His guests they truly vile.
Where'd you find them Jerry Kyle?
They venting all that bile.
How'd you stand it Jerry Kyle?

Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!

Their misfortune makes him smile.
Where's your conscience Jerry Kyle?
They acting all hostile,
Please stop shouting Jerry Kyle.

Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!

He's taken 3 birds up the aisle,
Bring them on stage Jerry Kyle!
Round da block she's been for miles,
Let her have it Jerry Kyle!

Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!

The past is murkier than the Nile,
Stir it up now Jerry Kyle!
Being faithful ain't their style,
DNA test Jerry Kyle!

Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!
Jerry, Jerry Kyle!

Dear God. My page lists my interests as 'Neighbours' and my aims in life as 'reading Peter Andre's autobiography'. And that blog about danger wanking has gone up on there.

I'd better re-design it poste haste and make myself to be a super-charged, fully focused, triple shot of espresso to go, wonder woman. Perhaps I'll e-mail Ruth Badger for some tips. Perhaps I'll even steal her profile shot and paste my head over it.

The Apprentice was quite satisfying tonight. It was pretty obvious from the start that the mole man, Andy, was going to be called back into the boardroom.

He kept hugging his team members. This isn't an episode of Friends, Andy. You don't get results with puppy love and terms of endearment. Marshmallows don't tend to make very good managers.

Having said that, I think that Gerri should have gone, just because she manages to look both sanctimonious and evil at the same time. Like this:

Danger wanking is the art of masturbation in places where the perpetrator is likely to be caught. There are a variety of levels, from amateur (stood in a window) to perversion professional (buck naked at the top of the stairs whilst your girlfriend, her parents and your parents are making polite conversation in the lounge. That was Sparky's particularly proud achievement).

Sparky was determined to top this golden moment that very night. And Brighton was probably the place he was least likely to get arrested in doing it. He gave us a demonstration on the dancefloor, to Bohemian Rhapsody. The boy has rhythm. And, if his 'strokes' were to be believed, a rather impressive man stick reaching to his chin. However, the best he could manage was a 'danger piss' behind a bin outside the club, after which, he forgot to do his trousers up, and did a 'danger walk' up the street.

At 5am, he announced he was going to have a danger wank in my wardrobe. He'd already spilt beer on my duvet, made love to my curtain, started a fight with a giant plastic flower and threatened to give Danny 'the seeing to of his life'. Happily, I managed to persuade him this wasn't the best idea. Mainly by shouting and dragging him out by the ear. Well, they've got to learn.

Who? Some guy. (OK. My first boyfriend. Who I would like to pretend never actually existed, and one day I'll wake up in the shower to find it was all a dream).

When? As soon as we had the opportunity. We were both 16 and felt far too old to still have our respective cherries.

Where? His bedroom. During lunch time. We legged it down there after 3rd lesson and were back in time for registration.

What? I'm not sure how to answer this one. On his bed. Wearing most of my school uniform. In about sixty seconds.

* straighten my skirt, stiffen my resolve, ignore the advances of that terrible cad and concentrate on being a woman of substance and power.
* lie weeping in my chamber, wearing something horrible and frilly and shouting at the maid to bring more broth.

Personally, the second one sounds a lot more manageable. Except I'd have to hire a maid. And buy something horrible and frilly.

If. My life were an Irvine Welsh novel. I would have one of two choices:

* get off my tits on something chemical and allow some scuzzy bloke to do unspeakable things to me in a alley.
* get drunk and off my tits, get in a huge fight, soil myself and loose three teeth.

Hmm. No.

If. My life were a Jack Kerouac novel. I would have one of two choices.

* Hit the road.
* Hit the bottle.

I was sadly amused by the fact that the bloke had also advertised himself, but nobody was interested. I'm suddenly seeing Loans-4-U in a much more favourable light, if this is the only alternative to paying off your mortgage.

Happily, I'm being distracted by a pink cashmere coat for a dog in a feature about Hollywood pet accessories on...guess which show?

'So, Karen, you were quite surprised when you gave birth to a poodle? Well, isn't he lovely though? Do you know, there are so many shops that sell wee clothes for doggies, you can even get matching outfits, och, lovely.'

I am grateful for Lorraine and her wittering on like a super-enthusiastic sparrow. Although I do hope her jaw locks up some time soon. Just not today.

Let's talk about last Saturday night. Again. I'd forgotten to mention this bit. When we staggered into our local, we hadn't realized there was an opening night for an exhibition going on. I did briefly wonder why there were girls wandering round with bits of twig in their hair, but put it down to the location being once of the ponciest postcodes around. Anyway, once we'd worked out what was going on, we started eagerly looking round for the free booze and twiglets. Of which there were none, but by this time Dawn was working the floor, picking up waifs and strays, so we had to stay put, and pay for our drinks.

This is the exhbition we inadvertantly witnessed:

I know nothing about art, but I like pretty pictures, and wavy lines, and colours that make you feel more than a little uncomfortable. Happily enough, the artist had managed to combine all three. This brings me on to the main focus of my uneventful tale.

The artist himself. He was a very attractive man, messy hair and sparkly eyes and the smile of a child, all the usual guff that gets a girl's knees knocking and her knickers dropping. I also detected the slight tang of an Aussie accent. Mhmm. I did something I almost never do when something pretty this way comes. I made an attempt at conversation. It wasn't a good one. I suspect I went a bit wide-eyed and 'yah completely' and 'god, I soooo know what you mean'. But still. Nobody's drink was spilled, nobody's advances were rebuffed, he gave me a flyer for his next show, and then I went a bit psycho bitch this evening, googled him, and invited him to be my friend on MySpace.

He has a girlfriend though. Which is just as well. It means I can sit and gaze and sigh and not actually have to worry about doing anything. My idea of the perfect relationship.

Well. Fear. No. More.

Introducing, the Flirt Proof, Frill Free, Fumble No More, Knickermeister 3000.

Using the appliance of science, and some big, long, mostly made-up words, we have developed a brand of underwear which will guarantee you never ever wake up next to some cod-faced 2 minute wonder with a Batman duvet cover again!

At the first utterance of a cheesy chat up line or the hint of a serial shagger on the prowl, a hidden device is activated in your knickers, which automatically sends out a warning to your chosen sponsor (mum, dad, best friend, parole officer, whoever). They will then be provided with your location via a sophisticated satellite navigation system (carrier pigeon) and be at the scene in minutes to take you home and save you from yourself. And probably a nasty dose of the clap.

The Knickermeister 3000 is available at Woolworths, Aldi, Tesco, Dixons and The CarPhone Warehouse.

In the hardware shop, urging you to get mum a new set of screwdrivers? At the greasy spoon offering a special Mother's Day breakfast, with an extra piece of fried bread, to say thank you for the gift of life?

You must have noticed the adverts? Every album in Britain, from Boyzone to Chas and Dave, has been re-packaged and re-branded as the middle-aged woman's music of choice, just perfect for this special day. If you're still oblivious to the message, your newspaper or magazine will also be trying to get in on the act, by offering a trip to Chessington World of Adventures for one lucky reader and her mumsy. GMTV will be badgering you to phone up and relate the story of how when you were three, you got a lego man stuck up your nose and your mum just laughed and put A&E on speed dial. Florists will be placing big buckets of bouquets in the middle of the pavement, so that if you're too mean to fork out for a bunch, chances are you'll trip over them and break something nasty.

So. Cath. A beginner's guide.

She is wearing a coat that makes her look like Brighton's answer to Frank Gallagher.

She made me buy her a hideous pair of mint green shoes from Primark this afternoon.

She has a BTEC in Performing Arts. Hence her last six months of employment have been as a waitress and pig scrubber. She was rejected for the post of bramble picker.

She wants to go to Longleat for her birthday.

She is a slag in training. Currently on Level 2 - knowing the last name but not the favourite colour of your one night stand.

She had a dance off with Rowan Atkinson on New Year's Eve. Then he raped her face. Bad loser.

Her preferred mode of transport is a giant white swan.

She's just eaten two packets of twiglets.

She was employed by Carla Lane for at least 30 minutes.

She's been to a lesbian music festival and eaten Lesbian Lemon Drizzle Cake.

How else is this poor fella gonna support his wife and eight near-sighted pups?

Except, it isn't. I cannot believe in Tony, as Tony. This is because he is Marcus from About A Boy. This is Marcus:

My hasn't he grown? Well, no, not really. He still looks like his mum cuts his hair and he's out way past his bed time. I remember him wombling around the streets in his woolly hat, and being pelted with sweets by bullies. I can't accept the all new grown-up Marcus, with his binge drinking and his sexual antics. It's just not believable. Put out that cigarette Marcus, go and get your recorder and let's have no more of this nonsense.

In other news, my cousin had a colonic irrigation at the weekend. Apparently, you are advised to watch the matter passing out of your body and through the tube, as some patients find this very therapeutic. Whole pieces of broccoli have been known to go whizzing past. We talked about items you might find ever so slightly less pleasing to witness exiting your colon. A hamster. A hand. A melon. And my personal favourite, your lower intestine.

Yer, I really don't fit in here.

I have a double header hangover. Last night, I was thrown out of a club for having a panic attack. I ask you. Bouncers don't give a damn, as long as you don't die on the actual premises.

Shortly before this, I had watched my sister and her friend Dawn make declarations of love to their respective Subway sandwiches. Dawn was snogging hers at one point. I lost interest in the sandwich once all the pickled gherkins had fallen out of it, so kept going up to the counter and begging for more, like a street orphan. Earlier still, Dawn had made friends with a man called Toby, who she talked to like he was her bestest and greatest friend for about 15 minutes, before suddenly tiring of him and pretending she didn't know him for the rest of the evening. Toby couldn't cope with the fact that Dawn found getting off with a sandwich preferable to him, and went home.

He seems to fit in here rather well though. Perfumed ponce.

.

I have never made fruit cake before. I didn't know how to turn the oven on in this place until last week.

What if it sinks and oozes out of the bottom of the tin? What if it explodes? What if I get it out of the oven, do a comedy skid and drop it all over the floor? What if it turns out to be a great big char-grilled lump of diasppointment?

Why, why, why didn't I get the frigging thing from a packet, you know, the ones that come with pre-beaten egg and stuff?

pizzle (n.) - a whip made from an animal's penis

Zeds beckoned Nipper over to the airport gift shop.

Bah, why didn't I get all of this sort of thing out of my system when I was fourteen, and my face could take it? It's only a matter of time before I have skin with the texture of a dartboard, and fingers that look like they've been dipped in mustard. Not to mention a cough which could rival the dog next door. I know all the dangers. The government have made pretty damn sure of that. But although my face may have progressed beyond adolescence, my attitude definetely hasn't. That's never gonna happen to me.....

Although a little poke around his past, and it's a real surprise he lasted this long:

Exhibit A - Karl unexpectedly moved his family to Ramsay Street, after he was accused of killing a patient in his home town.

Exhibit B - Karl resigns after he is held responsible for the death of Cheryl Stark. He is later cleared of any blame. Probably by himself, as no doubt he runs the Medical Board as well.

Exhibit C - Karl investigated by school board after he is accused of inappropriate behaviour during counselling session with Janae. As Susan is the only member of staff at Erinsborough High, his name is cleared.

Exhibit D - Karl threatened with legal action by Katya for breaking patient confidentiality. Toadie, the only lawyer in Erinsborough, talks her out of it.

Exhibit E - Karl threatened with a complaint to the Medical Board over his grand cock-up concerning the paternity of Sky's baby. Come on Karl, even I worked out that one. He subsequently resigns. Again.

"Now, if you want Keith Chegwin on your doorstep, and why wouldn't you...?"

Oh I dunno Lorraine. His complete lack of personal boundaries? His cackling like a schizophrenic parrot? The Naked Jungle?

Whoever she has on that show, she acts like they're best friends and life partners - 'Och, so you're a serial rapist, how lovely'.

The only person I've seen display more false emotion is that frickin' Geordie housewife, arranging a loan with Picture like she's known them all her life. 'How much is that a month? Well, that's a LOT LESS, than we're paying now. Fuck it, I'm giving up work and gonna rely on Picture for everything. Order me a pizza will you?'