Lost her pocket, Kitty "the Gyppo" Fisher found it. Unfortunately she only found it after Lucy's iPhone and dinner money had gone missing. She was unlucky like that Kitty. Always finding things a bit too late. Like when she found the teachers purse stuffed down the back of the radiator AFTER the Christmas Charity money got half-inched. "It's a Romany curse" said Kitty's Mum. Kitty's Dad didn't say anything. He's inside doing a 12-stretch for kicking a man with a speech impediment unconscious in the queue at Greggs when he asked for "two Pikey pies". An unlucky family really. Still, they've got a nice caravan.

I thought I'd rewrite a few of my own nursery rhymes following the news that kids in school will now be taught to recite Baa, baa, white sheep. How about Wee Willie Winkie ran through the town, upstairs downstairs in his nightgown. He's now being held against his will in the secure unit of a local looney bin under section 24 of the Mental Health Act 1962. Or, little Abdul Horner, sat in the corner, eating a halal pie, he put in his thumb and pulled out a gun, and said...well we don't know what he said actually as he's only lived here for 15 years and doesn't speak a word of the Queen's. Baa, baa white sheep have you any wool? No sir, no sir, at least none that's been ethically sourced in this country. I can do you some nice Peruvian stuff flown in by jumbo jet from the foothills of the Andes this very morning for maximum freshness. Right, I'll have three bags of that then. One for the Master, acquitted of having sex with young boys in 1974, but found gui

Well, it's not often that I'm rendered almost speechless, but the Septics have really gone and done it this time. What the fuck were they thinking? Watching him deliver his victory speech on the telly last night I was drawn to what I assume was his son in the background, a lad of about 14. He sports a similar "comb over" look to his Dad. The look on his face was a picture. A combination of totally not wanting to be there with one of  attempting manfully to hold in a very determined pooh. Did you notice it? His Dad is spouting off about everybody pulling together and the lad is thinking "if you don't get a move on here Pater then my sphincter is going to explode on national TV in front of the entire watching world". I'd have liked to have seen that. And another thing this "Trump pence" that was everywhere, what was that about? Is that the amount he pays for his annual charm school subscription? Or the contents of his hairdresser's tips j

I fucking love it. An endless procession of kids knocking at the door sets young Tommy Knocker off a treat. Barking, snarling, hurling himself at the door like a demented banshee, the little kids the other side are shitting themselves. "Fuck me, no 74 have spent some money on special effects," they must be thinking, but this is no special effect, oh no, this is Tommy Knocker. He's for real all right. "Trick or treat, Mister," the oldest and bravest one whispers through the letterbox. Crash, bang, snarl, woof, woof, woof. "Do I sound like an American?" says me Dad. "Does this street look like America?" he goes on pressing home his point. "erm, no, not really," comes the timid reply. Crash, bang, snarl, woof, woof, woof. "Well fuck off then." "Come on Mister, it's only a bit of fun," he presses on. (The little ones have already shat themselves and gone by now). "OK, hang on, I haven't got any sweets, b

I've got 'em. Me Mum says I must have eaten something "dodgy", which it's a bit difficult to narrow down in my case seeing as around half of everything I consume could be construed as "dodgy" in one form or another. Still, pleased to see that it didn't put the boy off his breakfast this morning. Me Mum thoughtfully put some paper down for me in the kitchen (it's the one thing that the Mail on Sunday is good for), just in case I couldn't make it through the night (which I couldn't). So I duly availed myself of said services and left a nice runny mess there for her to clear up in the morning. The boy comes down first, makes himself some poached eggs on toast and sits down happy as Larry at the kitchen table to eat it right next to my steaming puddle of shite. I kid you not. The dirty bastard. It's like living through an episode of the Royle Family in here some days.

Here we are again then. This is starting to happen with far too much regularity if you ask me. What's the big deal this week then that me and Knocker are confined to the kennels? Me Mum and Dad are getting married that's what. I thought they were fucking married already. That means that Knocker and me are bastards. The shame of it all. I'm not surprised that the Jehovah's Witness lady has stopped coming round. We used to look forward to barking at her and frightening her away as well. Living in fucking sin all these years, the dirty bastards.

What the fuck has happened to his hair? I was shocked to see said slaphead on the news last night. I only recognised him 'cos of Kate stood next to him. She must be distraught poor love, one minute you're married to a dashing prince and the next morning you wake up next to Greg Wallace. What a fucking right royal let down that is.

Watching the news on the Tellybox thing last night, they rounded off this story with "we won't know that until the police have launched a full investigation into the matter" comment from a serious looking reporter. Which made me wonder do they ever say "the police are only doing a partial investigation into this one, to save costs and as they already know who's guilty anyway as some gyppo's live just around the corner from here." Which also reminds me of the BT advert. "And for that, you get our most reliable broadband service ever." Which suggests it should be followed by "unlike those other poor twats who've already signed up. Mugs. We can palm them off with any old shite." And why is it three quid to sponsor anyone, anywhere to do anything? She's all alone in the mountains, hunted for her fur, but 3 quid will buy a snow leopard a detached house and an Instamatic camera which she can use to send you some pics of her and her

Watching the news last night I thought it was interesting to see that the Syrian building industry works almost identically to our own despite all our differences - one man actually on the shovel, and three others stood around watching him. Ideal for a life in the West. Another things that struck me watching the beginning of Countryfile last night: is me Dad the only idiot who thinks that this week he's gonna be able to see a little bit more of that woman's tits doing the rock climbing at the beginning than he could last week?

Me dad says he's never felt old, at least not until his recent bout of hospitalisation, where the nurses all seemed to be about 13 compared to him. Not only that but they all adopted the most condescending manner, in the style of somebody who knows better talking to a really old person, before me dad realised that that old person was him. "Do you think you can manage a little walk, Dave?" (Me dad: "there's nowhere to fucking go, apart from the end of the corridor and back, you soft bint.) "Let's just say to the end of the corridor and back, could you managed that Dave, I'll be here to support you if you get tired." (Dad: what the fuck are you on about, the end of the corridor, there, fifty fucking bastard cock striding yards away, of course I can managed to walk there you soft shite, it's only 50 yards, and no I don't need your fucking help ta. I tell you what let's race it for twenty quid just to make it interesting?). "Oh, wel