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