Was telling me Mum last night that after years of struggling with her weight that the doctors have finally discovered what was wrong with his ex missus. It was all down to her ears, apparently. "Her ears, what've they got to do with it?" me Mum asked. "Well, they were so fucking good that they could hear the ice cream van coming from six streets away," me Dad said. Here's one for you. What's yellow and lies at the bottom of the Indian Ocean? It's sand. Why, what did you think I was going to say? Come on, have a fucking heart will ya. Woof....

First off, what the fuck was Fiona Bruce wearing for the Antiques Roadshow on Sunday night? Sartorial elegance has never been her thing, I'll give you that. Her dress standards are lower than Kerry Katona's IQ. Then we are treated to Mark Lawrenson on Match of the Day looking like Harry Hill's ageing alcoholic Grandad. What the fuck's that all about? Then they keep inundating us with another one of those fucking Oxfam ads. "Sinita has no food, no water and no hope..." Fair enough, I've got empathy for Sinita and her little lad who has to drag a carton of water back from the watering hole fifteen miles away every day, especially having only eaten the shite that Sinita dishes up for him. Why doesn't Sinita go and get the fucking water herself instead of scrabbling around in the dust and sending the little lad off for it? What I also don't get is how come for four quid Sinita can have a cow and suddenly everything's sorted. First off, is that all