway when he came back out he was shaking like a shitting dog. He'd just bought four slices of cooked beef, and was charged £10.70 for the privilege! Sweet Baby Jesus. He followed it up with a request for two slices of turkey, he probably would have asked for four but he only had fifty quid on him. Two slices of turkey set him back a further £5.70! Fuck me rigid, the turkey was even dearer than the bastard beef. "Erm, I only wanted to buy two slices of turkey, not fly to the place business class" came me Dad's witty retort. I think that must have gone over the girl's head. "I can put one back if you like?" she replied. "Put one back and I'll only have fucking one, not two won't I? And I want two. Drop yer bas

Has won his libel case against the Daily Mirror for labelling him a "racist comedian" and given his 'winnings' to charity I hear. Well done Frankie boy. How could a ginger Jock be racist? Talking of winnings, me Dad took me into the bookies on Saturday, it was the first time I've ever been in there and found it fascinating. He'd decided that he wanted to have a bet. So he did: Is Steven Gerrard a twat? Yes. And that Frankel thing in a win double. The bloke behind the counter said: "that's a bit risky mate." "Why?" asked me Dad, "don't you think Steven Gerrard is a twat?" The bloke said "well yes, obviously, but Frankel's never run on ground this soft before you know." Woof. He's off to Ireland tomorrow, me Dad not Frankel, so I'm hoping that he'll bring me some sausages back. Irish sausages are supposed to be very good I hear, although I'd settle for a bag of pork scratchings if they do them o

Watched it with the two-leggeds last night, couldn't decide who I wanted to win: An old bender, a young bender or a Jock isn't much of a choice is it really? Still, at least the fat, ugly, ginger with a lisp got knocked out in the earlier rounds. That Paul Hollywood bloke, there's something not quite right with him either is there? He's supposed to be every middle-aged woman's heart throb although he looks like a dodgy second hand car salesman to me. And he's no stranger to the dark arts of bum banditry either, I reckon. "Look, your bottom's gone all soggy and there's far too much chocolate on those fingers." I rest my case. Mary Berry, she's alright I suppose, a bit like Daphne off Eggheads, she probably reeks of piss and humbugs but she's harmless. I do like that Mel woman though, even if she does look like a raging lezzer. Bring on the next series I say. Woof.

Felix Baumgartner has just found the ball from Chris Waddle's penalty in World Cup 1990. When asked to confirm once and for all what is the first thing that man is able to recognise on planet earth from space he said it was Katie Price's fanny. The BBC are investigating claims that Jeremy Beadle had a small hand in the Jimmy Savile scandal. Lance Armstrong has flown into New York to deny doping claims. It would have been more convincing if he'd used a plane, mind. Woof.

Wonga have taken over at Newcastle it seems in a £24 million four year sponsorship deal. Club shirts are £45 each up front, or alternatively 36 easily affordable monthly payments of just £258.44. A pint of Newcastle Ale in the club bar will now cost £3.00 before the match, £87.50 at half time and £427 after the game. I don't like the dirty thieving Magpies for reason's I can't really explain. All those moobs on display on the terraces in sub-zero temperatures in mid-January might have something to do with it. What are they trying to prove? That they're a real man? If they were a real many they wouldn't have tits would they? Toon Army my arse, Moob Army more like.

I'm just an ordinary comprehensive school multi millionaire who stabbed his brother in the back to further his own career like the rest  of you/us. Honest. And I am from planet earth despite my physically reptillian appearance.

"I came along, I did a little pooh, just on the grass for you, and it was all yellow..." Did the most amazing shiny yellow pooh whilst walking round the Valley Gardens on Sunday morning. I wanted to keep it, but me Dad was having none of it. The tight get. If we'd have stuck a pair of sunglasses on it, it would have been a dead ringer for Yoko Ono. Probably a bit prettier actually, come to think of it. Those sorts of things sell for thousands on eBay you know. A piece of toast that looks like Elvis, a corn flake in the shape of Illinois. People will buy anything original like that on there, so I'm certain that we'd have had a lot of interest in it, especially from the Far East. No, not the Chinese on King's Road, the Orient you daft bugger. It must have been that Chicken Madras on Friday night I reckon. Oooh, you should never give a Border Terrier a Chicken Madras. It's like one of the unwritten rules of Good Terrier Housekeeping. It's trueeeee, look h

Reports are flooding in from all over Essex that this missing schoolgirl has been sighted there. Presumably from the same twats that saw that lion a couple of weeks ago. Google is 14 years old today I see, I bet that's got a few maths teachers interested. As torrential rain and gales continue to lash the north of England, me Dad says he couldn't believe how strong the wind was last night. He only nipped out to get a pint of milk for me Mum and got blown all the way to the Coach & Horses. They say that "if something's worth having then it's worth waiting for" don't they? Me Dad says he discovered that to be complete bollocks when he got a job working in the warehouse at Argos. He didn't last long though, something about a "clash of personalities" he reckons. Although that requires having a personality in the first place doesn't it? The thick get. He was pulled over by a police car on his way home from work last night. The officer said

An amateur group of Islamic film makers have posted a video on YouTube which mocks Christianity and Jesus Christ. It is believed to be so offensive that St Peter's church in Shrewsbury have postponed their whist drive until next Wednesday and Dorothy Green from Margate has written in to Points of View. Woof.

Andrew Lloyd Webber. Saw a picture of him on the front of a newspaper magazine at the weekend and was shocked to hear that he's human. What a fucking ugly twat he is. Talk about hitting every branch of the ugly tree on the way down, this bastard clearly climbed back up again and fell down again one more time just to make sure. I thought it was an advert for fucking Star Wars. Jesus, he makes me Dad look like Brad Pitt that bloke. He very nearly put me off me tea, although as it was sausages he didn't. Like a cross between a snake, Yoda and that bloke of the League of Gentleman who's had his nose sellotaped to his head. He's minted like, but you'd need to be with a kipper like that wouldn't you? The Bogey Man probably tells his kids to behave or Andrew Lloyd Webber will come and get you. He look's like she's been dunking for apples in a chip pan. I mean, everyone has a right to be ugly, but he abuses the privilege. Nice bloke by all accounts though...

Fed up of reporting on where Kate Middleton's tits are going to flop out next (it's Denmark today if you are interested), the subject of my ire today is the fucking USDA. A pooh on a polished plinth is winging it's way to Washington as I type. Now that me Dad's moved into his new office I hardly get to see the fat bastard much anyway, and now the USDA changing the release of their report times around mean I'll get to see him even less. The tight bastards. Have you ever tried using a tin opener with paws the USDA? Have you fuck, so get to fuck and change the fucking times back for fuck's fucking sake. An American walked into an English pub and asked for a pint of Budweiser. The barman replied "You're American aren't you?" The man says, "Yeah. Could you tell by the drink I ordered, or the accent?" The barman replied. "Neither, you're the fattest fucker I've ever seen."

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Fuck me, what a busy weekend they've had, flopping out in France, Ireland and Italy whilst she's been in Borneo or somewhere. Magic royal raspberry ripples they are. Think of the air miles they've clocked up already. More than Judith Chalmers' leathery old saddle bags that's for sure. Suddenly more people have had a blimp at the Duchesses fairly unimpressive jowlers than Jordan's. There's something inherently wrong about Johnny Foreigner copping an eyeful of the Regal Molehills before we Brits have had chance of a decent butchers at Kate's Kohinoor Diamonds though isn't there? I'm already sick to the back teeth of them. I had a dream last night that Prince William was attacking me with a wet lettuce whilst the DOE looked on wearing only a leather posing pouch and nipple clamps that I'm sure was something to do with it/them. Put them away dear and give us all a break. The Daily Mail, bless, are doing their best to rise above it. Reporting from

Talk about an invasion of privacy. Mind you they've never been that good at invasions the bloody French have they? I for one am furious with them. Not only have they breached the trust and privacy of the British royal family, but if you're going to take topless pictures of one of the Middleton sisters, at least choose the right fucking one! The soft gets. Personally, I feel badly let down and disappointed. They're so small aren't they? Not like the Queen's. She's got massive Ma'ams her Mamjesty, have you seen them? Proper Royal jugs they are. Like a couple of space hoppers that have recently strayed over a bed of nails they are. Without the funny faces drawn on them, obviously. I bet randy old Phil the Greek has had a fair old time playing with those Royal Funbags over the years. In a recent interview with the Daily Sport Gentleman's Almanac Prince Phillip apparently confessed that her Mamjesty and he used to indulge in a bit of S&M bondage, blindfo

Why on earth would anyone decide to bury Richard III in a car park? I know a thing or two about "Richard the thirds" and it's never even once crossed my mind to bury one of mine in a car park I can tell you. There's the obvious tarmac problem for a kick off, not to mention dodgy women drivers trying to reverse their Nissan Micra as if it was a 38 tonne lorry. Surely they'd be better off concentrating their search in some nearby bushes? And Leicester of all places. Jesus Christ, Fucking Leicester. I've been to Leicester and it's shit. Completely shit. On a shitness scale of 0-10 Leicester is easily a 12, maybe a 13 if it's raining. Although come to think of it maybe there's a clue in there. Maybe they've come across some ancient manuscript that says something like "Headeth off to the shittiest place in all the land, there thee will find a kingly mound, in the McDonalds grill order bay dig up the third, where thee will find nestling a Richar

Not a headline you see every day, but a real headline nevertheless, and one from the Independent no less. As soon as you see the word "student" you immediately think "guilty" don't you? I do any way. In fact I think of a scruffy, and guilty, unwashed long-haired dirty lazy "the world owes me a living" tramp. The cupboard is bare, I'm skint but starving. I know! I'll cook the hamster. That will fill me up, and immediately make me seem whacky and thus render me incredibly popular with the ladies, who strangely currently appear to think that I'm a total wanker. Two birds, one stone. Fucking Einstein me. I might even have a bath tonight and put on my lucky Bart the Fart Simpson pants and pop down to the Uni bar for a half of cider. We aren't informed how said oik decided to cook said rodent. KFC style is where my money is going. I mean he won't have gently poached it in a bain marie of warm milk with basil and chives will he? As in the

As you probably know I'm a keen University Challenge sort of a Border Terrier, as I like to keep my paw in so to speak. Well I was shocked to watch last night's episode to see four spotty youths sit in bemused silence looking at each other and shaking their heads. The task before them was to name a piece of music played by a brass band. It was unmistakeably The Lord's My Shepherd, which they played almost all the way through. These lads were looking at each other as if you were asking them to name the original starting line up of the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band such was the look of incredulity on their spotty, puss-riddled faces. Come on, let's have it, urged Paxman. "Erm, Jerusalem?" came the response! No doubt these lads will move on to become captains of industry because Daddy's well connected in the City. An unpolished pooh on a plinth is winging it's way to the knobheads at Magdalen College, Oxford.

Thomas Bell of Brigg are officially the kindest, people in the whole wide world. Not only are they the first people in the world to ever send me a parcel, they are the first people in the world to send me a parcel of pig's ears. Not just one or two either, 50 of the bastards. 50! That's way more than you get in a poxy packet from Asda. I mean I haven't actually counted them yet, but it says 50 on the box, so that's good enough for me. I'm so excited I'm shaking, shaking like a you know what. No, not a dyslexic on Countdown, a shitting dog, that's what I'm shaking like. 50 pig's ears! It's taken 25 pigs to make them. That's a lot of pigs. I reckon I can do 10 a day, so that lot will last me right through to the weekend. Woooohoooo, party on. I think I should send them something really special back in return. A coveted Nogger's dog white pooh, encrusted with sweetcorn and hand finished by Faberge, on a mahogany plinth is on the way to Brigg

Was looking forward to watching Team GB in the football. Shame to see that they've been drawn in the "Group of Deaf" though. Bosses have announced that, unlike the players themselves, they won't be using visually impaired referees. Howard Webb and Phil Dowd are said to be gutted. Apparently there is no truth in the rumour that we won gold in the boxing after our lad licked his Russian opponent in the final though. Woof.

Did you see the picture of that cat that was spotted in Essex and reported to be an escaped lion? Muppets, it looked no more like an escaped lion than me. It just goes to show you though doesn't it how fucking stupid and gullible the great British public are. No sooner had one tosser rang up to report it, than other equally stupid tossers were ringing up to confirm the sighting of it, and/or confirmation of hearing "an enormous roar" coming from some nearby bushes. These wanky mass hysteria plebs that walk amongst us do like a fucking good panic don't they? Salmonella, swine flu, bird flu, fucking lions on the loose, where is it all going to end? Killer pigeons? Axe wielding homicidal hamsters? Border Terriers that don't roll in shit and steal sandwiches, Haribo and ice creams off small children? The people of Essex you disgust me. Get back on Jeremy Kyle.

Pork scratchings for dogs they are. So imagine my disgust to find that Me Mum & Dad's equivalent of Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard is bare of them. Pig's ears bereft we are in our house. And why is that I'm sure you are wondering. The answer would appear to be that my penny-pinching surrogate parents couldn't bring themselves to fork out more for a packet of pig's ears in Asda today than the weekend's Sunday roast joint cost. Yes, nearly seven fuckin quid it was for a packet of pig's ears apparently. Seven quid. Somebody is clearly taking the piss, and by doing so depriving me of my lunchtime treat. The dirty robbing bastards.  Pound for pound a pig's ear is comfortably the most expensive part of it's body. In fact, on a pound for pound basis pig's ears are now more expensive in Asda than fuckin fillet steak! So what the fuck is going on there then? Fuckin, fuckety bastard fuck is all I can say.

Watched Celeb MasterChef with the two-legged people last night and that Gareth Gates punter was the only one on there I recognised. Firstly, he appears to have turned into some sort of Morrisey tribute act, as he looks even more like the ex-Smiths front man than Morrissey himself. I kept expecting him to burst into "Heaven knows I'm miserable n,n,n,n,n,n..aw, forget it" but he didn't. In fact he didn't stutter at all. Which got me thinking did he just put that on in a cynical attempt to win a few extra votes in Pop Idol? Not that I've got anything against people who stutter, my mate Derek has a terrible stutter. Every time he introduces himself it's like the opening bars of Match of the Day. De, de, de, de, de, de, de, de de...de, de, de, de, de, de....

THE UNGRACIOUS TWAT. WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS? ME DAD WENT TO WATCH EVERTON VS THE COCKY MANCS LAST NIGHT.  I HAD TO STAY HOME AND WATCH IT ON THE TELLY AS THEY DON'T LET BORDER TERRIERS IN. WELL WHAT LOOKED LIKE A THOROUGHLY DESERVED WIN TO ME IS CONDEMNED BY BIG NOSE THIS MORNING AS 'ALL THEY DID WAS LUMP IT UP FRONT TO FELLAINI' BEFORE HE GOES ON TO COMPLAIN ABOUT THE CROWD INTIMIDATING THE REF! OH THE FUCKIN IRONY. NOW THAT REALLY IS RICH YOU JOCK/MANC HYBRD UGLY BIG NOSED ALBERT TATLOCK LOOKALIKE BASTARD. CHECK THE POST FERGIE. A PLINTHLESS POOH IS ON THE WAY...Sorry about the caps. Still struggling to get to grips with me new smartphone. It's not easy when you have paws you know.P

It's A level results day. Another chance for the great British unwashed to pretend to be American. "I'm like sooo like over the moon, I got like seventeen A stars and I didn't like even bother to do any revision," shrieked Levine La Flurve, 18, of Stoke Newington. "Now I either want to be a doctor or a pole dancer," she squealed. "But first my friends, who all also got seventeen A stars each too, and I are going to hire a stretch limo and drive round town in it with the windows down, playing loud music, drinking blue WKD until it comes out of our ears and vomiting on passers-by. Passing A levels is like soooo hard. Look there's my other friends Tamara, Mmmm Danone and Betws-y-Coed. What did you guys get? Seventeen A stars too? Wow that's the same as me, Tarquin, Ptarmigan and Champs Elysees! Wooohoooo. Daddy's going to buy me another horse when he hears about this...." Fast forward two years "A quarterpounder meal with Fanta, w

Virgin have lost the West Coast Mainline franchise I see, which should free up some time for Branson to concentrate on providing an even shittier, slower and more intermittent than normal Virgin Media broadband service. In between a few balloon rides and the odd bit of space travel no doubt. If poor old Dicky Boy is at a loss as to what to do with all the surplus trains that he now finds he's got on his hands then maybe he'd like to run them up and down the lines at night carrying the sacks of letters of complaint addressed to him that are mounting up at the post office main sorting office? The hippy wanker. Apparently he was so upset at the news that he decided to go out and drown his sorrows last night. So he walks into the first pub he finds and says "hey barman, I'd like a pint of snake bite, three blue WKD's and a double whiskey chaser please." The barman says "I'm sorry sir, I'm afraid that can't serve you." Branson replies "wh

Watched him enthralled as he won the men's 200 metres on the telly last night, which he completed at an average speed of 31mph. Which sounds pretty impressive until you consider that if he hits a child at that speed then there's a 40% chance it will die. I'm surprised that health & safety let him get away with it. It was a very enjoyable race nevertheless. In fact I've enjoyed all the races that I've seen at this year's Olympics. Except the French, obviously. Which reminds me, didn't we do well to win the dressage with that French sounding bird? Not that I get the point of this particular "sport" mind. What's it all about? What will they allow in next? Best laid table for a country supper at an Oxfordshire country retreat? It looks like it's just disco dancin' for horses to me. Although maybe I'm being a bit harsh, as they do say that for some it's the only way out of the slums of Manchester for some kids. Also in Olympic ne

Refreshed from a fortnight at Stalag 45 whilst everybody else pissed off on holiday. They didn't even let me take me iPad in case it got nicked they said, so blogging options were somewhat limited. We had to amuse ourselves by watching the Olympics on an old black & white telly that one of the other lads, Spike, had smuggled in. I'd never heard of the Olympics before. I have to say I really enjoyed it, and can't wait for next year's. Personally, I wasn't entirely convinced that the opening ceremony accurately portrayed everything that is quintessentially British. There was no sign of Simon Cowell or Jeremy Kyle for a start off. I think that we kind of dumbed down Britain, to make it easier to understand for the Americans I assume. My favourite bit of the opening ceremony though was the parade at the end of all the different countries that we've conquered. We're doing very well with all those gold medals aren't we too, unlike our antipodean chums the

The Great Yorkshire Slug more like. The town is bastard gridlocked with coaches, cars, pick-ups and all manner of stationary modes of transport. All queueing up in the rain to get into the showground, even though the Farmer's Guardian are reporting on twitter that the car parks were already full at 9.30am. It looks like this year's event has been organised with the customary lack of panache and forethought by Harrogate Bastard Council. I vomit on Harrogate Bastard Council and their constant roadworks, and queues and rival bus companies running competing with each other on the same routes, under the same timetables, carrying two people each in from Wetherby every morning. Kiss my winnet-encrusted arse Harrogate Bastard Council. You are this week's clear winner of a polished pooh on a plinth.

You can always rely on a "Sweaty Sock" to let you down can't you? Much the same as the England football team. Mind you, at least the England football team do get to the finals of major tournaments. Finals, not the final, that would be just too bizarre. The thing that bamboozled me a bit about Murray was that he did everything totally the wrong way round. Winning the first set, going close in the second, then rapidly capitulating after he slipped on a carelessly discarded banana skin. If he'd actually read the Jock Sportsmanship Manual he'd have discovered that it reads like this: 1) get miles behind right from the start, losing 5-0 to Honduras is a good beginning. 2) sneak a streaky 1-1 draw against someone like the Faroe Islands or Lichtenstein with a flukey deflection in injury time. 3) Now you need to beat Brazil 15-0 to get through. Against all the odds you are 14-0 up with 15 minutes to go. You then have a hotly disputed clear penalty disallowed, as the ref w

Went for a walk in the park with me Dad today and we saw a poster on a tree saying: "This is a photograph of our much loved dog which went missing last Tuesday. If found please call us." So me Dad phoned them up and said, "I've just found a photograph of your dog!"  He's crazy, it's just one mad laugh a minute round here. That's what he thinks anyway, the sad fat get. Boring as fuck, that's the reality of my sad and lonely existence. It's got even worse since he went on a diet. Why, for fucks sake, when other people go on a diet do the immediately put everyone around them on a diet too? You want to see the meagre portions he dishes up for me at night now, a motley handful of biscuits and a bit of leftover chicken, that's all I'm getting. It's no wonder I have to eat shit when we go for walkies is it? I'm bloody ravenous. I'm contemplating ripping me bean bag apart just to see if by any chance there's some actual real b

Thank God it's nearly over. Me Dad was down the pub watching the Spain vs Portugal game with his one and only "mate" the other night and the camera was focused on Ronaldo looking all forlorn at the end, as he never even got to take his penalty. Me Dad's mate looked at him and said "you know what, you remind me of him you do." Impressed, me Dad says "why 'cos I'm good looking, got a fit body and all the women fancy me?" His mate said "No, 'cos you're a smarmy twat." Woof!

They're offering me Dad £50 off his next bill for everyone of his mates that he gets to sign up to them. So he's asked me to issue the following statement on his behalf: "Virgin Media are not shit, they are fucking ace actually, and have never, ever, let me down. What that Branson bloke wouldn't do for you isn't worth writing down. Won't hear a word said against the nice bewhiskered gentleman. Great bloke, great company. Not at all a complete waste of tossing, bastard, fucking cyberspace. That's some other lot, the ones that get Ruby Wax to advertise on the telly for them. They really are shite. Abject shite. Don't know their arses from a hole in the ground them, not like Richard." The End. He doesn't usually call him Richard. It's Dick normally, that's how close they are. Does anyone know what a supercillious twat is by the way? It sounds very important, and Dick is one apparently. So there. I might send him an engraved pooh on a plint

What's the fucking point of bluebottles eh? There's one in the lounge right now and it's doing my fuckin swede in with it's irritaing buzzing shit. I mean I know we are supposed to love all God's creatures and all that, and I'm sure that they are supposed to do a very important job in the eco-chain or something. Like James Milner. He has a job to do, he just choses not to do it and runs (or in the case of bluebottles flies) around going nowhere and banging his head against the window. Watch out once the warm weather finally comes, if you leave the back door open for more than thirty seconds you'll end up with James Milner running around your kitchen like a demented I don't know what before he regurgitates his lunch of cow shit, or whatever it is they eat, up onto your bacon sandwich. The dirty get. That's what they do you know, I'm not mucking about. They can eat up to eighty four times there own body weight in regurgitated shit every half hour y

Hart: shite, doesn't inspire confidence, they'd clearly sussed out that he is poor clearing back passes under a bit of pressure. Cole: really shite. Johnson: good going forward, gets him into trouble defensively sometimes though. Terry & Lescott: both solid at the back. Young: complete shite. Milner: consistently pure abject shite, set up Johnson's chance in the first half only by virtue of a twice deflected shite cross. Wants shooting. I'll do it happily. Parker: out of his depth shite, OK he tried hard, but he simply isn't international standard. Gerrard: old shite, gets more shite as he gets older. Wellbeck: was he playing? The lazy shite. Rooney: fat useless over-rated shite, fails to deliver yet again, throw in string of "he's world class, this was another one off like the last one in the World Cup - that wasn't his fault either, he'll be better next time" excuses. Woy, tactical genius he is, he presumably sees things in Milner that th

Watching the highlights of Euro 2012 last night, I found myself wondering "what the fuck is this intro all about?" Is this a sneak preview of the Olympic opening ceremony? And are they supposed to be subbuteo players or what? And has anyone else thought is that Roy Hodgson or Windy Miller? And if it is the new England manager does that mean that Roy Hodgson is tupping Mrs Honeycomb? I bet that the Sun would love to get hold of the pictures of that, with John Terry lurking in the background waiting for his turn. And is James Milner actually the illegitimate son of a Roy Hodgson/Mrs Honeycomb "dalliance" that poor old Windy Miller thinks is his, and that there was just a bit of a spelling mistake at the register office? And does that explain why Roy keeps picking his bastard son to play for England even though he's total shite? Just call me Poirot the Wonderdog. Pooh count: three, two James Milners and a John Barnes.

No it wasn't. Milner is shit, as per my previous review, and shouldn't have even been on the plane out there let alone in the bleedin starting 11. Instead of saying "what a great substitution by Roy" they should have been saying "what the fuck is Milner doing on the pitch, he's shit." And another thing: "great tackle back there by Glen Johnson" really should have been "what the fuck was Johnson doing there, he was miles out of position the useless tosser, it's a good job that he can run a bit faster than that old bloke the Swedes had on the ball, for all his rednose shitness, or we'd have been right royally fucked up a fucking bastard gum tree, Gary." Ratings - Hart: shit with gloves on; Johnson: a heavily tattooed shit; Terry: OK, but still a racist shit; Lescott: reverted to type, shit; Cole: fast, but shit; Milner, you have to hand it to him, his shitness managed to plunge to new depths that you can normally only go to in a

I though that this would be an opportune time to rate this evening's England players after a less than inspiring 1-1 stalemate with the Frogs: Hart 6/10, a bit shit; A Cole 6/10, also quite shit; G Johnson 4/10 really quite appallingly impressively shit; J Terry 5/10 racist shit; J Lescott 8/10 quite good actually; S Gerrard 5/10 Kopite rednose bull in a China shop shit; S Parker 5/10 out of his depth shit; J Milner 2/10 abject fuckin shite shit, so far out of his depth he was drowning in shit; OxyWotsit 6/10 only a bit shit; D Wellbeck 6/10 OK with a bit of shit mixed in with it; A Young 6/10 shit off a shovel. A pooh on a plinth is on it's way to Kiev with Mr Milner's name on it.

Left "home alone" for half the day yesterday whilst me uncaring Mam & Dad pissed off to see some bloke called Elton John in concert in town somewhere. Me Dad says this fella, whoever he is, put on a fantastic performance that was only spoilt by the rain and the usual "Harrogate type" in front of him who he says insisted on singing along very loudly to every single song, accompanied by elaborate hand and arm movements that made her look like "a demented Magnus Pyke having an epileptic fit in a jacket that looked like it was made out of seventeen dead squirrels and other assorted road kill." There's so many of these The Voice, Pop Idol, X Factor shite programmes about that half the population now seem to believe that they could be the next Robbie Williams if only they could get a break. Sad, pathetic bastards. Eighty quid for a ticket that entitles you to a plastic seat in the middle of an open field, in the rain, with queues so long for the bar that

Why did little Tommy fall off the swing? Because he had no arms. Knock, knock. Who's there? Well not little Tommy obviously. A doctor goes into a hospital ward to see a pregnant lady, who has had terrible stomach cramps and fears for her unborn child. "Well, my dear, there's good news and bad news, which would you like first?" the doctor says. Bracing herself the lady opts for the bad news. "Well, we've run some tests and the bad news is that your baby has got ginger hair," the doctor says. "Oh no!" she sighs. "What's the good news?" The doctor replies, "It's dead."

Me Dad went down the doctors yesterday, what a bloody depressing place that sounds. Full of ill people watching the "telly" - except the sole channel that they have got makes Jeremy Kyle programmes look uplifting. Welcome....Think you've got Chlamydia? Well that's probably the least of your worries, but no problem, we've got special "where did I get that from" self-testing kits in the bogs so nobody can see your dirty secret. Oh, missus, you don't look too clever, why not start saving for your funeral now so that you won't be the same almighty burden after you've gone as you are now. Hurry! Under 25? You've probably got the pox. Whap your privates out onto the table and the nurse will have a quick look for you. Don't worry she's seen it all before. Christ, will you look at the shape of that. Hang on, let me get Doris from reception to have a shuftie. Over 45? You've almost certainly got heart & liver disease, that's wh

Kiss my furry winnit-encrusted arse Phones4u you pathetic shower of useless tossbags. If British Unfairways were into mobile phones then surely this would be their business model. Having spent much of the last two days panting with near exhaustion in the back of a hot car whilst me Dad drives from pillar to bastard post all round bastard town trying to sort out what should be a relatively simple problem for most normal people, but clearly not for the combined ineptitude of the window licking retards at Phones4u. Bellends4u that's what they should be called. Take note of their "no returns even if we have blatantly failed to deliver what we said we were going to deliver policy" with the jokingly added on "this does not affect your statutory rights". Me Dad's statutory right is to have his fucking money back whilst I inform the world that a more useless shower of incompetent monkeys than you lot it would be difficult to chance across outside a home for amoeba&#

I see that the inventor of TV remote controls died today. Down the back of the settee he was. They tried turning his batteries around and smacking him against the coffee table to no avail. Emile Heskey has been released by Aston Villa. Back into the wild I assume? Didier Drogba is considering a move to China as he wants a new challenge, I hear. Nothing to do with the cash then Didier? Still, at least his football boots can be reunited with the six year old that made them. And finally, respect for Robin Gibb. Shortly before he died the doctors told him that he had a cancerous tumour, and asked him what he wanted to do. To which he replied ..."You should be lancing". Pooh count: a nice little threesome.

It said on the telly last night that Oxfam can supply a family with water for just £2.50/month. Me Dad says we should change suppliers to them. Woof.

Even though I don't watch bollocks like BGT, even I still know that it was won by a dog over the weekend. It would seem alas that the one thing that Britain actually is rather short of is talent. The pinnacle of British talent at the moment appears to be a fuckin dog called Pudsey. Proof, were it needed, that this country most definitely has gone to the dogs. You two leggeds must be simply bursting with humanoid pride this morning. I could of course suggest that Pudsey isn't the first dog to win a major British TV talent show, but that would be unkind on Susan Boyle so I won't even got there. Now it's only a matter of time before Simon Cowell is romantically linked with Pudsey, we all know that. I use the word "romantically" in the loosest possible sense of course. Followed by the sordid revelations in the Sun. "Pudsey: My five times a night Bonio shame." All we have to do now is sit tight and wait for the album to come out. Pooh count: two. Like Cow

A brisk walk in the park on Sunday morning spoilt by your typical Harrogate type jogger. She's got all the gear on, trainers straight out of the box, not a bead of sweat on her still in full make up face, fuckin immaculate she is. Carrying one of those stupid little water bottles in case she's in danger of dying of exhaustion halfway round. Frankly that is unlikely at the speed she's going, Stephen Hawking could have given her a ten minute start and still lapped her comfortably. So she creeps silently up on us, well she would wouldn't she with the latest Nike Air Max on travelling at barely above a stroll and immediately becomes entangled in me lead. She stops briefly and looks at me Dad with that Harrogate type look, as if he's stood outside the bookies with a whippet, a rolled up copy of the Sun in his back pocket and a can of Special Brew in his hand and says "Christ, can't you keep it on a shorter lead?" It. Me, an it, FFS! To which half a dozen re

Out for a walk in the park with me Dad this morning we saw this poor old lady take a terrible fall near the bandstand. Well, when I saw she was poor, we assume that she was poor as she only had £1.20 in her purse. That's not going to buy me many biscuits is it? Woof. Pooh count: just the one, I can't really be bothered today. We chucked it over next door, where the cats live, just to see how long it takes them to get the message. Me Dad's been specially training me to do aerodynamic ones. We put an ice lolly stick through the middle and away she goes. Around 6 metres is our personal best so far, which I'm quite proud of really, from a standing start so to speak. There's plans afoot to build some sort of launching pad involving a heavy duty elastic band and a couple of sturdy posts if the cats persist with their night time shit sniping, I'll keep you posted on that one, no pun intended. Me Dad has apparently written to the British Olympic Committee to see if ther

Or have you two leggeds also had enough of  this pissing bastard rain? I've got four fucking feet to get wet, so I'm twice as pissed off with the whole sorry bastard pissed wet through situation than you are. I blame Cameron & Clegg. Not so much a pair of wet lettuces as a couple of pissed wet through lettuces. We all fucking knew what was bastard coming the second we were declared to be in an official drought didn't we? Run the country? They couldn't run a pissing raffle them two. Not that I'm a fan of Millibands either, I'd rather gnaw off me own paw than have that shallow bastard in charge. I didn't vote any of them in so I don't see why I should have to put up with it. Spain may be in the shit, fair play to them, but at least they don't have to put up with it coming down like fucking stair rods for a month do they? Oh no, they can have a nice siesta in the sun whilst they're waiting for the dole cheque to come can't they. We haven'

My beauty sleep was rudely disturbed this morning by a weird and very loud noise. Bloody hell, the central heating system is about to explode, I thought. But no, next door have decided to have cavity wall insulation installed. At 8am. To keep disruptions to a minimum they've fucked off out for the day, the van is parked three quarters of the way across our pissing drive so that they can get out, and some twat in overalls is hammer drilling his way around the house. So whilst they are off doing whatever they are doing, me Dad is trying to work from home with the phones ringing and everyone shouting "WHAT'S THAT FUCKING NOISE? ARE YOU ON THE HARD SHOULDER OF THE M1 OR SOMETHING?" Judging by his answers I think I must have caught my Tourettes from him, which is a cue to do my the teacher asks Little Johnny to come up with a sentence containing the word "contagious" joke, but I suspect that you've probably already heard it. And if you haven't you can pro

Would people queue for hours to panic buy pissing stamps. Only in Britain would the Post Office ration the number of stamps that people could buy. And only in Britain would the newspapers fill themselves up with full page stories about it for Christ's sake. "Colin, 34, from Basildon said he'd camped outside the Post Office in sub-zero temperatures all night just to buy two dozen first class stamps. I'd have bought more if they'd let me, he said defiantly." What a tosser, haven't these incredibly sad bastards got better things to do? These are the same arseholes that were stopping normal people getting petrol just a couple of weeks ago. "The car's full, but I've got six empty pickle jars and a couple of empty Sainsbury's bags here." Pooh count: two, just five minutes apart they were yet completely different colours and consistencies. Nature is truly amazing isn't it?

Piss off. They're round here every fuckin ten bastard minutes it seems, disturbing my beauty sleep. We don't want to switch to a new provider. We aren't interested in how much fuckin money you can save us with your fuckin Jock electricity so pack your bags and piss off back to fuckin Scotland with it. What's that? Oh you're only dong a survey. Well fuck off with that too, we're too bastard busy to bother with you and your surveys so you can stick that up your Jock arse as well. Do I make myself clear? NEVER, EVER, come back here again. Write that on your little iPad type thingy and get to fuck. Maybe I could interest you in some Spanish unemployment? Pooh count: 2, one of which bore an uncanny resemblance to Garth Crooks for some reason, another annoying little shit like the bloke from Scottish Power.

I see that the Unite union have said that there will be no tanker drivers strike this side of Easter. I hope all those sad bastards who spent hours queuing round the block yesterday feel suitably embarrassed enough to queue round the block again today to take their pissing jerry cans back. One woman set herself on fire decanting petrol in her kitchen yesterday, I read on the BBC. Thanks a fuckin' million for that Mr Cameron she was no doubt thinking as she sat in the burns unit of York Hospital. Is it just me or do some of these sad bastards get a sneaky little thrill out of queuing? Eagerly scanning up and down to see if the TV cameras have arrived yet. There was one woman on the telly last night who'd took both her kids with her and they had a little picnic in the car whilst they were waiting! I reckon she probably had some blankets, flasks of hot drinks and a fucking snow shovel in the back as well, just in case the weather took a turn for the worse. People who are three qua

"Don't panic, but fill up every last jerry can you can find with petrol." The big soft wet get. He's just too shiny isn't he that bloke? Never trust a man in who's forehead you can see your own reflection, that's what me Dad always says. I'd send him a polished pooh on a plinth if I could afford the stamp. They're not even holding strike talks until Monday the lazy bastards. The British do love a good queue though don't they? Any pissing excuse, and they're out there in force today, the stupid sheep-like dickheads queueing round the block for the right to drain the pumps dry at the highest prices that petrol has ever been. It's a good job the kids are off school next week or they'd never be able to get in would they? "Dear Sir, sorry that Paris, Chantelle and Leonardo couldn't come in today, my fucking enormous 3 miles to the gallon top of the range Land Rover Sport has run out of petrol and as we live 3/4 of a mile away it

Sorry folks, I've been a bit under the weather lately but I'm pleased to report after a full medical that they've found out what's been wrong with me. Apparently I've got Tourettes, whatever the fuck that is, and my constant struggle to "keep it all in" as the Beautiful South would say has apparently been my downfall and caused some sort of blockage. So, from now on I'm under strict medical orders to say it like it pissing bastard well is. I feel better already. Pooh count: six.

Fabrice Muamba has apparently made such an excellent recovery that he's been sitting up in bed laughing and joking with his visitors. Until one of them reminded him that he plays for Bolton that is...

First up, I'm feeling much better and back to my normal old shit rolling self this week after me Mum slipped me a worming tablet wrapped up in a bit of ham, so all's well and all that. Second up, I am delighted to hear that S Club 7 are to reform. Coldplay must be shitting themselves this morning I reckon. I'm sure I saw one of the birds from S Club on the telly the other week, in one of those "I used to be a celebrity but now I'm a middle aged porker with a couple of kids and nobody recognises me any more in the queue at Tesco's so I may have to resort to getting my tits out but even Razzle won't touch me with a barge pole, woe is me" documentaries that are so interesting. Pooh count: just the one, but now that my constitution is back to normal it was as big as family-size Toblerone.

I couldn't help but chuckle last night with me Dad attempting to help the little two legged fella with his homework on WWII. Perhaps inevitably Hitler got a mention, to which the lad innocently enquired "what was his catchphrase?" That tickled me as personally I wasn't aware that he'd done any stand-up work, but sarcastic bastard that he is me Dad immediately replies in his best Kenneth Williams voice "I think it was Oooh, aren't you Kampf!" He's a ruthless bastard. The other two legged reckoned that she'd spotted a three legged cow in a field on Saturday afternoon. She took some stick for that one too. "Yeah, maybe they're eating it bit by bit." That sort of thing. "Look there's one with no legs, the one lying down. And there's another with only two legs, oh no sorry that's a duck." Then, later on, bored in the garden centre he swore that he'd spotted a packet of "grow your own cheese." Does

Me Dad was waiting in the queue at Asda the other day when the old lady in front of him was struggling to put her items through the till. So, Galahad that he is, he helped her with the bread, milk and sugar etc and asked her, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" She said "yes, could you get my purse out of my handbag please?" Me Dad said "Of course I will, is this it under you arm?" She said "No get off, that's one of my tits." That's what he reckons anyway, the fat get. Still not feeling too chipper, so pooh count is somewhere in the teens today. I gave up counting after twelve.

Housewives: When nipping out to the shops, remember to carry a stiff broom in the boot of your car. You can then use it to sweep the broken glass to the side of the road every time you have a minor accident.

Apologies for the lack of blogging this past few days, I've been as sick as, well a dog actually. Huey and Rolf are my new best buddies. Think I must have ate some cat shit by mistake, I hate cats the mercenary little buggers. If a dog kept a diary it would go something like this: Monday. Ran round the garden. Great! Chased a few cats. Great! Went for a walk. Fantastic! Played stick. Awesome! Had me tea. Brilliant! Slept on me bean bag. Chillin! What a brilliant day, can't wait for tomorrow. Whereas a cats diary would go like this (probably in a German accent): Monday, day 572 of my captivity. Amused myself by half killing a selection of small rodents and secreting them around the house. Then kept flicking them to get them to move, then catching them again. Ripped open a mouse's chest just because I can. Passed on tea, I'm not eating muck out of a tin. Shit in the corner of the lounge in the hope that it may disgust them enough to free me. Bit the heads off some baby sp

Did you see half the old cast of AYBS on MasterChef last night? Remember Mr Rumbold? They guy that used to play him looked like he had ears made out of plasticine. In fact he looked like his real ears had fallen off some time ago, then he'd arrived at the studio only for some poor make-up girl to be given the job of cobbling him some up out of whatever was to hand, which the doddering old fool had then dropped in the middle of the road. Here they had subsequently been run over by a lorry, but with no time to remodel them they'd simply been stuck to the side of his head with some chewie. One of them was so large it could have picked up DAB radio no problems and the other looked like the cats had been at it. Rodney Bewes was on there too. The only thing that particular Likely Lad looked likely to do was croak it before he'd finished his macaroon. Mind you James Bolam doesn't look like he's got long for this world either does he? What's that absolutely shit "d

Miracles do happen, and this one happened to my mate Frank. He was walking through the park, minding his own business and chasing squirrels and ducks as you do, when all of a sudden he tells me that he felt "a bit queer" as he calls it. "Something just came over me, from behind, with a big WHOOSH," he says. The next thing he knows he's up on the bandstand preaching love and squirrel hugging, and people are travelling from all over to see him. "David Icke is always round our house since IT happened," says Frank with a shudder. "He keeps wanting to touch me, and calls me the special one. He says he had a cold last week and that I cured it. He says there's a sign on my bottom, yes you heard a sign on my bottom that proves I am the chosen one. I can't see it myself like, well nobody can see their own arse can they? Will you have a quick shuftie and see if you can spot anything unusual?"

To save time & money Chelsea have announced that they have already sacked their next manager. Poor old AVB, he must be crying all the way to the bank this morning, there's a polished pooh on a plinth in the post to cheer you up old mate. Watching MOTD on Saturday night me Dad said "I bet he's not in a job on Monday," and so it proved. So what's gone wrong, it can't all be ABV's fault can it? He doesn't actually go onto the pitch with them does he? Too many Prima Donnas if you ask me. And the odd petulant pouting ladyboy on more money than the GDP of Portugal of course. Oh, and a racist or two. Plus the inevitable adulterer and a closet gay. Doesn't make for a harmonious dressing room that lot does it?

Dereck Chisora goes to the doctors to get a thorough check up before his next fight. A few days later the doctor rings him up and says "Dereck, I'm sorry to have to inform you that you've got sugar diabetes." Dereck replies, "Why, is he any good?" Woof.

Asleep on me beanbag in a bit of spring sunshine this am I let go a fart pretty impressive even by my high standards. "Blimey that stinks, what's he been eating?" me Mum asked me Dad. "Well, he scoffed a load of cranberries whilst out on his walk this morning, so it must be that," me Dad replied. "Well waft it away will you, you don't have to let it linger." said me Mum. I almost forgot to congratulate Liverpool on winning the Carling Cup, their first trophy for six years at the weekend. That's a bit like pulling Anne Widdecombe on your first night out after being inside for a six stretch isn't it? Woof.

Terribly sad, didn't know anything about it until I saw it on the news last night, then I saw his face, now I a bereaver. Woof...

Today is the 29th of Feb....the '366th' day in the year. Your salary is based on 365 days in the year therefore you are all working for nothing today. I on the other hand will spend the day lording it in my bean bag. You muppets. Pooh count: three, one of which I rolled in, just because I fancied it. Me Dad was less than amused to find it all over his hand just before he was about to eat his morning bacon butty mind, but hey, shit happens.

Have you heard about this Dutch Prince fella, he was injured in an avalanche last week and is now virtually a vegetable and doctors say may never wake from his coma. A new experience for the Dutch, but one with which we can empathise. We've had Prince Edward for years. Woof...

It's a little known fact that Frank Carson actually got into comedy purely by chance. When he was a young man, he was a church bell-ringer in Northern Ireland, but he was so bad at it that every time he rang the bells, everyone immediately burst out laughing. It was the way he tolled them. Pooh count: two, and one of them a cracker that has your name on it Frankie. You can pick it up from Pearly Gates reception on your way in.

On of me Corgi mates tells me that Her Maj phoned the Duke of Edinburgh up on his mobile yesterday and asked him to bring something home for the pancakes. She went mental when he came home with a push-up bra. Pooh count: three. One of which appeared to glow in the dark. I must be eating too many carrots.

Saying that he's got a pain in his bowel. The doctor puts on his rubber gloves and starts probing around. "I can't feel anything," says the doctor. "Ah, aaaaah, a bit deeper!" says George. "No, still nothing," says the doctor. ""Ah, aaaaah, a bit deeper!" says George. "Still nothing," says the doctor. "Ah, oooooh, aaaaah, deeper, I think you've almost got it!" says George. "Just a moment ... yes ... I think I've got something ... it's a Ferrero Rocher ... how did that get in there?" asks the doctor. "No idea," says George "but you keep it, doctor. You've certainly earned it."

The one day in the year that we aren't ashamed to be called a tosser. Although it's just another day like all the others if you're Ed Milliband. Pooh count: two, one of which did look a bit smug come to think of it. Apparently Ed's press office had 34 dog poohs sent to it through the post in 2011. What I want to know is who sent the other four?

Knock, knock. (No answer). Knock, knock. (No answer). Knock, knock. (No answer). Are you alright in there Miss Houston? A mate of me Dad's who lives near Oxford rang him up the other day and said "My God, Whitney's dead!" Me Dad said "Well, it's a bit quiet everywhere this time of year." Makes you think though doesn't it. Is Bobby Brown kicking himself right now? Woof.

Me Dad told me that his ex missus rang him up one Valentines Day moaning that the other two girls in the office had just had flowers delivered to the office courtesy of their loving partners and that they were absolutely gorgeous. "That's probably why they got flowers then," he replied. I don't get this obsession that you lot have with flowers. Flowers are for pissing on, everybody knows that.

It's Valentines Day tomorrow. Me Dad, old romantic that he is, has booked the same table for him and me Mum as last year and says he's confident of getting a result. She only potted two reds last year.

Poor old "Whittering" Huston has whittered off this mortal coil I am distressed to discover today. The BBC have just reported that her body has been removed from the Beverley Hills hotel where she died to the morgue. That's probably best, if she should have stayed, she would only be in the way. How prophetic does that now look? Pooh count: three, one of which will be polished with due reverence and placed on a little polished mahogany plinth and posted off first thing in the morning. I, for one, will always love her. Unless that single now gets back in the charts, in which case I may suffer a sudden change of heart. Heaven must be a pretty crowded place I reckon, with all the pets that have bitten the dust round here, Steve Jobs, Jimmy Saville and now Whittering littering the place up. They'll be hanging up the "full" sign before long. Don't worry Richard Branston though, you're booked in elsewhere.

Me Dad was telling me the other day about the time he was forced to sit in on a talk about sexism in the workplace. The woman doing the thing rattled on for about 3/4 hour about how and why this unpleasant archaic practice should be eradicated from the workplace in the modern day & age. At the end, she asked if there were any questions from the floor. Quick as a shot me Dad put his hand up and said "yes, will you make us a cup of tea and iron this shirt for me, love?" That's what he told me anyway, it's probably bollocks again like most of the stuff he comes out with. I'm still not entirely convinced that he did actually once come second in a sexy bum competition either. Pooh count: two, the most presentable one of which I'm sending to the FA as I hear that there's a vacancy going and I think it might be in with a shout.

Watching the news last night I suddenly had one of those epiphany moments. There's something wrong with the Queen's tits. I haven't noticed before, I mean you don't like to stare at the royal jugs do you, but you take a look when she's on the telly tonight. There she was last night with that blue sash thing across her chest, and my eyes were drawn to the royal cleavage, only to be shocked to discover that it was somewhere around waist height. I know a thing or two about a well chewed chest (me Mum had similar trouble) but Her Majesty's melons have, like our nuclear submarines, suddenly gone south big time. Maybe it's got something to do with breast feeding Andrew until he was 46? Or perhaps the randy old DoE has been "over vigorous" with his S&M games in the privacy of the royal bedroom lately. Whatever the reason, the royal funbags have lost their majesty that's for sure. What a shame, and in her jubilee year as well. But she's still o

Bloody snow, I hate the stuff. It snowed here on Saturday, which meant that my Sunday morning constitutional consisted of me running around Horseshoe Field at Conyngham bollock deep in the wretched white stuff tying to put on a display of pleasure for the two-leggeds. "Ah look at him, he loves snow," they'd say. "Look at him running and jumping around in it." Well you'd run and jump around if your bollocks were dangling in snow wouldn't you? Me poor little paws were frozen solid by the time we got back to the car. Pooh count: two, both of them "steamers" - in fact one of them was giving off so much vapour it reminded me of Drax power station, except a bit smaller and browner obviously. And it probably couldn't have powered 20,000 homes in Pontefract. A small pensioners bungalow maybe. As long as they didn't have all the lights on, and the bath running. They don't have many baths pensioners do they? One a month maybe, so the chances

Has refused to stand down as England captain ahead of Euro 2012. That leaves him free to lead his troops into Poland, just like his hero did. A polished pooh on a plinth is in the post big boy. Did you read that story doing the rounds yesterday that a three year old girl wrote to Sainsbury's suggesting that they should change the name of their "Tiger" bread to "Giraffe" bread as the crust looked more like the latter than the former? And that's exactly what they are doing. Taking a leaf out of her book I've written (and I'm three just like her so I know that they're gonna take it seriously) to Asda suggesting that they rebrand their "colleagues" as "window licking mongs". I'll keep you posted.

Feel a tiny bit sorry for Fred, so I'm going to send him one of my polished poohs on a plinth to see if that cheers him up. I'm sure that and his millions will ease the blow of losing his knighthood. There are too many Sirs around these days anyway, they dish them out to anybody. There are very few with a Nogger's dog polished pooh on a plinth. In fact I think Richard Branson, British Unfairways and Jonathan Toss are the only others that possess one so you're in exalted company there Freddie boy.

Today is the day when football fans up and down the country wait anxiously with one ear glued to Talksport. Hoping that they don't sign Andy Carroll. Or the White Emile Heskey as me Dad calls him. Meanwhile in other transfer news Man City have just paid £45 million for a cryogenically frozen stem cell of Pelé. Kenny Dogleash got all excited when he heard that City were interested a Tevez/Carroll swap until he realised that they meant that in exchange for Carroll Liverpool would get the Pannini sticker version of Carlos "the Jackass" Tevez. Alex McLeish has reassured Villa fans that "Heskey is going nowhere" - tell them something they don't already know Alex. And Liverpool are said to be close to a deal to take Adolph Hitler on loan.

There was precious little going on round here today. Some people were making something in the garden. I don't know what it is because I'm a dog, it involved a lot of sawing, banging and hammering and a few cups of tea changing hands. Up and down the path and in & out of their van they were all day long. So naturally I had to bark at them every time they went past, just so that they knew I was on their case like. There's not much gets past me you know. Stumpy the postman nearly shat himself the other day trying to get that book from Amazon through the letterbox. The kid with learning difficulties over the road DID shit himself the other day when he strayed a bit too close to the end of our drive. And as for the ginger ninja opposite, you don't want to know what he had to scrape out of his pants last week. My house, my rules. It's fifteen minutes to tea time. It better be sausages or there'll be ructions.

Says that he was in Morrisons today and thought for a moment that he'd seen his ex missus. When this person turned to face him it turned out to be a bloke, not a woman. Me Dad said "Christ, I know this sounds weird mate, but you look just like my ex-missus, except without the beard obviously." The bloke said "but I haven't got a beard." Me Dad said, "No but she has." That's what he told me anyway, it's probably a load of old rubbish, you can't believe a word he says half the time. Still, that's probably due to the shell shock he picked up when he single handedly kicked the Argies out of Port Stanley. He could have been a professional footballer but for that.

It started predictably enough with a forage for something to eat round the bird table in the garden. Why she insists on feeding those bastards is beyond me, but she seems to like it for some reason. Then managed to scrounge some toast off me Mum. Then went for a walk and ate loads of grass and rabbit shit, terrier truffles as I call them. Then snoozed in me bean bag. Then barked at random passers-by, some of whom passed-by a little too closely for my liking. Woofed my head off at the little lad over the road, the one with attention deficit disorder, who promptly shat himself. Which amused me, as I thought it might distract him from his regular problem by replacing it with a predicament of an entirely different kind. Which it did. Now looking forward to tea. I do hope it's sausages. Pooh count: only two (not including the one from the lad over the road as that would be cheating). Miliband and Balls I'm calling them. Smug little bastards they are.

The kids are doing my head in with this good kid, bad kid thing. The problem seems to be that they both want to play bad kid most of the time. All they seem to do is moan constantly about how difficult school is. "It's not easy you know, you have to do lessons and everything and you're not even allowed to swear at the f***in teachers any more. Look at this mountain of homework I've got, it's going to take at least 15 minutes to sort my way through that pissing lot. You don't realise how hard it is. Look I've got to write my name there and then I've got to copy the answers that they've already given us onto there. The stress is feckin unbelievable. Oh, by the way, I'm staying at (insert random kids name here) on Friday and then we're going into town and to the pictures and ten pin bowling and then MacDonalds and the cinema and then I'm having my hair straightened/curled/styled at that new salon on town where you get a full head massage an

We love Masterchef in our house and were watching Wednesday night's episode on catch-up last night. Did you see it? There was this overtly gay Indian guy on there who looked like George Michael after he's fallen asleep on a sunbed for a few days. Exactly why the idea of a gay Indian bloke should be of interest I have no idea. For some reason you just don't expect Indians to be gay do you? And I'm not talking about the guy out of village people, he was a Red Indian, well he probably wasn't actually a Red Indian he was just dressed up as one. In reality he was probably from the Bronx, but I digress. This gay Indian feller seemed to tickle me Dad for some reason. You know what I mean, he didn't actually start tickling him, with me Dad rolling round on the carpet giggling like a schoolgirl. I mean what sort of TV do you think we've got? "What do you call a gay Indian. A Gindian." Exactly why he thinks that's funny I don't know, but he does. Fol

What a great idea for an xBox game. You get to control Anthony Worrall Thompson running round Tesco on a turbo charged trolley nicking stuff whilst being chased by security guards and a very camp Ainsley Harriott who hides behind the end displays in a dress and keeps trying to kiss you. You can chuck tins of beans at the guards to temporarily disable them, or bludgeon Ainsley violently over the head with a frozen chicken until he's dead whilst stuffing bottles of wine and cheese up your cable knit jumper. I think it's a winner that one. Pooh count: just the one, which strangely featured a couple of perfectly formed and totally undigested garden peas on closer inspection. Fascinating stuff I'm sure you will agree, although not as impressive as the one on Staithes beach that contained a green Monopoly house I'll grant you.

Once more a grim cloud of death hangs over the house as Muffy the guinea pig becomes the latest pet to pop it's clogs in what is looking like an increasingly unlucky household. A couple of days of a cold snap and that was it. She was found frozen to the mesh of her hutch at 7am this morning, like the little match girl she was. Me Mum was devastated. She'd just been out and bought some hay over the weekend. It's a fiver a bag that stuff you know and money, like hay, doesn't grow on trees does it. So now we've got the quandary of how to give her a decent and respectful burial with the ground frozen solid. I mean we can't just put her in the bin can we? The cats round here would have her out in no time. She's too big to go down the toilet, although that could be worth a try, it's swallowed some fairly sizable things in the past that toilet. Simply chucking her over the fence and into next door lacks a certain dignity somewhat I feel. If we were dirty cheati

Everton play Villa tomorrow, who have just been dealt a terrible blow by the African Nation's Cup - apparently Emile Heskey isn't African. I reckon that he could've been half decent if he'd spent more time training and less time advertising the Premier Inn. Pooh count: just the one, I may DHL it off to Alex McLeish, if they've got a shirt that will fit it I reckon it might get a start tomorrow. I'll let it cool down a bit first obviously, we wouldn't want to start a fire at the sorting office would we?

Strange isn't it that Tesco's takings were down over the Christmas period, yet Anthony Worrall Thompson's takings from Tesco were up. Still, fair play to the fella, he didn't hide away but turned up to film an edition of Ready, Steady, Cook at Elstree this afternoon. Ainsley ignored the recent rumpus completely and said "Welcome AWT old mate, what's in your bag for a fiver?" AWT replied "A ten pound sea bass, three lobsters, half a pound of truffles, some saffron and six bottles of Chablis." Allegedly.

Walks into the KKKlanfield changing room and discovers to his shock a large steaming turd in the middle of the deck. "Who's shit on the floor?" he demands. Quick as a flash Andy Carroll raises his hand: "Me Boss, but I'm quite good in the air, waye eye," he replies. Talking of which...what a monster I uncurled round Dingley Dell this morning. This rascal was so large it had it's own gravitational pull, I swear. It took so long to deposit it had seven breather rings on it, a bit like Saturn but browner it was. And more sausage shaped obviously, I'm not a freak you know. Nice business.

TV chef Antony Worrall Thompson has been cautioned by the Rozzers for shoplifting in Tescos I read today. What was he thinking of? Think of all the clubcard points he'd have got if he'd paid for the stuff for a start off. And cheese and wine, what's that all about? If you're gonna nick something you might as well go for a plasma telly and a bottle of Glenfiddich mightn't you? The soft get. Pooh count: just the one, but what a whopper it was. Think Lenny Henry, but funnier obviously and without the stupid suit and you're about there. Last seen checking into the Premier Inn in Harrogate it was. Monster...

It's like John Craven's but it's funny and features me. In the news today is a story that says that a new survey shows that a fifth of British men have no idea how to turn on the washing machine. Me dad says that chocolates or flowers usually do the trick. Also in the news is that new Margaret Thatcher film 'The Iron Lady' has been classed as a 12A. Does that mean it's unsuitable for miners? And also from BBC news: "Stephen Hawking at 70" - that's fast for a guy in a wheelchair isn't it? Pooh count: six, it was curry for tea last night...

Because it would not be financially viable to attempt to sell pharmaceuticals in a largely unpopulated rainforest of course...