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...