Left "home alone" for half the day yesterday whilst me uncaring Mam & Dad pissed off to see some bloke called Elton John in concert in town somewhere. Me Dad says this fella, whoever he is, put on a fantastic performance that was only spoilt by the rain and the usual "Harrogate type" in front of him who he says insisted on singing along very loudly to every single song, accompanied by elaborate hand and arm movements that made her look like "a demented Magnus Pyke having an epileptic fit in a jacket that looked like it was made out of seventeen dead squirrels and other assorted road kill." There's so many of these The Voice, Pop Idol, X Factor shite programmes about that half the population now seem to believe that they could be the next Robbie Williams if only they could get a break. Sad, pathetic bastards. Eighty quid for a ticket that entitles you to a plastic seat in the middle of an open field, in the rain, with queues so long for the bar that...

Why did little Tommy fall off the swing? Because he had no arms. Knock, knock. Who's there? Well not little Tommy obviously. A doctor goes into a hospital ward to see a pregnant lady, who has had terrible stomach cramps and fears for her unborn child. "Well, my dear, there's good news and bad news, which would you like first?" the doctor says. Bracing herself the lady opts for the bad news. "Well, we've run some tests and the bad news is that your baby has got ginger hair," the doctor says. "Oh no!" she sighs. "What's the good news?" The doctor replies, "It's dead."

Me Dad went down the doctors yesterday, what a bloody depressing place that sounds. Full of ill people watching the "telly" - except the sole channel that they have got makes Jeremy Kyle programmes look uplifting. Welcome....Think you've got Chlamydia? Well that's probably the least of your worries, but no problem, we've got special "where did I get that from" self-testing kits in the bogs so nobody can see your dirty secret. Oh, missus, you don't look too clever, why not start saving for your funeral now so that you won't be the same almighty burden after you've gone as you are now. Hurry! Under 25? You've probably got the pox. Whap your privates out onto the table and the nurse will have a quick look for you. Don't worry she's seen it all before. Christ, will you look at the shape of that. Hang on, let me get Doris from reception to have a shuftie. Over 45? You've almost certainly got heart & liver disease, that's wh...

Kiss my furry winnit-encrusted arse Phones4u you pathetic shower of useless tossbags. If British Unfairways were into mobile phones then surely this would be their business model. Having spent much of the last two days panting with near exhaustion in the back of a hot car whilst me Dad drives from pillar to bastard post all round bastard town trying to sort out what should be a relatively simple problem for most normal people, but clearly not for the combined ineptitude of the window licking retards at Phones4u. Bellends4u that's what they should be called. Take note of their "no returns even if we have blatantly failed to deliver what we said we were going to deliver policy" with the jokingly added on "this does not affect your statutory rights". Me Dad's statutory right is to have his fucking money back whilst I inform the world that a more useless shower of incompetent monkeys than you lot it would be difficult to chance across outside a home for am...

I see that the inventor of TV remote controls died today. Down the back of the settee he was. They tried turning his batteries around and smacking him against the coffee table to no avail. Emile Heskey has been released by Aston Villa. Back into the wild I assume? Didier Drogba is considering a move to China as he wants a new challenge, I hear. Nothing to do with the cash then Didier? Still, at least his football boots can be reunited with the six year old that made them. And finally, respect for Robin Gibb. Shortly before he died the doctors told him that he had a cancerous tumour, and asked him what he wanted to do. To which he replied ..."You should be lancing". Pooh count: a nice little threesome.

It said on the telly last night that Oxfam can supply a family with water for just £2.50/month. Me Dad says we should change suppliers to them. Woof.

Even though I don't watch bollocks like BGT, even I still know that it was won by a dog over the weekend. It would seem alas that the one thing that Britain actually is rather short of is talent. The pinnacle of British talent at the moment appears to be a fuckin dog called Pudsey. Proof, were it needed, that this country most definitely has gone to the dogs. You two leggeds must be simply bursting with humanoid pride this morning. I could of course suggest that Pudsey isn't the first dog to win a major British TV talent show, but that would be unkind on Susan Boyle so I won't even got there. Now it's only a matter of time before Simon Cowell is romantically linked with Pudsey, we all know that. I use the word "romantically" in the loosest possible sense of course. Followed by the sordid revelations in the Sun. "Pudsey: My five times a night Bonio shame." All we have to do now is sit tight and wait for the album to come out. Pooh count: two. Like Cow...