I didn't know quite what to do with this, so I thought I'd put it just here:

More pictures! I know, I know, but there are so many fluffy things with ickle smiley faces around the place. Going home tomorrow, and all I'll have to take pictures of is my feet. So...

Got a digital camera for Xmas. To express myself with. My first project was to summarise the love between a woman and her sausage shaped friend in a series of self portraits. With varying degrees of success:

Hmm. Yes. My next project is going to involve something which won't look like I'm about to eat it in every bleedin' shot

My mum has become crazy cat lady, 20 years too early. As well as Slaggy and her remaining offspring (Hitler), my grandad's two crusty old moggies have decided to reclaim their old dumping ground, and move back in. I say dumping ground, because for some twisted reason, they seem to think that defecating in every room is some kind of house-warming ceremony. When they're not squatting in corners, they're waging war on the other cats. Every thirty seconds, something howls, or hisses, or shoots out from under the sofa. Or starts choking on tinsel. Actually, that's just Hitler. She has a learning disability. And a slightly cross-eyed expression. As the youngest feline, she is automatically the lowest ranking, and so, when the others get tired of bitch slapping each other, they all turn on her.

I can't wait until tomorrow. Not gonna need to go near the TV. Hitler will spend the entire day wrestling wrapping paper. Slaggy will be off getting sprogged up. The Kraken will perch on the comfiest chair, looking like a cross between a Dalek and a barn owl. And Pogle, descendant of Gollum, who used to sit on my grandad's chest in the middle of the night, feigning affection but actually trying to stop his breathing, will be carefully selecting her next victim. I may not live to see New Year. Have a great Xmas everybody! x

The Mighty Boosh live! Live and on DVD, and in my hands, right now! Oh dear. I'm starting to fancy Vince all over again. It's the fringe in the eyes. The sprayed on trousers. The fact that I molested his face that time and he didn't call security. I have the photo to prove it. Can't risk actually showing it to anyone, because I look like an ageing guinea-pig, and he looks like a drug-addled teenager. But I know it's there. It's all the proof I need.

You could slice a loaf with those cheek bones. You could impale yourself on those hip bones. You could snap off his fingers and dip them in sweet chilli sauce. But it's all just a beautiful dream. At least until kidnapping becomes legal.

A beginner's guide to grumpybloke

I'm not very good at waiting. Unfortunately, it seems that today is some sort of test. One of the kids has gone missing and switched his phone off. He's been very depressed lately because, depsite having been in this country almost a year, he still hasn't received a decision from the Home Office. That means he can't open a bank account, get a NI number, apply for a job. We only just managed to get him a poxy library card. And obviously, on top of not being able to start the new life he's so desperate to have, is the constant uncertainty about whether or not he's going to be allowed to stay here. Never mind the trauma he's been through before even getting here. He's 16. Yes, asylum seekers have an easy ride, they just turn up here, get money, a nice semi-detached, trips to the zoo...

Because I just love getting all wound up of a Wednesday morning, I decided to see what the Daily Mail thought of the 'theory' that the second man responsible for the shooting of Sharon Beshenivsky 'may' have escaped back to Somalia by wearing a veil.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=423813&in_page_id=1770

Just eaten two packets of cheese puffs. Wow, they were revolting. Not so much melt in the mouth as wilt in the mouth and get stuck in the teeth. Bleurgh. I could probably manage another packet though, once the nausea passes. And the buzzing in my ears. Don't think the two are related.

OK, the two children I've had to look after today (the rest have gone somewhere more glamorous than Littlehampton for the weekend, a landfill site for example) are in bed. I've sat through 2 hours of the X Factor with them and kept nasty sarcastic comments to the minimum. I have refused to let one child hoist the TV above his head to celebrate Leona's win.

I've done my duty. WHERE ARE MY FLESH EATING CREEPY CRAWLIES? WHY IS THERE FOOTBALL ON INSTEAD? WHAT IN THE NAME OF ARSE IS THE MEANING OF THIS?

Life experience quiz

How normal are you quiz

In a Past Life...

A kind assassin? 'Here, have a seat before I shoot you'

My Celebrity Boob Twin is Dita Von Tesse. I'm more than a little bit pleased about that.

http://ynr.blogthings.com/whosyourcelebrityboobtwinquiz/

Who's gonna watch curly haired android woman vs three pubes boy battle it out on X Factor tonight? Not me, that's who. There's a film on about killer mutant insects later - "A scientist is shocked to discover that a species of cockroach-hunting bugs she created years earlier has resurfaced and evolved from a form of biological pest-control into the perfect killing machine. Starring Charles S Duttoni!!!"

So, I think this Christmas, I'm going to be an absolute HOSEBAG. Wales' answer to a Pussycat Doll! Necking eggnog and contracting herpes. Waking up with my face pressed into a stranger's carpet. Inciting racial hatred....that may be taking festive waywardness a little too far. I'll just leave a few gates open or something.

I've been thinking about my childhood goat. She looked a bit like this:

I'm going all misty eyed. She was so much fun. RIP Shrub aka Houdini, aka 'that thing in the garden'. May your cud forever be chewy and your bleat always indignant.

I've just drunk a litre of water. To quote Father Ted, my bladder is 'about size of a Terry's Chocolate Orange'. And that would be after Dawn French has hoofed down most of it. Was sat in a meeting, waiting for the warm trickle, oh-so familiar from primary school assemblies, to trace it's way down my leg. Because apparently if your bladder bursts, that's what happens, you wet yourself. Unless that was another primary school myth, like you could catch rabies from kissing boys (although that would explain my inner rage).

Now, despite hating Madonna, she of the coat made entirely of helpless wee beasties, which probably cost the same amount as, oh I don't know, a few schools and a Starbucks or two in Malawi, is this not a banging tune? I challenge any of you not to bob about, just a little bit.

I've just had to eat a deep fried mystery prize that one of the kids was making. It was chargrilled on the outside, white, sticky and tasteless in the middle. What could it have been? Something to do with rice apparently, but what, exactly? I like to know what I'm eating before the hospital dash. Oddly enough, my stomach, which has been griping like a pensioner in a post office queue all day, doesn't seem to mind. Maybe I should go back down there and eat the whole bowl. It can go one of two ways, right?

Wow! A llama is gonna save the world from terrorists! If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was the plot of a Terry Pratchett novel. Here comes the science bit

Channel 4 should not show Will and Grace before 9am. There is far too much squeaking for any person with normal hearing to take. Actually, Channel 4 should not show Will and Grace at all. There is far too much squeaking masquerading as comedy.

Ah, who am I kidding? Lots of ideas for being bad. But they all seem far too scary compared to a weekend in the company of my special tartan blanket, which I think many a pensioner would be proud to tuck round their knees to keep the chill off their kidneys. Maybe I'll take it to work and make all the kids gather round my sensible shoes and tell them stories about a time before Tesco Extra.

Anyway, onto other, more pressing matters. Like, does she really expect us to believe that neck pills caused this behaviour?Sounds more like a big fat line of coke to me. I should know, I spent this afternoon reading FRANK's guide to drugs. Oh yes, did you know that although poppers may give you the impression that your genitals have got larger, they can also give you a bastard between the eyes, which won't exactly put you in the mood for anything more than two Nurofen and a hot bath.

If this week gets any worse, then lives will be lost. Pigeons will be stamped on. Young children will run screaming as I relentlessly rip the heads off their stuffed toys and show them the insides. There won't be a commuter or a Mars bar in Sussex that will be spared an evil grimace or a one-way trip down my digestive system. Respectively.

I've got the feeling that I'd like to do something very very bad. I'm not sure what that is yet. But it's going to involve nudity. Or a family size bag of crisps and a duvet.

It's at times like these that I wish I smoked. Or took non-prescription drugs. And had a dog called Pedro. Actually, that wish is not exclusive to this particular mood. I always want a dog called Pedro.

Look! LOOOOOK! I knew it was my destiny to hunt down, seduce and place the shackles of marriage on an Antipodean doctor who can run an entire hospital single-handedly and make a diagnoisis before breakfast.

You HAVE to read this. I had to bite down really hard on the keyboard just now, to keep my eyeballs from popping out. I laughed so much that my nostril lining is in tatters. I may have a crack at writing my own review, though in no way can I hope to be anywhere near as good as these masters of the noble art of sarcasm. And I'm not being sarcastic.

There's irony, and then there's cruelty. I think this may be an example of the former.

Can anybody suggest some spanking new songs to put on my MP3 player? I not only know all the words to the current ones, I know how many breaths the singers take inbetween verses. I need help!

Is anybody else mildly excited about the tornadoes which are apparently set to sweep the nation? My mum lives about 30 miles from Aberystwyth and she loves a good crisis. She'll be out digging the shelter as soon as she hears this on the news. I've seen Twister far too may times, so I also know the drill. Am on the alert for flying cows. You should always hide under a bridge or strap yourself to something solid, should you get caught short in the tornado season. It also helps if you're blonde, foxy and fearless, and have a love interest the audience want to see you reunited with. Like this:

http://movies.warnerbros.com/twister/bin/certif.cgi?name=Emsbabee

I've just had an oral vision. That can't be right. An audio enlightenment? Well anyway, here it is:

I think it'd sound really good. Surely, this is how God saw his word being spread in the 21st century?