It snowed steadily this morning in North Yorkshire, but not nice snow like we had last time. This is horrible wet slushy stuff. The sort of stuff that puts even me off my morning constitutional. Time to settle down in front of the fire and watch some footie on the telly then. Or so I thought. Until he said "after last week's performance I'd rather gnaw off my own fist than watch that gang of useless, lazy overpaid nancy boys." So it looks like licking my own privates is likely to be as exciting as it gets on this particular afternoon, the tight bastard. Pooh count: it's a par 3 so far.

A bit like me the grain market went for a late dump tonight. I'm shocked to see some of the stuff one young whippersnapper has posted recently on Twitter: "Some joker called Nogger trying to call a top to London wheat .... for the twenty fifth time!" said one infidel on Monday. Preceded by "Brokers say the only seller is Openfield." I beg to differ with you on that one old chap. And "Liverpool grain dinner on Friday night, all the talk was of how short of wheat the feed mills are for the summer. Some real fear smelt.." You know now that you mention it I can smell something, although it isn't fear. Erm, you wouldn't be long by any chance would you son, and do you want to buy any more?

If you throw a fully grown chocolate labrador and a fully grown golden labrador off the top of Blackpool Tower at exactly the same time, which one lands first? The chocolate lab of course, because the golden lab is a shade lighter. Pooh count: only the 2, it's cold out there. Two number two's you might say.

They've whipped all my winter coat off and left me shivering like a bloody chihuahua, the tight bastards. All I got last night was "ah, isn't he lovely, just like a new born pup." Yes I am like a new born pup, bloody freezing. Kept firmly on my lead all the way round the Valley Gardens in a misty damp 3C this morning just to add insult to injury, so no rolling or terrier truffling opportunities either. If I had a gun I'd shoot myself. Pooh count: 0, yes zero, I'm saving it up for payback time.

Back from an enforced sitting at the "barbers" looking and smelling like Liberace's lipstick drawer, the tight bastards. Gonna have to make a serious effort to slip the lead and indulge in some "masculine aroma enhancement" in the morning. My bitches down the park will never go for this. Pooh count: 4, a very poor showing.

I've been dispatched off to the health farm today for a "haircut 100" as I call it, the tight bastards. Just as I'd got myself smelling just right as well it's a short, back and all off for me. The Sweeney Todd that does it doesn't even give you a choice or of styles nor kiss my arse. Then I get a bath and they rub some talc all over me. It stinks like the stuff you used to buy your gran off the market for Christmas when you didn't have much cash. You know the sort of thing I mean. Devon Violets, by Yardley: 50p a kilo, that's the stuff. Pooh count: only 1, I think I may have a medical condition.

What sort of a name is that? Couldn't they spell in your school? You're a disgrace son, look at you, you look like a cross between a Twix and Joe 90. Award my arse, the only thing I'd award you with is a slap with the back of my paw. Get a proper job you layabout. Pooh count: 7, satiated.