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.