Knock, knock. (No answer). Knock, knock. (No answer). Knock, knock. (No answer). Are you alright in there Miss Houston? A mate of me Dad's who lives near Oxford rang him up the other day and said "My God, Whitney's dead!" Me Dad said "Well, it's a bit quiet everywhere this time of year." Makes you think though doesn't it. Is Bobby Brown kicking himself right now? Woof.

Me Dad told me that his ex missus rang him up one Valentines Day moaning that the other two girls in the office had just had flowers delivered to the office courtesy of their loving partners and that they were absolutely gorgeous. "That's probably why they got flowers then," he replied. I don't get this obsession that you lot have with flowers. Flowers are for pissing on, everybody knows that.

It's Valentines Day tomorrow. Me Dad, old romantic that he is, has booked the same table for him and me Mum as last year and says he's confident of getting a result. She only potted two reds last year.

Poor old "Whittering" Huston has whittered off this mortal coil I am distressed to discover today. The BBC have just reported that her body has been removed from the Beverley Hills hotel where she died to the morgue. That's probably best, if she should have stayed, she would only be in the way. How prophetic does that now look? Pooh count: three, one of which will be polished with due reverence and placed on a little polished mahogany plinth and posted off first thing in the morning. I, for one, will always love her. Unless that single now gets back in the charts, in which case I may suffer a sudden change of heart. Heaven must be a pretty crowded place I reckon, with all the pets that have bitten the dust round here, Steve Jobs, Jimmy Saville and now Whittering littering the place up. They'll be hanging up the "full" sign before long. Don't worry Richard Branston though, you're booked in elsewhere.