Nice little walkies round the Valley Gardens yesterday, interrupted by me Dad wittering into his mobile phone all the way with me just keen to admire the natural beauty of the landscape and roll in some shit given half the chance. From what I could gather front-end tightness in London wheat (may closed a fiver over July last night) is down to a certain merchant being short cash against long futures and wanting to take delivery of the physical wheat. Which me Dad says ties in nicely with reports he's heard that they have been collecting ex-farm wheat on contract a month early pretty much all through the winter. The merchant involved? I couldn't quite catch it, it's a shame that nobody likes them though, just because their ear is in the wrong place. I'll send them one of my poohs in a jiffy bag, that'll cheer them up.

The NFU have apparently picked a three-legged sheepdog as their farm dog of the year. Three-legged Jack took the top prize after his Welsh owners wrote in to tell them how he had suffered a serious leg injury last year and despite an amputation, made a miraculous recovery and continues to work on the farm. The tight bastards, let him have a rest, he's only got three legs. Still, that's the bloody Welsh for you. His owners probably talk to each other in English when the dog's not there, out working, and then immediately switch to talking to each other in Welsh when he enters the room. Me Dad's Dad got evacuated to a farm in Wales during the war and they took his bloody sweet coupons off him and gave them to their own kids, the tight bastards. It's probably the same people.

Well, well, didn't the Queen look nice, all teeny weeny and wrinkly in yellow, like a little sherbet lemon carrying a handbag. The bride was beautiful of course, and her sister's pretty tidy too, I wouldn't know who's leg to hump first if I was round at their house. What about Harry though, was it just me or was he walking like he'd filled his pants? Will's clearly has the DoE/Charles bald patch, but Harry seems to have a most unroyal thick mop of hair doesn't he? Strange that, the lucky bastard. The Duchess of Kent looked like she'd just had a couple of wisdom teeth extracted, and as for Eugenie and Beatrice, oh lord, let's just say that they've obviously inherited their mother's class. I had no idea that they lived in Middlesbrough until I saw them. That grand old British institution Sir Elt was there, with his chum David, no strangers to going up the aisle either of them. Beckham was there too, with his praying mantis. And did anyone apart...

This morning I found a pooh in the woods that looks a bit like the Duke of Edinburgh, so I've posted that off to the happy couple, I do hope they like it. Long and thin, with a bit of grey fluff stuck to one end it was. I could have put it on eBay, but I thought no, that'll be something to adorn any mantelpiece that will. I was going to have it mounted on a polished wooden plinth but there simply wasn't the time. So I just popped it into a clingfilm roll holder and DHL'd it off. Is nothing sacred though? Sponsorship is creeping into everything these days, with tomorrow's wedding taking place at Westminster Santander as it's now called. I'm fully expecting the buffet to be sponsored by Iceland and have Jason Donovan and that stupid Kerry Katona tart dancing round the living room at Buck House passing round the vol-au-vents, an absolute bargain at two quid for three dozen, whilst stocks last. And call me bitter if you like, seeing as I just got edged out at th...

If they're not really sure if he's American, how confident are they that Michelle is actually a woman. I mean she's pretty big for a woman isn't she? She towered over the Queen like Usain Bolt getting introduced to Daphne off Eggheads the last time I saw them on the telly. And those kids, they're just too perfect to be real kids as well aren't they? It must be like a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers when they go to be at night I reckon. Pooh count: three, or four if you count the one behind the settee.

...is shit isn't it? I only watch it to keep the two-leggeds happy. Talk about far-fetched as well, not like reality TV shows such as DeadEnders or Corrie. They show it like it really is. I mean, when was the last time you saw Ken Barlow toting a magic screwdriver? Exactly, you aren't going to get that in Wetherby or wherever it is they live are you? No. Endex. Or large jellyfish-like monsters supping at the bar in the Rovers, well not since Fred died anyway. It's all baloney. A waste of the licence payer's money, that's what me Dad calls it. And bollox as well, he calls it that sometimes. Pooh count: a comfy seven (unless you count the runny one down by the cycle path in which case it's fifteen).

Are you going? Apparently the last place up for grabs was a toss up between me and Victoria Beckham, and she just got the nod due to her husband's "services to industry". We all know what industry he's been supporting, and lets just say it's quite an old fashioned profession shall we? I mean, we've all got skeletons in our cupboard, it's just a little odd that he chooses to take his out in public with him isn't it? I think I'll watch it on Sky....