Founder of Ikea; the Swedish flat pack furniture company - Ingvar Kamprad - has sadly died aged 91. He was to be buried in one of his company's self-assembly Koffins. However, the funeral arrangements have been delayed until they find some wooden dowels that actually fit; and the missing allen key - woof. Their stuff never really caught me dad's fancy. All those incomprehensible instructions in a leaflet that looked like it had been hand drawn by a mentally subnormal hamster. As we gamely wade through Swedish, German, Dutch, Italian, Spanish, French and Croatian, finally it takes until page fucking 8 before we reach the Queen's English. Even Croatian is ahead of us. He never liked their meatballs either - woof.

I have just read on the BBC web site that there's a Killer Whale that has been taught to speak through it's blowhole. That reminds me of Diane Abbott - she is well known for doing that too. This could be the birth of a new joke. Question: What do Diane Abbott and a Killer Whale have in common ? Answer: They're both big, black, and talk through their blowholes. Apparently the Whale can just about say the number 3. So - that's something else they both have in common. Woof !

Modern art ... I just don't get it. My uncle went to an art gallery last week, I don't want to publicize where exactly; but let's say hypothetically it was the Tate Modern, at the Albert Dock in Liverpool, postcode L 3, 4 B B. What the fuckity fuck is this all about? We've got 2 bits of wood; one a long plank and the other a short post joined together to make the letter Y. So far so good, but then .. and I kid you not ... it had some of the artist's own hair stapled on at the end. WHAT THE ****? It's meant to symbolize the rural Scottish economy or something. But .. it's just two bits of wood with some hair on it, not a fucking Michelangelo. [Fuck me ragged - this is it] It set me thinking that I should reinvent myself ... ergo I am no longer Benny, a Terrier with Tourettes. From now on I wish to be called the Artist Known as Poohgle. The 'enfant terrible' of the art world as one critic called me. I don't want to boast or anything b