Plus I had to make conversation with all those European men the other night, spending precious precious minutes explaining the difference between dispatch and disperse. It was just like being back at bloody work.

Plus one of my favourite 'housemates' was transferred elsewhere yesterday, so that she would be safe from the traffickers who abducted her 50 metres down the road from the house.

Plus le boyfriend has made it abundantly clear through the medium of a big beer-fuelled row that I am not to phone, text, or generally encourage Isaac, who as it turned out, needed very little encouragement to start things up again. Which leaves me in a big messy dilemma, entirely of my own creation. Bad little white girl.

Plus my mother is going mad, mad I tells ya. Her latest threat is to 'ignore you all, and go off to Dublin, where I can be alone'. Crazy white lady.

So, as you can see, I'm not really in the mood. This is funny though:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polyamory

Most people will either be tempted to, or actually cheat on their partners at some point. One in three marriages end in divorce, in fact it's now becoming closer to one in two. I don't think humans are meant to be monogamous. If that was the case, surely instinct would demand that we stop finding other people attractive once in a relationship?

At least with polyamory, you can be honest with your partner about wanting to see other people. I don't think this is half as destrctive as pretending you only have eyes for them, and then spending three evenings a week pretending to play squash or catch up on paperwork, whilst secretly poking your neighbour in a Morrisons car park.

I don't know if it's possible to be happy with one person. I'm sure people manage it, but I think they may be in the minority. I think jealousy can be overcome, as long as you have the right attitude, but it's far harder to get over infidelity, because it ruins the trust between you. Why should we only be with one person at a time? Admittedly, things get a lot more complicated when there are children involved, but who decided that the nuclear family was the only way to go? The church, and the Daily Mail, that's who.

http://www.getjealous.com/johnandgeorgiestrip

In fact, the only thing I'm not going to be god damn evilly jealous about is the flight. Her boyfriend John is a lovely boy, but he does tend to act like an over-excited puppy quite a lot of the time. And he has the loudest laugh this side of the North Pole. And he can't sleep on planes. 10 hours, Georgie, 10 long hours. It's a good thing they don't let you on board with sharp objects any more.

We went to a party last night, and, not knowing anybody, were quite happy to sit off-side from the action. However, Georgie made the mistake of making eye contact with a French boy. Ten minutes later, he had settled on her right shoulder like a vulture, and was asking why we had 'dispatched' ourselves from the others. We finally worked out he meant to ask why we were sitting away from the group. Around five minutes later, his friend settled on Georgie's left shoulder. We decided to call them 'Papa' and 'Nicole'. This did not go down well. I went inside to bulldoze the buffet, and when I came out, there were at least 5 more European men had settled down next to our little group. Did they tunnel up through the floor or something?

Anyway, they spent the remainder of the evening trying to bully us into coming to a club with them, telling my sister that she had eyes 'like a husky dog' and generally having no respect for personal boundaries, or the fact that English people enjoy being sarcastic and unfriendly.

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/26072006/356/yanks-fat-x-rays.html

How come they're all so huge, yet they have the thinnest actresses on earth?? I could clean my ears out with Teri Hatcher's cotton bud arms.

It was my birthday on Sunday! I am quarter of a century old. I have the complex to prove it. I think it's time to start an affair with my secretary, or make love to my brand news sports car.

Had a lovely party, which I cannot remember, although I am told we went to the beach, which would explain why I keep finding sand in my ears. Everybody was supposed to wear wigs or wings, but only a handful of people managed to 'remember'. My friend John turned up in a blonde bomshell wig with wings made out of black feathers, he looked like a transvestite crow.

Here is my own effort:

Think I may have been ever so slightly upstaged though:

In other news, my friend David is having an exhibition in London:

www.nervoussquirrel.com

I'd like to go, but have just flicked through his portfolio, and I do not understand.

What does this:

Have to do with this?

He has issued a list of rules which we must now obey. Amongst this diatribe of anal self-righteousness, is the insistence that there MUST BE NO OVERNIGHT GUESTS IN THE HOUSE, OR A POX ON ALL YOUR FIRST BORN SONS!

http://archive.theargus.co.uk/2006/7/13/212654.html

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/08072006/325/psychiatrist-becomes-mother-62.html

But I'm gonna. Oh dear. I don't really agree with IVF. I'm sure if I ever discover that I'm infertile, I'll feel differently. But then, there's a huge difference in being unable to have children because of your body, and being unable to because of your age. You should probably be settling down in front of Heartbeat at 62, rather than Teletubbies.

While the parents may be affluent and worldly wise, and have so much free time that they can teach Junior to speak Mandarin by the time he's 2, they will also be permanently knackered and probably do their backs in pushing him on the swings. I'm not saying that everybody over 50 should be sent to the scrap yard, but my cousin is 32 with a one year old daugher going through a Damian stage, and she's asleep face down on the coffee table by 8.30 most nights.

Her best bits were about 30 seconds long. She spent seven weeks howling at the moon, and wrapping herself around Pete like a praying mantis. That doesn't make for the world's greatest montage. I still can't get the image of her sucking off a carrot out of my head though. I fully expect to see her posing in The Star next week, pleasuring an aubergine.

Now it's surely Jayne next. Please God, you cannot allow this woman any more air time. She's loud-mouthed, aggressive 'gotta act crazee because I'm actually shockingly normal, and a little bit dead inside'. She makes Glyn appear sophisticated in comparison, with his black pudding concoctions and farting in bed. And she looks and sounds like a bullfrog. And I don't think I'm being particularly fattist or ageist or discriminatory against underwear when I say that there is a place for a see-through hot pink lace negligee, and that place is NOT on Jayne.

And breathe.....I feel cleansed. Tomorrow, why Nikki is a demonic barbie anti-christ that's shrunk in the wash.

In slightly less trivial news:

http://www.theargus.co.uk/the_argus/news/NEWS0.html

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/05072006/323/most-britons-against-illegal-immigrant-amnesty-poll.html

Most people seem to think of asylum seekers as some sort of demon force, rather than individuals who, through no fault of their own, have been born into a country where it is impossible to live. Why the hell wouldn't they 'try their luck' in Britain? Why do we seem to think we're the only people entitled to such a high standard of living, and that nobody else should have the cheek to demand the same?

Shouldn't we take some responsibility for the state most of the countries these people flee from are in? Haven't we got rich from colonising, exploiting and undercutting them in trade?

All of the children I have worked with have come here because it's not safe for them to stay at home. None of them are planning to leach off the benefits system as soon as they hit 18. They want to go to college and get a good job and make a contribution to our society, something they would find it extremely difficult to do in their own countries. They're HUMAN BEINGS, with feelings and ideas and aspirations, and personalities. Not the great mass lump of spongers and criminals that the media make them out to be.

To start, this was the line-up:

http://www.isleofwightfestival.com/line-up.asp

From this, we saw the following, Goldfrapp, Prodigy, the Kooks, Editors, Primal Scream (who were very grumpy), Lou Reed (trippy) and Coldplay. I will no longer tolerate anybody slating Coldplay. OK, so they write songs by numbers, but I challenge anybody to get through one of their sets without singing, crying, punching the air, or all three. They're awesome live.

Only topped by Prodigy on Friday night. Who are brilliant and terrifying in equal measures. And they make people do the most monged out dancing I've ever seen. I'm surprised I left that gig with all my toes intact, so often were they jumped on by the bloke in front of me, who we'll call Brian, the clerical officer from Southbourne whose mum sends him off with a freshly pressed tie every morning. He was going mad fer it. He clearly had a lot of pent-up office frustrations to vent.

This was our camp site. It was full of girls that looked like they'd just stepped out of a salon. Where the hell can you plug hair straighteners in in a field?

We spent most days queuing for the suprisingly civilised showers, and the horribly primitive toilets, buying hippy shit from all the stalls (pipes made from the finest unicorn horns, clothes that clowns would reject for being too bright) and stuffing down deep fried somethings in the horribly hot sun.

On Saturday, we discovered the Pussy Parlour. We also bought a camera. This made us very happy:

It was just a big circular shed, but you could get a drink in under three hours, and they had a fabulous amateur circus act, the highlight of which was AMAZING GARETH. That was his stage name. He blew up rubber gloves and then used them to impersonate animals. They also had some women wearing not very much and not really knowing what they were doing with ropes and sticks on fire.

On Saturday night, Olly wanted to see the Foo Fighters. You had to conceal your drugs in your beard, or behind your eyelids, because they were searching everybody, so he stuffed his spliffs into his sock. By the time they reappeared, they were soaked in sweat and refusing to light, but he smoked them anyway. Then fell asleep on the floor, and missed the rest of the night. So Cath (sister, evil twin) forced me into the Bacardi tent, where we spent two hours dancing to what I think was Cuban jungle music and avoiding all the drugged up psychos who were circling the floor.

Danny came along too, dancing in his usual mid 90's raver style, clapping, stamping, blowing an imaginary whistle. He brought his mate Matt, who was as horny as a hound dog, and refused to reveal the secret of what really happened at Wayne's party unless Cath took her clothes off. So we'll never know what happened at Wayne's party.

Sunday, and spirits were starting to sag, as was the tent, which we had borrowed from Olly's sister's gypsy boyfriend. We had to sellotape the poles together. So we went to Camp Danny and begged sanctuary, where they were all horribly organised and had a kettle, a toaster, a three piece suite and a cleaner.

After an oo from Typhoo, we went back to the Pussy Parlour and got pissed and danced around a glo-stick, before going to the main field to sob and sing badly through Coldplay.

Then went to a Poi-Poi party, where some guy called Tom was going round telling everybody how he couldn't chill out because he'd taken 5 E's. He also hadn't had a crap in about three days, so Olly gave him some bog roll and his little druggy eyes lit up, and he scampered away to pass out in the nearest Port-a-loo.

Anyway, I think this picture sums up the entire weekend rather nicely