Just signed up for it and installed it on me laptop (they got me one of those little netbook things for Christmas in exchange for not pissing on the kitchen floor for a fortnight). Why does it sound like you're about to take a shuftie at what prizes are on offer in an episode of Bullseye? I used to love that programme me. "In one, going to the toilet's never a drag, with this leatherette-look colostomy bag..." They should get me one of those if they're that bothered about me pissing in the kitchen shouldn't they? The tight bastards. Pooh count, two, slowly, slowly catchy turdy.

Me Mum has started doing some voluntary gardening work at a local old people's home, and apparently today they had a singer in. The idea is that she rattles off a few of Vera Lynn's finest, to boost morale like, and everyone has a grand old sing song. Robert is your uncle. Today's singer apparently had a voice more like Vera Duckworth's than Vera Lynn's and emptied the residents lounge faster than a dose of salts. Even the ones who couldn't walk got up and walked out by all accounts. They've got Lenny Henry on next week, it's the only work he can get these days, apart from bouncing up and down on beds that is. That guy's about as funny as a flatulent spaniel. Pooh count a weight reducing and reassuring six.

They've revealed the route to be taken by the Olympic torch in 2012 today. It will start it's journey at Lands End, taking 70 days to reach London via Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland including taking in the Isle of Man, Guernsey, Jersey, Shetland, Orkney and the Isle of Lewis. I got that taxi once. The robbing bastards. Pooh count: a restrained two.

It's not quite ten o'clock, yet I've already managed to squeeze out a very healthy four logger this morning. Whilst in human terms that might send you running to the doctors, in border terrier terms it's a clear sign of health and vitality. Plus I feel about two stone lighter as well. I wonder if humans get that bottom clenching all's well with the world I feel like I've just run the London Marathon feeling that we dogs get after a particularly satisfying dump? Or the urge to round off the entire performance with a couple of hearty hind leg grass flicks? I hope so, there's nothing quite like it, especially since they had me "done" - the tight bastards. Might settle down and listen to a bit of Tchaikovsky on me iPod now and have a snooze in the lounge. It's fully six hours to tea-time, I do hope it's sausages, with gravy, northern dogs love sausages with gravy....

So ManYoo have won the Premier League again with a (shock) debatable penalty earning them a draw against relegation faced Blackburn, and Man Shitty have bought the FA Cup with a streaky 1-0 win against lowly Stoke. Hoo chuffin ray. Hardly the stuff of giants is it? Pooh count: four, more excitement there than watching those overpaid ladyboys running around kissing each other. Ya Ya, what sort of a name is that? Two hundred grand a week he's supposed to be on the lanky streak of piss. Tevez, the dirty cheating Argy bastard, said he needed a cortisone injection in order to play the second half, and Ya Ya pipes up with "well if he's having a new car I'm having one too Boss," the thick get. Hanging's too good for them. And Rooney, he's not exactly the brightest biscuit in the barrel either is he? And is it just me or is that Balotelli gadger complely and utterly cack? If that's the best team you can put together for fifty squillion billion then we're a...

Walkies was a quick scoot around the Valley Gardens this morning. Saw the usual three lovely little bitches out with their respective two-leggeds, including Sasha who is a particularly cute Lhasa Apso. As (bad) luck would have it I was mid-pooh at the time, and a particularly reluctant one at that, which isn't ideal when it comes to attracting the ladies. They didn't seem too impressed, so I gave them my "look how far I can piss up a lamppost" trick, a real crowd pleaser that one is normally, but even that failed to draw much interest. In desperation at this point I proffered them my pied de résistance back paws in the air two-legged bum scrape across the grass, which usually never fails to draw gasps of admiration from passers-by - one old lady fainted with joy at the sight of that once - but alas not on this occasion. Love is a fickle bastard at times I find.