Got me first Christmas card, and frankly probably me only one, from the only people in the world who really care about me - Thomas Bell of Brigg, the country's leading fertiliser importers. Me Mum and Dad can't be arsed to send me a card or bugger all, the tight bastards. I'm pinning me hopes on me old mates to replenish my now badly depleted supply of pigs ears in time for 2014 too, as there's not much chance of a Christmas prezzie for yours truly off anybody else in our fucking house. Bastards they are. I've got about as much chance of getting anything of me Mum and Dad as Ronnie Briggs has of winning Strictly I reckon. It occurred to me this mornin that if old Ronnie was still robbin trains in this day and age, him and his mates could simply have scattered a few leaves on the line. Job sorted. Either that or just wait for the wrong type of snow to fall. All the Great Train Robbers are dead now apparently. Apart from Virgin who charge a fiver for a microwaved baco...

Came home from work early last night with a package under his arm. "I've bought one of those new Man United lamps," he said to me Mum. I have to say, it looks really good in the middle of the table. Woof. I hope he comes home early again tonight, I'm dying for a shit. And I'm fucking starving.

Be very careful if you are driving past Old Trafford this week. A lot of people have been picking up 3 points there lately. Woof.

About poor old Nelson Mandela. I thought he was fucking brilliant in the Shawshank Redemption. Mind you, did you see some of the shirts he used to wear? Fuck me, I'm not surprised that they locked him up. Twenty seven years is maybe a tad harsh though. The fashion police must be strict as fuck in South Africa I reckon. Still, respect where it's due. I'd had enough of hearing about that fucking Scottish helicopter crash anyway. Woof.

Me Dad says that giving it up requires dedication, hard work and depth of character. Which is presumably why he's never done it. He'd had a few last night that's for sure. Something to do with Everton beating Man Utd, whoever the fuck they are. I wouldn't know, football is a tarts game. Chasing tennis balls and rolling in Shit, they're the sports for me. And eating, obviously.

"Sorry seems to be the hardest word" is what they say. Unless you're Chinese of course and then it's "Squirrel" apparently. Woof.

The little fella is fourteen next week apparently, so they're all going out for a meal. I mean, when I say all, I mean all but me. I never get invited fucking anywhere me. The tight bastards. Anyway, he's asked if he can take his girlfriend, wooohoooo, that's what all the fucking aftershave before school is for then. And he's also asked "please don't embarrass me," the fucking cheek of it. That of course is like a red rag to  bull for me Dad, who's decided that this is the prefect occasion to have the "bird n the bees" chat. I caught him practising in front of the mirror before. It's going to go something like this: "Hello Frannie, how lovely to meet you. George has told us all about you. Take a seat. Now then, when a Daddy Sparrow and a Mummy Sparrow love each other very much and they want to have baby sparrows, Daddy Sparrow puts his penis into Mummy Sparrow's special place and 9 months later they have a baby sparrow. When Dadd...