You see (or, you will see), this week, I am experimenting with chewy sweets. Because on Saturday, Queen Nicotine will no longer reign in the Kingdom of My Lungs. She is being booted off the throne as part of a general overhaul. The people want environmental purity! A sounder economy! To go to sleep at night without the image of a giant throat tumor nagging at them! I may even chop the head off a cigarette, just to be symbolic.

But, the people realise, that's it's not as simple as all that. There's going to be an empty space in their lives. Namely, a series of five minute periods throughout the day which were previously filled by getting dizzy on tobacco.

So, the people have chosen sweets as the ideal candiate to fill this void. You don't have to huddle in the street like a vagrant to eat sweets. Or spend six hours on a train craving one.

You may be fat and toothless in six months time, but your hair and fingers will be as fragrant as Lemon Cif, and your lungs as clear as the first day of spring.

Does that not scream crazy kiddy fun? Perhaps it's a little too much crazy kiddy fun for a child whose main source of cerebral stimulation is the Eastenders omnibus.

It is a bit murky in there. And due to rigorous protesting from those woolly-hatted animal rights types, most of the fish on display can also be found on a local shore near you. In fact, I'd recommend they re-name it the Pond Life Centre.

But surely, if anything, the kid should have been under-whelmed. Maybe even scanning a copy of The Times and sighing heavily as his fellow tots squeaked and gurgled and banged on the glass with sticky hands. Not, the second his eyes met those of a fairly affable carp, making a noise like this:

'Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!'

He continued to make this noise all the way through the centre, past the Kingdom of the Sea Horse, through the Valley of the Crab etc. In fact, he only briefly shut up when I allowed him to empty a packet of crisps on the floor and trample on them. Normally that sort of thing keeps him happy for a worryingly long time, but he could sense the brine soaked stare of Lulu the sea turtle, and resumed his wailing quick smart.

I gave up. I don't want to open a newspaper in a few years time to read that the kid has gone on a murderous rampage with a breadknife, and blamed it all on a childhood ordeal at the Sea Life Centre. What would the neighbours say?

They make it all sound jolly simple. Brighton to London, London to Brussels, change for Cologne, get the sleeper to Moscow, from Moscow get the train to Beijing via Mongolia.

Doesn’t sound much more arduous than the average trip back home to west Wales, where at least half the journey is spent aboard a carrier pig.

Man. I love this photo. It sums up just how interfering, impulsive and generally quite daft your average moggy is.

Why grab at this man's hair as he is walking past? Are you a kamakazee kitty? Did you think it was 6 foot tall blonde mouse? What are you doing on up there anyway? You're going to hurt yourself, especially if your claws get stuck in that fuzzy barnet and you end up being dragged off the roof and down the street, flapping and yowling as you hang by a solitary paw, scrabbling desperately at his neck and back, trying to get a better grip, and he bats frantically at you with a newspaper.

She also enjoyed gambling:

And as I’m sure we all know, Shazza is the face of Gala Bingo.

I think it’s fair to say that history was somewhat trivialised in favour of style, and that’s how I came to make the connection. Because there wasn’t really much else to think about. Although I was almost entirely seduced into forgetting all about fact by the clothes and hair. Look at these!

Anyway, for those of us that think there was possibly more to the woman than masked balls and baths, see here.

For those of us that don’t, see here for lots more yummy images.

I write this with a tongue as dry and shrivelled as a raisin and a head that feels like it’s been hosting an illegal rave for several days. Christ knows how he’s feeling. I’m pretty sure he was still drunk when I last saw him, and that was at 5pm yesterday afternoon. How I wish I’d gone through with my plan to stuff pistachio nuts up his nose, because he’d probably still be oblivious to their presence. Still, my wicked sister and I did the best we could with opportunities available to us, she wrote ‘I’m a wanker’ on his chest in eyeliner, and I scratched a drawing of a cock into the icing on his birthday cake.

Although that wasn’t my idea. That was the dastardly plan of Mr mjohnson, the Dime bar of Sarf London. His exterior may be smooth and creamy, but on the inside, he’s definitely dark and crunchy. He’d probably take great pleasure in getting stuck in your fillings. He made some very disturbing statements about black pudding, and was the purveyor of the worst bottle of whisky since my dad used to top ours up with cold tea, to disguise the fact that he’d necked it all. Despite the whisky being immensely unpopular, it did mysteriously disappear at some point during the night. My guess is that some 15 year old gate-crashers locked themselves in the bathroom with it.

That whisky made me really angry actually. It was suicide whisky, the kind you use to wash down several packets of Nurofen and follow with a Night Nurse chaser. What were you thinking Johnson, bringing that along? I’m sure it was responsible for the hasty exit I had to make to the bathroom, although I am very proud to report that my dress, hair and shoes all remained splatter free. I haven’t been sick in seven years Johnson! You’ve RUINED my world record attempt. And where were you whilst this was going on? Discussing Lenin, drinking rose and shaking your thang with my sister. Your crunchy interior well and truly revealed itself.

Anyway, before any of this took place, I was impressed by the following things:
* upon our arrival, a man who had clearly done one too many chemical cocktails staggering up to my brother and slurring ‘fuuuuck Joe, are these your sisters? Fuuuuck, you are a beautiful family. What do your parents look like? Bring them down for the next party’. (Loosely translated: ‘I wanna fuck your mum maaaaan!’)
* an impromptu dance display to the Labyrinth soundtrack

Urm, well that’s about it actually. Shortly after the dance display, I needed to have a little lie-down. But I found the strength from somewhere to get back up, go downstairs (puzzled by mysterious scratch marks which had appeared on my back and gave everybody the impression that I’d been enjoying illicit sex in the bathroom, rather than having my head pressed against the lovely cold floor), and carry on carping with Cath, who was desperately trying to wind the remaining guests up.

She suggested spin the bottle. None of the girls seemed interested in that. In fact, we were the only girls that wanted to play. Despite a noble attempt by Johnson to get things hotting up with the face rape of a very hairy and not terribly hygienic man, it all fell a bit flat. Cath eased her frustration by shouting ‘fuck you’ out of the window at anybody who had the audacity to leave before 3am. This was a mistake, as a complete stranger, who I suspect had been walking his dog and just tied it up outside, scrambled through the window and tried to join in.

So we turned our attentions to two men, whose names I really can’t remember, but who Cath christened Julian (he did not like that one little bit, miserable bastard) and the Fruit Smoothie, because he was sooo sure of his ability to woo the ladeez. He demonstrated this by trying to stick his hand up her skirt several times. Julian gave an impromptu performance of his latest song, but nobody was interested in that, or giving him any of the love he so clearly craved, so he got a bit aggressive and started having what I’m now convinced was the beginning of a breakdown. He had a dance off with the Fruit Smoothie, which culminated in tearing his shirt off and lying on the floor. I think he was sobbing. Somebody really should have taken him home to Narnia. Maybe he’d overdone it on the sardines.

At 5am, I attempted to raise Johnson from his alcoholic slumber. That took ages. I was just about to call an ambulance, when he woke up and decided we had to go home, immediately. I was with him on that one. Joe was chest bumping anybody who dared to get up and dance with him, and Julian was looking like he could turn nasty and start throwing punch at people. Cath had lost a shoe, and so we decided to leave her at the mercy of the Fruit Smoothie. She brought that one on herself. I had the foresight to remove the knives from the kitchen drawer, just in case Johnson turned out to be a homicidal maniac, but he restrained himself admirably, and even made bacon sandwiches for everybody in the morning.

If, as has pointed out to me by some, there is no chance of wrestling young Amstell's DNA from him in the traditional manner, then I shall simply get him mortal drunk and toss him off into a yoghurt pot, cleverly concealed about my person.

I'm never going to give up smoking, because it allows me these little moments of contemplation, which ultimately lead to words of wisdom (see above).

Yes so, Olly's moving out tomorrow, because we need some 'space'. And Cath's going home to Wales because she keeps bursting into tears every fifteen minutes, and that doesn't make for a sparkling social life (unless you want to hang out in a psychiatric unit, or a maternity ward).

And there is no chance of becoming crazee cat lady during all this spare time I'm suddenly going to have because the landlord regularly gets in a state of despair over the carpet, and we all know that a kitty is no friend of furniture (or indeed, a pleasant, odour-free home).

What to do?

Maybe I should get myself down to Hobbycraft. That seems like a suitable venue for the lonely, the desperate and the twitchy of finger.

Or audition for the next Dove advert? They want 'real women'. I'll show 'em real, it's hairy of leg, snarly of tooth and doesn't give two shits about moisturising it's underarms.

Despite what you may think, we were not being interviewed by the Home Office.

Nope, we have all had our photos professionally taken for the company website.

IT. WAS. MORTIFYING.

I had to smile. I don't like to smile too wide, as my teeth could easily belong to a Tudor serving wench.

I had to stand with hands on hips and look over my shoulder at the camera. This is not a pose I believe anybody has adopted since the late 80's.

I had to peep coquettishly from beneath my fringe. So I looked a bit like a show pony.

Trying to stay positive, and visualise the end result as something like this:

Although, if I let the slightest hint of realism creep into my vision, this is actually far more accurate:

First there was Brighton Pride, with its array of drag queens, glittery thongs, and PVC chaps. I have never seen so many arses on display in one place (although I've never been to an orgy so, y'know), but frankly, I was a bit disappointed. Not a tight, gleaming, bronzed bun to be seen, and believe me, I looked. Instead, the midday sun was bouncing cruelly off a bunch of white, hairy, wobbly bottoms, clad in the type of sparse underwear you can only really hope to get away with if you are permanently clenching.

And then, as the sun set and the atmosphere got more than a little murky, we met up with the slinky minx herself Ms Kirsten Morris:

And the master of darkness, mjohnson:

And this man, who looked a lot like Howard Moon:

Everybody managed to interface without a keyboard, which was quite an achievement. I think we may have even shared a group hug, which is difficult for internet weirdos, seeing as we don't like touching real people, only ourselves.

On the way home, we were treated to the sight of a man, naked from the waist down, strolling down Queen's Road like he was just off to buy a paper. Whatever he'd been doing, he'd remembered to put his shoes back on, it remains a mystery why he didn't think to do the same with his trousers.

Hobo, who is no bigger than a can of Coca-Cola, was first spotted near a road by villagers who failed to tempt him down to the ground with apples and berries.
After the crowd headed home, the monkey popped up again – in an ash tree in mechanic Marty Wright's back garden.

'I crouched down to make myself as small as possible, held a banana out and he very gingerly made his way down and put his feet on my wrist for balance.

'He started to eat the banana so with my other hand I grabbed him very carefully around the waist and brought him into the lounge.'

While Hobo was busily jumping on Mr Wright's hi-fi at his home in Beaminster, Dorset, he rang the Wildlife Park at Cricket St Thomas in Chard, Somerset.

They sent a keeper to pick up the six-month-old animal. He was said to be doing well by staff caring for him yesterday."

Hmm. Here’s what I would do if I found Hobo the mystery monkey in my back yard.
* Coax him down from tree
* Stuff him into a frilly dress and matching bonnet
* Rename him Alexis
* Pretend he was my daughter, and enjoy the looks of shock and horror as I wheeled him through town in a stroller, took him along to playgroup, and entered him in a best looking baby contest.