Got me first Christmas card, and frankly probably me only one, from the only people in the world who really care about me - Thomas Bell of Brigg, the country's leading fertiliser importers. Me Mum and Dad can't be arsed to send me a card or bugger all, the tight bastards. I'm pinning me hopes on me old mates to replenish my now badly depleted supply of pigs ears in time for 2014 too, as there's not much chance of a Christmas prezzie for yours truly off anybody else in our fucking house. Bastards they are. I've got about as much chance of getting anything of me Mum and Dad as Ronnie Briggs has of winning Strictly I reckon. It occurred to me this mornin that if old Ronnie was still robbin trains in this day and age, him and his mates could simply have scattered a few leaves on the line. Job sorted. Either that or just wait for the wrong type of snow to fall. All the Great Train Robbers are dead now apparently. Apart from Virgin who charge a fiver for a microwaved baco

Came home from work early last night with a package under his arm. "I've bought one of those new Man United lamps," he said to me Mum. I have to say, it looks really good in the middle of the table. Woof. I hope he comes home early again tonight, I'm dying for a shit. And I'm fucking starving.

Be very careful if you are driving past Old Trafford this week. A lot of people have been picking up 3 points there lately. Woof.

About poor old Nelson Mandela. I thought he was fucking brilliant in the Shawshank Redemption. Mind you, did you see some of the shirts he used to wear? Fuck me, I'm not surprised that they locked him up. Twenty seven years is maybe a tad harsh though. The fashion police must be strict as fuck in South Africa I reckon. Still, respect where it's due. I'd had enough of hearing about that fucking Scottish helicopter crash anyway. Woof.

Me Dad says that giving it up requires dedication, hard work and depth of character. Which is presumably why he's never done it. He'd had a few last night that's for sure. Something to do with Everton beating Man Utd, whoever the fuck they are. I wouldn't know, football is a tarts game. Chasing tennis balls and rolling in Shit, they're the sports for me. And eating, obviously.

"Sorry seems to be the hardest word" is what they say. Unless you're Chinese of course and then it's "Squirrel" apparently. Woof.

The little fella is fourteen next week apparently, so they're all going out for a meal. I mean, when I say all, I mean all but me. I never get invited fucking anywhere me. The tight bastards. Anyway, he's asked if he can take his girlfriend, wooohoooo, that's what all the fucking aftershave before school is for then. And he's also asked "please don't embarrass me," the fucking cheek of it. That of course is like a red rag to  bull for me Dad, who's decided that this is the prefect occasion to have the "bird n the bees" chat. I caught him practising in front of the mirror before. It's going to go something like this: "Hello Frannie, how lovely to meet you. George has told us all about you. Take a seat. Now then, when a Daddy Sparrow and a Mummy Sparrow love each other very much and they want to have baby sparrows, Daddy Sparrow puts his penis into Mummy Sparrow's special place and 9 months later they have a baby sparrow. When Dadd

Christ on a bike, it's starting to feel more than a bit like Christmas round at our house, following the arrival of yet another parcel for yours truly. My best mates, and the undisputed No1 fertiliser supplier in the whole of the country - Thomas Bell of Brigg - have only gone and sent me a thing called an Advent Calendar. You've probably never heard of one, so here's a brief description. It's like a thin box, about the size of a piece of A4 paper, and there's all these little window things on it with numbers on them, right? Now I think that the idea is that behind one of the windows is a little prize, and you have to guess which window it is. So, you might say "7" and you open window seven and there's fuck all there, so you close window seven and have another go. Well, get this, the one they've sent me must be a dud or something, 'cos there's a little prize behind ALL the fucking windows! Honest. Woooohooooo. How do I know that? Well, '

Well, I've opened my parcel, and you'll never guess what it is - only some dog biscuits free and gratis from Dodson & Horrell, suppliers of horse and dog food to the Queen. The fucking Queen. Christ! One minute I'm a Border Terrier rolling around in shit and the next I'm hob-nobbing with bleeding royalty. It's a funny old life innit? I could be knobbing a Corgi by the end of the week, don't laugh, look at Mike Tindall, the cauliflower-eared, ugly, broken-nosed twat. One minute he's having his ear bitten off in a scrum and the next he's tupping royalty. And that Limpik Wimbik Optic bloke. OK the Cheeky Girls aren't royalty exactly, but have you seen the face on him? And Andrew Lloyd Webber, Christ that's real ugliness that is. When he was born he was so ugly that the midwife slapped his Mum. I'm moving up in the world. I can smell it. At least I think that's what I can smell....

Is it purely a coincidence that on the same day that it's confirmed that the "50 Shades of Grey" creator E L James has become the world's best-paid author, that J K Rowling announces that her next book is to be entitled "Harry Potter Chokes The Chicken"? I think not. I'm a bit excited today. Me Dad says he's got another parcel in work for me. What can it be? I've still got loads of ears left (they only give me one at weekend's the tight bastards. Me Dad say's I'm getting fat. Pot, fucking kettle, take a look in the mirror Lard Boy). They get sent to me by my best mates in the whole wide world, Thomas Bell the country's leading fertiliser merchant, so it can't be more of them surely and it's ages to Christmas yet. I'll let you know tomorrow....

What is it with Mongs and trains? The two go intrinsically together like Ant & Dec, or shit & my neck. Me Dad says that travelling home from Leeds on the train the other night he was the only normal person on there. The thing was awash with Mongs. Leeds, of course holds the record for the UK's highest per capita ratio of Mongs to normal people in the country. According to a recent survey by Defra 37.6% of the population of Leeds is a type 1 Mong, and a further 34.2% is a type 2. For those that don't know the difference, a type 1 is easily spotted as being what me Dad calls a "mouth breather" - these are Mongs who are familiar with the concept of breathing through  their noses, but simply chose not to do it. Why take the risk? You've done perfectly fine breathing through your mouth all these years, there's simply no point experimenting with this new fangled technology of nasal breathing is there? The second category, the slightly rarer type 2 Mong, is e

The kids are off on holiday (again) and they're doing my head in (again). Watching telly in the lounge, that's MY fucking lounge that is, the bone idle bastards. I can hardly get 40 winks in for that Hannah Bastard Montana shite that they watch. Me Mum told the big teenager that her room looked like a tip and that it better be tidied up by the time she got home from work. Predictably she's done fuck all about that, and I don't think that the old "I couldn't hear what you said properly above the sound of all the seagulls circling overhead" excuse is going to wash again somehow. Me Mum and Dad took me out for a quick spin round the park last night, and there were half a dozen of the lazy twats all passing bottles of cider and WKD round. Me Dad said wistfully to me Mum "ah teenagers, they throw up so quick these days don't they?" Meanwhile the other one, the "little" teenager, the one that tips half a litre of fuckin Paco Rabane all ov

What fucking storm? It's been fine up here in God's own country. The worst since 1987, batten down the hatches, the papers cried. Batten down my arse more like, that's been far more windy than the weather, especially since they switched me onto Butcher's Choice in tins last week. Fuck me, my guts have been worse than that time I snaffled me Dad's chicken jalfreezi. Shitting through the eye of a needle I think you two-leggeds call it. Anyway, back to the fucking weather. The Met Office issued an amber warning telling people that with high winds in the south expect things to come flying off the line, like any washing that was still hanging out, and Joe Hart of course. Fucking southern softies. They're such Chav's aren't they? The BBC news has just shown footage of one such wanker showing off already with his 30 foot Christmas tree placed precariously on the roof of his car. He'll never get that fucker home. Hadn't even tied it down or nothing. Tit

nPower have apparently received thousands of thank you letters following their latest energy bill price hike. They come from people thanking them for bringing their inheritances forward by a few years. Woof. I watched that EastEnders thing for the first time ever on the telly last night after there was a bit of a panic on when the teenager's iPad broke and he couldn't watch it in his room (at least I think it was EastEnders, it could have been CrimeWatch). It's very similar to Strictly Come Dancing and the X Factor I thought. Fucking shit. Me Dad doesn't care for it much either, he said that he'd rather shit in his hands and clap than watch that again. It's the Bake Off final tonight, we'll all be watching that though, if only to see if Mary Berry has clung onto life for another week. She doesn't look well does she? Like a fucking skull with lipstick on she is. Still, I imagine she'll make a fortune at Halloween, if she can manage to wring another we

The profiteering wankers. What we do in our house is me Dad pops round to McDonalds on his way home from work for one of their apple pies, and the inside contents of that is so fucking molten hot that we can switch the heating off and comfortably keep warm sat round that for at least three days. This also works with a microwaved bacon roll for anyone travelling on Virgin Trains too. Woof...

Is it any fucking coincidence that on the same day that Joe Public can start selling his Royal Mail shares at a nice fat profit, proving that the government woefully underestimated their value, that the BBC also announce that the Clangers is coming back on our tellies? I don't think so. And here's another thing, they say that electric kettles boil water don't they? Me Dad says that the police took some convincing that he was just testing this theory when he chucked one into the bath when his first missus was in there. And another, 'nother thing, if electricity always follows the path of least resistance, then why doesn't lightning only strike in France? I'm home alone again today, they've fucked off to "work" as they call it. Just me and me blanket that smells of shit, I'm not sleeping on that fucking stinky thing. They never wash it you know, the dirty bastards. Covered in fucking hair it is as well, I think the teenager is moulting or somethi

This teacher wanker says to Little Johnny "If I give you two cats, then another two cats and then another two cats, how many cats would you have?" (Personally I can't see why the fuck Johnny or anybody else would want even one cat, the lazy, idle fuckers, but go with me on this one) "7!" says Little Johnny. The teacher sighs (they're lazy, idle fuckers as well aren't they? I can only assume that all this happened on one of the rare days when the twats were in work and not on strike). "No Johnny. I give you two cats, then another two cats and then another two cats, so how many cats do you have?" Johnny is already starting to get bored of this fucking stupid line of questioning and feels like saying "My Dad says you're a load of lazy, idle twats, Sir" but he doesn't "7!" he repeats hopefully. The teacher sighs again and gives Johnny his "you're going to end up flipping burgers in McDonalds or collecting the tr

Have you seen it? Heard of it? It was in the papers at the weekend. It's a new programme on Channel 4 where people "have sex live on TV"  (you don't actually watch them that would be rude, they go into this kind of opaque box thing in the studio - a bit like the tardis but with nipple clamps) and then discuss it afterwards with a panel of experts. It's presented by Mariella Frostrup, or the thinking man's totty as me Dad calls her. So, me Mum's gone to bed, me Dad's channel surfing, and spots that Sex Box is on. So he thinks "well what harm can it do to have a little peek, in the interests of research, like" and up pops Mariella, who sounds to be like she's recovering from a heavy cold and need to get a couple of Lemsip Max Strength's down her neck sharpish if you ask me, but this huskiness is apparently part of her appeal. So Mariella is wrapping up with thanks very much to Martin and Sarah (I can't remember their exact names, gi

And another thing, if I was a kid due in school this morning I wouldn't bother me arse going in. When the teacher says tomorrow "where were you then yesterday?" I'd simply look at her incredulous and say "well you fuckin started it Miss." Me Dad says that he always used to tell his kids that if ever they were late for school he'd beat the shit out of them, take all their dinner money off them and die their hair ginger. Harsh but fair, that's what he is. This was back in his teaching days of course. Did anyone see Bake Off last night? I only watch it to see if Mary Berry is still alive. I can't stand the lecherous look on that Hollywood bloke's face as he says, salivating "you're little macaroon's are lovely, Ruby" and stuff like that. The big queer bloke got voted off. No surprises there then, his suet pudding looked like a four tonne pooh. That took the smirk off Hollywood's face. He did try and disguise it with a bit o

Lazy twats. They never go on strike in the summer do they? YOU take your kids off school early for a couple of days to go on holiday and it's like the bloody Spanish Inquisition though isn't it?  One law for you and a completely different one for them eh? No wonder the kids all hate them. Apart from the ones that have run off to France with them that is. And if they aren't on strike they're on a teacher bastard training day. You'd have thought that they'd already be trained before they got the fucking job really wouldn't you? Fuck me, this is a school we are talking about not bastard McDonalds. Somebody should tell them that it's their own time they're wasting, not ours. Knob ends.

Is claiming that Channel 4 sacked him due to "ageism" I see, which is a bit rich for someone so overtly dripping in ism's themselves. The sight of him sat up in bed, wearing nothing but his Newcastle shirt, that stupid fucking deerstalker hat which appears to be nailed to his fucking thick skull, and in an enormous pair of piss-riddled Y fronts whilst filming Celebrity Wife Swap still gives me nightmares. Surely that alone gives Channel 4 enough grounds for dumping the useless be-whiskered pile of lard I'd suggest. That doesn't just bring racing into disrepute as piss and shit all over it. Stick your Sporting Life up your arse. They sacked you 'cos you're fucking shit. A big fucking embarrassing joke. Wake up and smell the fucking coffee. In fact go downstairs and make your own fucking coffee you lazy, bone idle, fat sexist twat. Woof.

Apparently a BBC radio survey found that more than a quarter of British 18-24 year olds don't trust Muslims. Not as high as the 95% of 5-15 year olds that don't trust BBC employees mind. Woof. Bored bastard shitless I am, stuck in the house on me own again. I'd give Esther Rantzen a call, but I don't trust her either. And another thing, if BBC employees were all illegally bang at it with minors (no not miners, Arthur Scargill couldn't score in a brothel I reckon - the male equivalent of a munter - a manter possibly, he was) in the 70's then are we to assume that ITV employees were completely innocent? Doesn't sound likely does it? What exactly was that white stuff in Dickie Davies' hair for example? You know what I'm saying. Talking of munters did anyone see Only Connect this week, I like a nice quiz me. Was that a trannie or what? The thing with the very deep voice in the red dress? The one that was about nine feet tall. Looked a bit like Arthur Mul

What a fucking smug little pain in the arse she is, eh? I HATE it when they let her read the news, she's always wearing this irritating, barely concealed little smirk have you noticed? "59 people, including women and children, have been killed in a chemical weapons attack in Syria (Thinks: I'm alright in Hertfordshire though, that's the main thing. We really must get that man in to drain the moat this weekend. Smirk). The Kenyan hostage crisis enters day three (doesn't my new jacket look ace? Smirk). Taliban behead 12-year old schoolgirl (I'm going shopping later, I really need some new shoes. Smirk)....etc, etc. Me Dad has discovered that a great way to wind me Mum up is to pretend that he fancies her. "I hate that Fiona Bruce, what does she think she looks like?" To which he'll reply, incredulous, "What? I think she looks quite foxy in that collar-less tweed jacket, you should get a jacket like that. You could do worse than pick up a few sa

Is it just me or is there something strangely satisfying, not to mention ironic, about the story concerning the 23 year old saddo who was hit by a brick and robbed at 1am on his way home from the shops where he's been to buy a copy of the latest version of Grand Theft Auto that only came out at midnight? Grand theft bell-end, more like. Get a life son for fuck's sake.

Internet banking, internet wanking more like. That's down today, I wonder why? It's like a fucking run on Northern Bastard Cock or Greece all over again, every twat is trying to draw there money out whilst there's still something left to be had. They'll be walking out the door with carpets, desks, anything they can get their fucking hands on at this rate. Fuck right fucking off, I don't want to fucking bastard switch to being a fucking twatting TSB customer do I? If I did then I'd have opened an account with the soft shites wouldn't I? "We've got 4.5 million customers" No you fucking haven't. You've nicked 4.5 million fucking "customers" most of whom won't be customers by the end of the fucking week. If they can get through to your 3-man complaints bastard I want to fuck off back where I came from you wankers switchboard that is. Get to high fucking fuck you useless fuckers. Have I made myself fucking clear?

Why do some people say that? Like, you're in the chippy and you pay your money and the girl behind the counter says "see ya later". When clearly she isn't going to be seeing you later is she? Not unless you're such a fat bastard that one large cod, chips and mushy peas is only enough to fill you up for half an hour before you're back again. Or unless you happen to be also "slipping her a portion" like she's just slipped you one, or course. But looking at the state of the fat munter down our chippy I reckon you'd have to be visually impaired to consider such a move. I mean she's so fat that when she fell down the stairs in the chippy the other day me Dad said that he thought it was the closing bars to Eastenders. He said to her "blimey, you're a big lass aren't you?" She said with a sigh "I've heard it all before, tell me something I don't know." He said "Gregg's sell pasties in singles too, you

Saddened as I was to hear of the death of David Frost, I couldn't help but think to myself "who lives in a hearse like this?" Woof.

Have you seen it? Covered in a massive tattoo it is. I couldn't believe it, what's she had that done for? So she can have a shag in the bushes without being spotted? And what's it going to look like 30 years from now? Like a double page spread out of an old copy of Gardener's World magazine that's been left on a park bench in the rain before a tramp used it to wipe his arse on, that's what. Woof.

Who's there? The Grammar Police. Get to flying fuck you shower of twats. I made that one up meself you know? There was fuck all else to do in Stalag forty bastard five was there? They've been away on yet another fucking holiday leaving me to near starve to bastard death down at "the health farm" as they laughingly fucking call it. Then to cap it all, I'm whisked off for a fucking hair cut the minute they get back, just to add insult to fucking injury. I could fucking spit, I really could. Still there was a nice little girlie Border Terrier in there called Rosie. She was only 2 as well. What are you looking at me like that for? Two is legal in doggie terms. Needless to say, progress has been somewhat static in terms of glider construction this past few weeks. Watching me like fucking hawks they are. Just 'cos I tried to escape a couple of times. The tight bastards. I've managed to lose me name tag down at the "health farm" though, so next ti

I could scarcely contain my waggy excitement last night when me Dad came home with another massive parcel for yours truly from my good friends and business associates Thomas Bell, the country's leading fertiliser importers. There must be so many pig's ears in Brigg that they have to get rid of them somewhere I suppose. And I'm that dog. There's probably some sort of government subsidy available for turning surplus pig's ears into Border Terrier farts. The only problem I've got now is whether this fucking glider I'm building will actually get off the roof when it's ready. It could be more of a plunger than a glider, like those bell-ends you see on the telly going off a Southend Pier or somewhere. Some clown, dressed as a clown just for further clarification, with two pieces of brightly painted 4x2 strapped to his hat plunging straight into the water. That thing was never gonna glide any further than a tossed shite was it? He might as well have just dresse

Well, they reckon she's had the fucker, although by the looks of her on the telly last night she's still cooking up another one in there. "He's got a right pair of lungs on him," said Prince William. He obviously doesn't take after his Mother then. Went for a walk with me Dad this morning and we went past a squashed up carton of Ribena on the pavement, so I was straight over, as you do, but despite sucking as hard as I could all I could get out of it were a few little dribbles. Which is probably exactly what the baby's gonna feel like I reckon. And now that she's had it all the papers will go on about for ages is what's it gonna be called, our future King? I fancy Prawn Madras meself, but I don't suppose they'll go for it. There'll be a George in there I reckon, and probably a Phil too in honour of his Grandad - although they may miss out the "the Greek" bit. Who gives a shit? Well me actually, a polished pooh on a plinth is n

Never in all my born days have I seen so many ginger kids all in one place. It's like we've stumbled into some real life horror movie. They're throwing stones at the ducks. Ginger Kid Duck Stoning - The Mallards Must Die I think this movie must be called. Mick Hucknall must live in Ripon I reckon. The dirty talentless ginger twat. Spreading his ginger load all round town.

The gritters are out round here. I kid you not. Trundling round the Ripon by-pass at the weekend we were followed by one of the buggers. I assume that North Yorkshire County Council have decided that spreading the grit out very thinly in the middle of a fucking record-breaking July heatwave is an excellent cost saving measure. The lack of ice-related accidents on the roads around Ripon this month is clear proof of the success of this measure. Wankers and cock ends the lot of them. In other news, I escaped again at the weekend, twice in one day which is no mean feat around here. Sadly I was recaptured for a second time whilst AWOL on sausage patrolling duties in the vicinity of Knox Way circa 17.00 hours. The tight bastards. Route behind compost bin into No 56 now blocked by large heavy piece of decking. Twats. New plan in formation, I can't wait for my mates at Thomas Bell to come up with a Porsche 911 targa top in black with alloy wheels, although I'm sure they will. New plan:

Finished the tunnel, and made my bold bid for freedom and the bright lights of Brigg around 10.45 this morning whilst me Dad's back was turned - making himself a bacon butty - the fat bastard. Through the fence, across the pond round the back and down Knox Way, heading for the main road where I could hopefully catch the bus to Brigg. The land of pig's ears. Waited ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, no sign of bastard bus to Brigg. Town Centre, yes. Brigg, no. The fucking council are fucking bastard useless round here. If I paid any council tax I cancel the fucking standing order forthwith. I'd have thought that there should be a bus to Brigg every five minutes, at the very least. Ten fucking minutes I stood there, in this bastard heat. Panting like fuck. So by this time I was starving, obviously, having already eaten my contingency food supply the minute I got out of the tunnel. So, nipped back to Knox Way to see if there was any decent foraging to be had, a couple of sausag

What do you call a Russian vet? Kutsacatz Kokov. Woof. I fucking hate cats me, the lazy twats. All they do is lie around all day. Not like me, tunnels to dig, pig's ears to eat, bollocks to lick. I'm a non stop bastard whirlwind me. They just sit there looking at you don't they? Like the world owes them a fucking living, on the shed roof out the back, the dirty lazy twats. If there was a social security office for pets, us dogs would never get a look in for those lazy fuckers. Licking their arses, their own fucking dirty arses they lick, I kid you not. Fuck knows why they do that. I mean it must taste like shit for a kick off mustn't it? And then when they have a shit, what do they do? They bury the fucker! Why do that? Me Dad picks mine up, it makes me gip it does, but he seems to strangely like it. But no, they bury theirs, like they're gonna save it and come back and lick it later. The dirty fucking shit licking lazy bastards.

So, a Jock beats a Djok. I don't see what all the fuss is about, it's not like he's English is it? He might have a couple of Border Terriers and a fit girlfriend and several million pounds in the bank, but what else has he got going for him? The pasty-skinned Pict. That's his quota of sunshine for the next 50 years I reckon. The British and Irish Lions beat the ex cons Down Under. So what. I refuse to get excited about it all. They're not pure English either are they? I'm looking forward to the Ashes, proper Englishmen in an all English, proper non-Jock sport taking on the Aussies. I think we'll do them now that Piertersen is back...

Judging by my swollen inbox, oh, er missus, I am not alone in thinking that these twats are a load of Hitler fixated fudge packers in lycra. I've even had cyclists admitting to me that the bell-ends in lycra do their heads in too. Vermin, that's what they are. And what do we do with fucking vermin? That's right, we fucking kill it don't we? I am therefore declaring this weekend National Twat A Fucking Cyclist weekend. Think about it, this is our fucking road that we fucking pay for. Well when I say "we" I mean me Dad and you lot, I'm a dog, I don't pay for fuck all, but neither do I cycle 16 abreast with all me mates down the B2437. I'm not entitled, you see. I know my place, so I don't do it. These twats aren't entitled either. Do they pay cycling tax? No they fucking don't. They might pay car tax, some of them, but that's for driving their fucking cars on the B2437 NOT a fucking bike. You can't have three cars and only pay roa

Who do the think they are? Arrogant lycra clad wankers, that's who they are. Just because the Tour de France is on the telly doesn't mean that you can hog the fucking road 16 abreast you know. Get to flying fucking fuck the lot of you and get a proper hobby. Have you ever noticed that these groups are almost exclusively male by the way? I mean there may be the odd female in there, she's probably a lezzer anyway so that doesn't count, but generally these twats clogging up the country's A roads and B roads on a Sunday morning are blokes. You can see where I'm heading here can't you? The reason they cycle so fast is that they're all fucking chasing each other and can't wait to get back to the fucking clubhouse where the real action takes place, if you know what I mean. Fuck this cycling malarky, let's get back to the showers for some proper fun. "Oh Frank, can you hep me off with my shorts, this lycra's gone right up me sweaty bum crack so

Fuck off you fat wankers. What do you think you look like? Seriously? You look like fat lycra-clad wankers to me. So fuck right fucking off you fucking stupid Jackson Pollack clad tit faced cock ends and take your fucking twatting 16 abreast fucking bastard titting fucking wanking cycling with you, you arses. Do I make myself fucking bastard fucking pissing bastard clear you cock faced tit headed bell ends?

...rang in work earlier and said he couldn't come in today because a little ginger kid from down the bottom of our street had been run over and killed by a hit and run driver this morning. Work said "oh that's terrible, did you know him well?" Me Dad said "nah, never met him before." So work said "well why can't you come in then?" Me Dad said "well the front of me car is completely stoved in." Woof.

What a sad gang of soft fuckers you must be. Am I the only one to notice that those ham-fisted twats on the telly are having their house done up bit by bit? I mean, he spills rose wine all over the fucking settee when the dog jumps over it, so he thinks why the fuck bother trying to clean that off, let's just ring Nationwide soft fuckers and get them to replace the entire thing. (Me Mum by the way would need more than a prancing fucking dog to get a full glass of wine out of her hand I can tell you. A fucking crow bar more like. She can fall asleep clutching one and never spill a drop, as she does frequently). Half a day goes by, it can't be much longer as they're still wearing the same fucking clothes, and his equally cack-handed missus chucks a tin of paint all over the carpet, so he's straight on the blower again. Bugger me, ten minutes later the pair of soft twats are dropping the chandelier (I use the word loosely, this thing IS shit and DOES want smashing). No wor

Said that his ex missus once asked him how many women he'd slept with to which he replied "Only you darling, I stayed awake with all the others as they were exciting in bed." To which she said told him to pack his bags and fuck off and that she hoped he'd die a slow and painful death. He said "make your fucking mind up, one minute you want me to leave and the next you want me to stay." I can't vouch for the truth of this story obviously, it's just what the lying fat get told me. I'm still not convinced that he ever did fly spitfires during the war or play right half for Everton either. Back to the tunnel...

Fucking great aren't they? Why do kids drop them, that's what I wanna know? And when the soft fuckers have dropped them, why don't they pick them up and eat them? I mean, they've only been on the floor for fuck's sake. The answer to why they don't pick them up and eat them is 'cos their Mum tells them not to. "That's dirty Chantelle, leave it alone and eat your ice cream, your crisps, or this family size bag of tangfastics, or have a slurp of your Coke and a Mars Bar." Chantelle is of course a fat fucker, just like her Mum, who smells strangely of fish, and is sweating like a glass blower's arse. If Chantelle had dropped her fruit pastille on the carpet at home then there'd probably be cause for a trip to A&E, but this is the pavement, it's a clean as a fucking whistle compared to Billingsgate Betty's house. She's huffing and puffing away trying to push the pram up a massive 0.00001 degree incline, with an arse the size

Me Dad's home! He's been away for a couple of nights at some wank do called Cereals, whatever the fuck that is. It sure sounds like a steaming pile of faeces to me. Cereals. Fucking cereals, what's so interesting about pissing fuckin bastard cereals. Pigs eat them don't they? Sausages, yes, put me name down for Sausages 2014. I'll be there at the front of the bastard queue for Sausages. Anyway, he's back, which is nice, although he looks a bit shagged to me. Apparently he didn't sleep very well on account of the fuckin picture of that talentless twat Lenny Henry that adorned his bedside table. He says it was like that film where the kid has a fuckin psycho puppet/clown thing that lives on a seat in the corner of it's bedroom with a moronic fuckin grin on it's stupid bastard face. Always looking at him. From it's talentless face. I mean, I'm not racist, I'm a Border Terrier, but he does look like an idiotic clueless twat when he puts that

Me Dad just dropped a full packet of tandoori chicken wings when he opened the fridge, the soft fat get. So what's a boy to do when presented with an opportunity like that? Eat the fucking lot as fast as possible that's what. Tandoori marinade all over me whiskers now, so I can enjoy a bit more of it later. They say that chicken bones are bad for dogs apparently, that's bollocks, we eat all sorts of shit, literally in my case. You've got to eat a tonne of shit before you die, they also say. That's bollocks as well, I eat a tonne of shit most days. Woof.

Doesn't look well does he? I for one will be surprised if he makes it to Christmas. Apparently he's not even Scottish, I mean how can the Duke of Edinburgh NOT be Scottish? You'll be telling me that the Queen's part fucking German next. God bless her royal Ma'amness. Have you seen them new Coca Cola bottles with peoples names on them? I went to the paper shop with me Dad yesterday and there was a bloke in there frantically searching through all of them for one with his wife's name on it, but when he couldn't find one he just got her a KitKat Chunky instead. It's a good job me iPad does spell check 'cos that just came out as a KitKat Chinky! I mean she may have been Chinese for all I know. Well, I say may have been, I assume that if she WAS Chinese then she probably still IS Chinese. If she is Chinese then do you suppose he said to her on their wedding night "how do you fancy a 69, love?" to which she replied "no chance, you know I hate

Watching the match on the telly with me Dad last night it suddenly occurred to me that Theo Walcott is an anagram of "Don't give the fucking ball to me if you ever want to see it again" - has anyone else ever noticed that? Also Phil Jones is an anagram of "way out of my depth" and James Milner works out as "I'm shite" - coincidence? I think not. I got to spend the weekend in Stalag 45 again whilst they all swanned off to London, the tight bastards. Still at least I didn't have to sit next to the annoying American family on the train who's baby screamed it head off all the way home whilst their other two annoying brats, Chip and Chuck, played some Septic card game with far too much zeal for me Dad's liking. "Skip a turn, skip a turn...hahahaha...eat my shit you mutha." A charming turn of phrase for a six year old. I can only assume Chip was named after his munter of a mother's favourite food, and wee ginger-haired Chuck (th

You tasteless bastards. Firstly they've pissed me Dad off for ages now by constantly emailing him their special offers kicking off with "Hello D" as they haven't got his full fist name on their computer just his initial. Today they top the whole fucking lot by emailing him to say "D, you’d look good in a onesie!" The soft twats. He'd look like Elmer Fucking Fudd at bedtime in a onesie that's what he'd look like. The thought of it is frankly abhorrent and only serves to make me want to dig this fucking tunnel out of this shit hole for the bright lights of Brigg even faster. Woof. Meanwhile you can imagine how thrilled I was to read that Burger King are now doing home delivery. That said, you have to live in Los Angeles or Sacramento to qualify, which puts me at something of a 5,500 mile geographical disadvantage really doesn't it? My cup fucking runneth over. Not. Twats. Sausages on home delivery that's what Border Terriers want. The Dial-

With your annoying fucking bastard fucking texts. I don't want tickets to see "Being Tommy Cooper" right. He was shit (and a wife beater too, allegedly) when he was alive so I don't suppose his act has got any fucking better now that the useless lanky fez topped fucker is pushing up the fucking bastard daisies has it? "The brand new sensational show celebrating Britain's all time favourite comedian" That's a pretty fucking bold statement as well isn't it? If he was that fucking good then you wouldn't have to resort to texting fucking Border Terriers like me to try to persuade me to go to see the sad fucker's show would you, you useless gang of twats. Get to fuck with your fucking reminders about how many fucking free bastard fucking texts I've got left as well you fuckwits. I'm trying to dig a fucking tunnel here, I haven't got time for you and you're text spam shite. Have I made myself clear? Oh, and happy birthday to me

Every now and again two women come round to our house, harass me Dad on the step for about 10 minutes, and then go away. I'm not sure, but I think they are trying to convert him from eating white bread into eating brown bread, 'cos he said to me Mum the other day "the Fucking Hovis Witnesses have been round again whilst you were out." They always leave him a magazine, extolling the virtues of eating brown bread, and then they fuck off again until next time. One of them looks like Dot Cotton off the telly. In fact it could be Dot Cotton off the telly. "Ohhh, it's a terrible world we live in today isn't it? Have you ever thought about eating a bit more brown bread? That'll sort the job out a treat. Jesus loved brown bread he did. Always had a couple of loaves of it on hand, for emergencies like. Used to carry them round in a Tesco's bag to keep the flies and the sand off them. Invented the first ever brown bread fish finger sandwich he did. I'll

Fuck me, me Dad brought me home another parcel AND another letter last night from those wonderful people at Thomas Bell, the leading fertiliser merchants in the whole of the world! At this rate I might have to get meself a little desk set up with an in tray and everything. I was shaking like a shitting dog when I opened it to find another box of 50 pigs ears! That's enough to last me a week or two, and will help fuel my "dig for victory". I haven't bothered too much with the tunnel this week to be honest, it's been too fucking hot hasn't it? Sweating me little doggie bollocks off with this bastard fur coat on all day I am. Not that me Mum & Dad give a fuck like. Anyway, the nice people at Thomas Bell seem to think that it's probably OK if I go and live with them when I get out of here. They could probably do with a bit of security muscle on site like. I can handle meself me you know. It's a terrier thing. I mean I'm more Barry McGuigan than the

What do you get if you put the head of a cat on the body of a dog? A visit from the RSPCA! Anyway, pleased to report that the Ginger Ninja over the road has finally moved out. Even better - the new people don't have kids! So that got me Mum and Dad talking the other night and she said to him "If we were going to move house I'd like it to be to a big old Edwardian jobbie." Me Dad says wistfully, "Yeah, I used to live in a lovely house with period features once..or the ex missus as I now call her." Woof!!!

Christ, I thought I was hard done by until Johnny Colman sent me this link to a series of images in the Daily Bellylaugh of a poor creature that they bill as "Jack the Balancing Dog" who "loves to balance household items on his head," they gleefully tell us. "And the Australian cattle dog is happy to impress by balancing items including a football, books, a kettle, and an egg - all in return for the cheers and praise of his San Franciscan owners," they go on. I fucking knew it, Septics. Look at the pictures. Does Jack look like he's having fun to you? He looks fucking well pissed off to me, and I don't blame him, "come on Jackie boy, lets put a kettle on your head." The tight Septic bastards. The only image where Jack does look like he's having fun is the one at the end where they've finally run out of household objects and bits of fruit to balance on the poor fucker's head. The heartless twats. I might have to rethink my plan

Didn't get much further with the tunnel over the weekend. Me Dad took me on three walks Saturday, yes THREE. The tight fat get, so that kind of put paid to any tunnel digging activity that day. Then Sunday afternoon they were both in the kitchen most of the day. Watching me like fucking hawks they are. Snoozed on me blanket in the lounge, or in front of the fire for the rest of the day. Had a quick look at Match of the Day, what is wrong with that Suarez bloke? He's got more screws loose than a second hand Ikea wardrobe if you ask me. The dirty, cheating, biting, racist, Uruguayan hamster-faced dickhead. Then bed, so not much digging opportunities there either. I think I might have to make it a weekdays only thing. But I'm so knackered after three walks on Saturday that I might have a day off today. Me paws are still a bit sore, and there's a nice sunny spot on the bean bag in the lounge with my name on it. I can keep an eye on the Ginger Ninja over the road from there.

Day 2. Fucking knackered I am, and not even got past the utility room wall yet. Then there's the fucking path to excavate under, then the pissing garden wall, then the bastard shed. It was all right for those twats on the telly, there was loads of them. This is just me on me Jack Jones. Me paws are fucking red raw they are. I might just have half an hour in the sun on me bean bag in the lounge, if I can make it that far, I'm feeling quite dizzy actually. Stop laughing and get to fuck, I'm dying here. I can't even be arsed to bark at the ginger kid over the road, that's how cream crackered I am. Where's me Prozac...

Ever wondered why they say "it's a dog's life" or "I wouldn't treat a dog like that" or "I wouldn't give that to the dog"?? It's because a being a dog is fucking shit that's why. Ripped me favourite soft toy - a bag of Chase N Onion Walkies Crisps, - to shreds last night in a silent protest. Did anybody notice? Did they shit. I could ride round that living room on a fucking unicycle juggling fucking knives and nobody would notice. Still, I've made a start on the tunnel. It's in the utility room underneath me basket. They'll never think of looking there, the lazy gets. The lino was a bit of a bastard to rip up. Then I had to eat the fucking stuff. Why are you looking at me like that? What else was I supposed to do with it? Stick it down me trousers and casually flick it away whilst on morning exercise? I'm a fucking dog, we don't wear trousers. And they've just had me clipped, the tight bastards. To cap the fu

In the house, on me own again. Bored bastard shitless I am. I bark at the odd passer-by just to show a bit of willing more than anything else, sleep a bit, chew me paw a bit, check me bowl a bit (there's never anything in the fucker, I don't know why I bother). Fucking starving I am. They haven't even left the telly on for me or balls all. How the fuck is a Border Terrier supposed to get by in conditions like this. I bet even Terry Fucking Waite had the telly on. Probably sat up in bed, reading the papers with a cup of tea watching Jeremy Kyle all day was our Tez. Not me, oh no. I'm off out of here the first bastard chance I get. I'll show the heartless fuckers. Don't tell anyone right, but I'm going to dig a tunnel....

A the two-leggeds sat down to tea last night, with your truly helpfully hanging around to tidy up anything that may accidentally fall onto the floor, the conversation turned to the news of the day. "So, Maggie Thatcher's dead then," says me Dad. "Yeah, I quite liked her actually," says me Mum. "Was she a singer?" enquires the lad, I can never remember his name, Tidy Your Room I think it might be. Or Get Off That Sodding Xbox. It's one of those. Still, David Cameron has just sent his official letter of condolence to the Thatcher residence. It starts, "I regret to inform you that due to recent events, you now have too many bedrooms..."

Ikea have pulled around 18,000 Elk lasagnes off the menu at stores across Europe after they were found to contain pork, the BBC report. If my elf lasagne contained all pork and no fucking elk I'd be happy, so what's the fucking problem? They'd be better off employed finding out how much wood is in their flimsy as fuck furniture if you ask me. And where do they think those stupid fucking names up? A fucking stool called Norbert. Fucking Norbert. Or a pissing bastard wardrobe called Helmut and other such shite. The Scandanavian wankers. Stick your bastard elk lasagnes up your arses.

What have they all got in common you might wonder. Well, the answer is that they all do my fucking head in. Especially on a Bank Holiday weekend. Spent in the back of the car. There's still snow on the bastard ground, but it's Easter so the fucking caravan bastards are out in their fucking droves. Slow droves that is. Droves only surpassed by the fucking motor fucking cyclist wankers every bastard where. Hogging the pissing road in their droves. Groups of like-minded fat balding wankers clad in leather with their delusions of being Dennis Fucking Hopper. To cap it all we have Classic Fucking F Fucking Bastard M playing George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue on the radio. What a load of unmitigated shite that is. Rhapsody in Pooh more like. They're playing the top 300 classic hits of all time. At least that's what they tell us they're playing, in reality it's just a load of tunes nicked from the telly. Including the theme to the Antiques Fucking Roadshow. The Wan

Who do they think they are? They're binmen not bastard royalty, although you wouldn't know it the way the ones round here behave. Can't be arsed to walk up your drive and get your bin. They can see it's there all right, but it's just not always in EXACTLY the right place, so they won't fuckin touch it the lazy smelly bastards. Unless it's the week before Christmas that is. If it's the week before Christmas nothing is too much trouble. In fact I reckon they send a different lot round the week before Christmas. The Christmas lot look like they are on the way to a binman wedding for starters. All togged up they are, smiling, laughing with gay binman abandon they are. Whistling away to themselves, usually something by Chas and Dave, or that song from Mary Poppins. "Mornin guvnor, with a chim, chim, charee don't yer know, gor blimey. I'll take that Sir, don't you get getting your hands mucky, that's manual labour for scroats like me. What

ls fucking rubbish and so is Ashley Young. Couldn't score in a bleedin brothel them two. And as for James Fucking Milner, well. Shit doesn't even come close. He MUST be Roy Hodgson's son, there's not other expanation for it. A massive bag of cock ends, that's what they are. Smalling. Fucking Smalling. He should change his name by deed poll to Bellend. Lescott? Shite. Montebastardnegro that was, not fucking bastard Brazil. Fuck them all.

Well, I thought I'd seen me Dad in a bad mood before, but tonight takes the custard bastard cream. Apparently he got really pissed off a couple of years back when one of the world's most popular news services, self acclaimed for delivering "the best business news, commentary and insight with unrivalled speed and unquestionable accuracy and depth" used to regularly nick quotes off his blog without specifically attributing to them. Instead they always used to say something like "a market observer says". Which right pissed him right fucking off. Today he tells me that he was doubly right fucking pissed right fucking off to now read the daily market report of one of the large UK grain merchants more or less passing off the comments in his Chicago report from last night as their own. If they wan t his comments why don't they just pay for then, like those nice people at GrainCo, Fengrain and Dalmark etc? To top the bastard lot, this afternoon he tells me that

On the radio this morning "Pope Francis is working the crowd outside the Vatican, kissing babies and touching the sick" - they just can't help themselves can they? Woof.

Have you seen it? If not don't. I thought it was an episode of MaterChef to start with, the one where the contestants all have to stuff an oversized Christmas turkey with 50 kilos of sage and onion. When I realised that it wasn't a turkey up there with it's legs akimbo I had to leave the room. One minute right, there's this woman just stood there, then the next thing right, she completely pisses herself. I'm not kidding. Like Niagara Falls it was. She didn't even try and make the loo, she just stood there, like a (literally) big wet lemon. The Severn Bore cascading down her surgical stockings. Put me right off me sausages that did. Even me Dad had to look away, and he used to be in the Scouts, that's how bad it was. Thank fuck that's finished for another series.

Forget about horse in meatballs, look what they've found in cake in Ikea now: http://uk.news.yahoo.com/ikea-pulls-almond-cakes-over-faecal-bacteria-155011322.html (you'll have to copy & paste that bit into your browser) Warning - May Contain Winnets! Well, a little thing like that wouldn't put me off, I can assure you. Rather than have them destroyed they should parcel them up and send the fuckers to me. I love a nice bit of cake after me tea, I do. Woof.

I hear, the poor old dear. And every time Prince Charles rings up to see how she's doing they just put the phone down on him! I think I'm going to send her one of my special limited edition white pooh's on a plinth to cheer her Ma'amness up. She'll soon be back on solids, bless.

Out for a walk the other day we walked past this big field of pigs. I love pigs I do, lazing around all day, eating and rolling in shit, what a great life. And their ears taste nice too, when they've finished with them. Me Dad likes pigs as well, I think they remind him fondly of his ex missus. He said that once when she was eating a bowl of soup she accidentally spilled it all over herself and said "Christ look at the state of me, I look like a right pig." Me Dad said "Yeah, and you've got soup all over yourself now as well." Which he says didn't go down too well. Some people are so picky aren't they? She said "Sometimes you just treat our relationship like a game" to which he replied "Do you wanna go 50:50 on that or phone a friend?" He says he came home from work once and said to her "I've got a new nickname for you." She said "What is it?" He said "Bambi" She said "Aww, is that 'cos I

The lisping pair of twats. Number one and two in the top songs of the 2000's. No mention of Coldplay or kiss my arse. Fucksticks.

Fuck me, less than a week ago it was snowing, yet now at the first sign of the mercury nudging above zero he's back. Mr Fucking Whippy and his fucking merry band and his fucking "the sun has got it's hat on" jingle. There's me trying to get 40 winks on me bean bag in the watery sunshine and here he comes, with his fucking jingle blaring out at ten billion decibels, parks right outside our house, "hip hip hip hurray..." Get to fuck Mr Whippy, or I'll stick yer 99 where the fucking sun most definitely doesn't hang it's fucking hat. What do ice cream men do in the winter anyway? Sit at home watching Jeremy Kyle whilst stuffing their fat spotty faces with Cadbury's flakes that have gone past the sell by date I imagine. The lazy fat bastards. Get to fuck the lot of you, and take your strawberry fucking mivi's and hundreds and bastard thousands with you. You come round here, waking us up with your wanky music. Piss off. We don't want a

Amazing isn't it? In the very same week that they've nailed the location of Richard lll it looks like they've only gone and found Lord Lucan too. And in an equally unlikely place as Dicky#3 was secreted it has to be said. In a packet of Tesco sausages no less. Human tooth found in Tesco sausages It would seem that shopping at Tesco is like pushing a trolley around a giant Kinder Egg, you never quite know what you are going to get. Horses, human teeth, bloodied syringes. How very exciting. I particularly like the comment that "she didn't touch a sausage for about a month after that." Phnaar, phnarrr. No chance of a banger there then. It's pleasing to note that they are "confident that the tooth was not in the sausage when it arrived in the store" - I bet that's put your mind at rest. They don't tell us how they reckon it did get in there. Maybe it belongs to one of the staff? On the other hand a customer could have put it there. Looking a

Interesting to see Woy use last night's friendly against Brazil to check whether James Milner is still shit or not. That's that one cleared up, Woy. He is, and most certainly always will be. Even I could have told you that, and I'm a Border Terrier. Did anyone clock his nose by the way. Woy's that is, not James Milner's. Thinking about it though, James Milner's nose is probably a better dribbler than he is. But I digress. Woy's nose seems to have suddenly developed a bit of an Albert Tatlock look to it. Has anyone from the FA ever checked to see if that really is Lucozade Sport in that bottle under his seat? In the after match interview I kept expecting Woy to put his arm round the TV presenter and say "you're my best mate you are. I fucking love you. Come on, let's hear it.....start spreading the newwwwwsssss, da da da da, da da da da da....fuck off Milner, you're shit....Stevie come on son, join in, you like a bevvie don't you mate, co

Or in this case Young's prime cod fillets. Never have I ever seen anything look so fucking unlike the picture on the box in all my sorry fucking life. If they'd have had a picture of a very small grey flat thing wrapped in shit then it would have been a pretty fair representation of what the box contained. Instead, for marketing reasons I assume, they chose to adorn the box with a lovely sparkling white super flakey piece of cod wrapped in a succulent golden batter. So of course the ungrateful two legged lot won't eat the shit, so I have to have it for me tea. Me. A Border Terrier that happily eats other dog's shit in the park for fun faced with three and a half fillets of this excrement. I'd rather gnaw me own paw off thanks. A terrier turd on a stick is on it's way to these wankers. Look out for it inside a box marked "gourmet sheek kebab" in a frozen food aisle near you shortly.

What a load of shite that is. Literally. The youngest two-legged came home today with some "spring rolls" that he'd made. I use the quotation marks as these were the largest spring rolls that I've even seen by a country mile. I didn't know it was humanly possible to get filo pastry in sheets that fucking big. Massive rolls of lino is what they resembled. Rolls if lino that had been made several hours previously and left to "marinade" in their own sweat in a Tupperware container on the window sill for half the fucking day. Crisp they weren't. Forget all notions of crispness. If there's a machine for measuring crispness (I'm sure I've seen Heston Blumenthal use one) then it would have needed re-calibrating to get low enough to measure the fucking soggy uncrispiness of these sorry looking sweaty bastards. Not only that but the cookery teacher, or do they call her a food design technologist or something these days, whatever, the cookery teach

Well, being a Border Terrier, I don't normally get much post as you can imagine. So blow me down and bugger me rigid with the blunt end of a rogering stick if me Dad doesn't bring me home a second parcel that's been sent to his workplace, addressed to me, this one containing a covering letter as well no less (also addressed to me) along with 50 pig's ears!! A parcel and a personalised letter!! To me!! When was the last time your dog got a parcel AND a personalised letter along with 50 pig's ears? Exactly. Senders of said parcel/letter/ears are none other than Thomas Bell of Brigg, the country's leading importer and purveyor of fertilisers who also seem to have a bit of a sideline going on with pig's ears. Well, first off I can say that this lovely gesture shows a certain human and approachable spirit, let's call it spunk, that appears to be sadly missing all too often in this day and age. None of the other big corporate so-called fertiliser importers hav

The poor little lamb, has been banned from driving for failing to respond to police letters regarding his car clocked speeding. It wasn't his fault, says his solicitor. He didn't reply because he didn't understand the word "Constabulary" at the top of the letters so he didn't think that they were of any importance. I wonder how long it took them to dream that one up? They should try writing "Dear Mr Dirty Cheating Argie Bastard" at the top of them next time the police correspond with Mr Tevez, I suggest. I nearly choked on my pigs ear when I went on to read from his solicitor: "He is a footballer and in that regard he is relatively well-paid." Relatively well paid, eh? Well you could say that I suppose: Is that all?

Despite the news that they've found that some supermarket "econoburgers" may contain as much as 29% horse, the Irish food safety authority tell us that there is no risk to health. How do they know that? Do these burgers come from approved suppliers or something? If anything is a surprise it's that there's actually 29% meat in these disgusting bloody things. I wouldn't give one to a human. Cue jokes that despite the news, sales remaining stable. Or a horse walks into a bap....Neigh. Me Dad went into McDonalds at lunchtime and asked for a quarterpounder, the spotty youth behind the counter said "do you want anything on it Mister?" Me Dad said yeah, I'll have a fiver each way please. Woof. He woke up to find a horse's head at the foot of the bed this morning. It was nothing to do with the Mafia, me Mum has just bought a new duvet set from Tesco's. Meanwhile Animal Right's have announced that they are changing their motto to "Meat is

A report on Bloomberg says that in Japan sales of adult "diapers" - they mean nappies, but they are Septic's so they call them something different - now outstrip sales of nappies for babies. I nearly pissed myself when I read that. It doesn't really say whether this is down to medical reasons, or if they are just plain lazy bastards. What a waste of money too. Why don't they just get a bloke to follow them round with a pooh bag like I do? He doesn't charge anything for doing it, I think he just does it because he likes it, and at this time of year it does provide a welcome hand-warming opportunity. I did one the other day that was giving off more steam than Drax power station. It wasn't as large as Drax obviously, what sort of Border Terrier do you think I am? It certainly had enough latent energy in it to boil a kettle though I reckon. Or perhaps power a bedside lamp. Thinking about it I could be missing a trick here. The Border Terrier Pooh Lamp. Every h

Me Dad has just been on the blower from Dublin. He's gutted to be in the only hotel in town where the bar shuts at half past eleven. He only got there at half ten too! Tit head. He says he can't make his mind up if they've all been inhaling helium or are just talking funny to take the piss. To be sure. He says he was reassured though to discover that all the taxi drivers in Dublin are foreign too. Bejapers.

The dirty cheating rabbit-faced Kopite hand-balling Uruguayan twat. He's as bent as an Arab's dagger that ugly greasy sweaty little bell end. He's handled more balls than Julian Clary that lad. What do we know about Uruguayans? They disallow perfectly good English goals that are miles over the line and they have to resort to cheating at poor little Mansfield Town to scrape a spawny 2-1 away win. They're worse than the Argies. An unpolished pooh on a plinth is on the way to Anfield. I haven't addressed it to anybody in particular, I reckon they'll know who it's for.