Anyway, I had my hair cut yesterday, and guess what, I don't like it. I never like it. Why can't the bastards read my mind, or at least listen to what I say?

* Jordan reveals the results of her latest smear test!

* Kate Moss falls down manhole - exclusive pics!

* Posh and Becks - why we love our new carpets

* Kerry Katona at the garden centre

Introducing, ladies and gentlemen, the Jeremy Kyle fortune cookie experience. Tired of not knowing where to turn? Looking to desert for inspiration? Disappointed and confused by the generic wisdom offered by the traditional Chinese biscuit?

'Take the road less travelled and see where it leads you'

'Never leave home without a hanky'

This cookie is different. It will tell you the cold, hard, often quite insulting truth. It will put your life under the microscope, and you in your place.

'I'm half your size, but you're a tenth of the man I am!'

'You can't even spell contraception, let alone use it!"

'I didn't come to your dressing room, do you know why? Because you DISGUST me'

'You can shut up, you smoke cannabis'

Available now in three flavours - bile, venom, and murky past. Free lie detector or paternity test with every tenth cookie purchased! You junkie scum.

Continuing on the subject of weirdo baiting, an honourable mention is definetely deserved by this family.

They were English, which meant that their motives for moving to such a remote area of Wales were always questionable. Choosing a barely habitable small-holding at the edge of a forest, on the rim of the village, suggested that perhaps they didn’t appreciate company. Or prying eyes. Or electricity. What could they have to hide?

Well, let’s consider the evidence. Mother was a professor of some little studied subject, social etiquette in insect colonies, or the significance of oven gloves in 19th century french literature. She had long stringy hair that she liked to pile on top of her head and secure with a peg or bulldog clip. She favoured clothes that flapped about in the ubiqutious wind and rain, long skirts and scarves, hand woven by female inmates of Indian prisons . Her appearance was odd, but not sinister. Her behaviour on the other hand, was both. She accused the village postmaster of misleading the public by leaving up posters advertising Christmas stamps until well past March. Shouted abuse at the children who dared to interrupt her hour long, impromptu solo performance on the piano at the summer fete. And carried a straw basket around to fill with whatever detritus she happened to find in the hedgerows, filthy scraps of wool, berries, bird eggs and discarded syringes.

Father was also a professor, in fact, he may have even been a little bit famous for something quite dull, once upon a long long time ago. He had all the defining characteristics of a boffin. No social skills to speak of, sparse white hair, and a head that was ever so slightly pointed on top. Honestly, it bore a resemblance to a freshly sharpened pencil. He didn’t leave the house much, and he had a collection of military weapons gathering rust and dust in the front room.

Mother had born father two offspring. They both favoured her long stringy hairstyle. It’s a miracle that nobody in that family ever staggered into oncoming traffic, their hair was always in their eyes. They boys weren’t particularly popular at school, they were far too clever, and they also smelt musty. The youngest one did 6 A-levels. A dream candidate for any aspiring bully. In his last year of school, he grew a long ginger beard, and naturally, his popularity spiraled out of control.