Although the audience were far too polite to obey the commands of the infidel to 'storm the stage', his incessant chanting of 'come the fuck on' ruined many fans enjoyment of the 2 hour wait for Ms Winehouse to get her arse on stage. 'A violent and abusive threat to the public' was how one witness described him. 'I'm pretty sure he raped that chimp as well.'

When we surfaced the next morning to a scene that would have given the Wombles palpitations, it was discovered that our little dog had decided to express her distaste at the situation by crapping directly outside my bedroom door.

This is the girl who finds making toast a challenge. Who got culture shock when we took her to a cinema with more than one screen. Who frankly, would happily stash a gram of cocaine in her knickers and then pause to say hello to the sniffer dogs.

"Mammy? Can you come and get me? I'm in It-alee an' they think I've been smuggling rubies. They won't let me have any hot water for my Pot Noodle, an' these handcuffs are giving me terrible chafing, and they all speak funny an' I can't understand them, so can you come and get me? Oh, an' I'm runnin' out of credit, so can you ring me back?"

* his solid gold watch
* his Elizabeth Arden Night Cream
* his diamond nose stud
* his tickets for a fortnight in the Caribbean

Hmm, so Winehouse isn't well. God damn it woman! Get it together. I know that my worship for you has previously been based upon your disastrous life choices, but if you so much as cough during one of your songs next week, I shall be demanding a full refund.

That's rather sick isn't it?

Well here's something else unpleasant for your Monday afternoon.

On Saturday night, a friend of ours ran into a deer, which exploded in the force of the collision. All over him. This gave me the opportunity to come up with a pun that I'm so proud of, that if it were possible, it would be rubbed down daily with Brasso and given an entire mantelpiece to itself:

'It's raining ven(ison).'

He was an uber-diarist, recording everything that happened to him at five minute intervals. Although I don't know how much would really have time happen to a person who had to keep stopping to make notes. Not exactly a recipe for opportunity knocking is it? There must have been exceptions. Sex being one of them. The main one actually. I'm hard-pushed to think of another activity which could cause genuine offence if you stopped half-way through to record your musings.

But is it not quite tempting to do something similar when blogging? I had a really nice bowl of soup yesterday which I couldn't wait to tell you all about. Oh, and I trod in dog muck. Is this going to turn into a compulsion? Will this blog one day read something like this:

16.25pm Straightened duvet cover

16.30pm Had a wee

16.35pm Picked a stray peanut up off carpet

What the effing Norah Jones has Noel done to himself?

It’s impossible to find actual footage of this hideous transformation, but he’s dyed his hair a shade of red last seen on Davina Mcall on those sodding Nutrisse adverts (nutrisse means nourished.) He is also so pale that it’s hard to believe he hasn’t been living deep underground for the last few months, only coming out at night to forage for mascara and nail varnish.

It’s going to be difficult to get past this. I struggled with his goth stage, but pushed on through, because he still had a lovely fringe and looked exceptionally sexy in tight jeans. So sexy, that I wanted to do things to him that would probably be rated PG-13 for sequences of fantasy violence and frightening images.

Can you imagine your partner putting off the afterlife in order to sit around your garish uptown apartment and stare longingly as you sob onto your potters wheel? If you were Demi Moore’s partner then maybe that would be tempting. Otherwise, it’d just be a lot like watching the 5am live-feed on Big Brother. And you’d probably find out one or two things that might rot the roses round the door of love cottage. You know, the kind of stuff that you normally find out about too far down the line to do anything about. Relationships are rarely like those we see in the Pantene Pro-V adverts. Will you still feel like making love instead of dinner when your beloveds nasty habit of throwing underwear at the wall to see if it sticks is brought to the court’s attention?

It’d possibly be more fun if Whoopi Goldberg was your medium. Assuming she’s like that in real life. And why wouldn’t she be? Then you could take her along to family gatherings, dinner parties and the like, and make her jump and shriek in her comedy voice until she’s asked to leave the room/table/country. What else could you use her for? Solving crime? Getting teenagers thrown out of the cinema? Touching people you’ve always wanted to touch but never got their permission (or in some cases, even their attention)?

*taps fingers on keyboard*

Hmm. Is it worth risking a cigarette out the window? It is Friday night....

Oh dear, I don't think this post should see the light of day. It is disgustingly dull.

Fuckme, Girls Aloud have just tottered onto the Jonathon Ross show. They've been laminated!

Fuckmesideways, they're duller than this post.

OK, I'm turning over now ladies, you've driven me too it by wittering on about how inspirational the Spice Girls are.