They seek me here, they seek me there...

I finally got a home computer! At the same time our Dear Arthur started a new site, and it is brilliant! It tells youwhen someone has replied to a comment of yours! No more wading through every post on Leo's site to see if Edog replied! And it lets you set and vote on polls, and have 'comment' conversations without posting a blog.

Get on board at www.sodahead.com

See if you can guess who I am! Rave me, I'm trying to get famous off this!

Regardez la! N'est-ce que pas un badger avec un fusil?

So anyway, I went to get contacts.

Strangely I had no problem mauling my eyeball, as I was too busy swearing at my too small eyes for getting in the way. I clearly did not let the Specsaver chappy put them in for me.

“Most people find it easier if we put them in.”
“Well most people are stupid then. It’s one thing putting my own finger in my eye, but it’s quite another letting someone else do it. Do not try to put my contacts in for me, as being bitten very hard on the hand may offend.”

So I’ve got the damn things in, not bad once I’d worked out an eyelid restraint technique that actually worked (and the other girl getting contacts gifted me with a make up remover wipe- eye shadow does not aid grip), now I’ve got to get them out again.

“Pinch your eyeball.” Says the French woman ‘teaching’ us.
“No offence but ~short string of expletives~.” Says I.
“Try sliding it to the corner of your eye.” Says elle.
“Mon oeil” says I “is even narrower at the corner, no? Ergo it is harder yet to get at the edges. Non! So trop pour vous, eh? I shall try Meg’s Way.”
"Qu'est ce c'est la 'Meg's Way'?"

Well Meg's Way is to open the eye really wide avec one's fingers, and get the edges of the eyelids to catch the sides of the contact, thus flicking it out.

It differs from the Specsavers and French methods (pinching eyeballs is no English idea, I can tell you) in that it:
A) actually works, and
B) doesn't hurt.

"Zees is not an ideal solution. You weell lose the contact to the floor."
"C'est un disposable lens, frankly ma petite fromage, je ne donne un damn. I am going home now with my contact lenses."

Which I did, and now I have reclaimed my face from my glasses, and Meg shalt be bought at least one very large gin, and I won't tell anyone if she doesn't put any tonic in it. So I reveal to you... the New Moon!

Everything's Gone All Wierd

I found out last night that I might have been drinking petrol for the last few days. Apparently there is something oil or petrol like leaking into our water supply. I had to wash my hair last night using bottles of cold water.

Now I feel deeply unusual. And everything has gone all wierd. Stuff we didn't order and don't need has turned up over night in my office, objects seem to be appearing and disappearing, and I'm very very spaced. Last time everything felt this wierd and wrong- and I know it doesn't sound very wierd but it feels very wierd- I very narrowly avoided getting blown up at Aldgate. Another previous time I felt like this I turned on the telly and saw live film of a building with smoke pouring out, then two seconds later a plane flew into the building next to it.


I checked the BBC news site to see if a large country had sunk into the sea or something, and all I found was this:

For some reason I find this incredibly funny... I don't know why.

Then I remebered that when I got up this morning and wasn't really awake I brushed my teeth from the tap. This accouhts for the fact that my mouth tastes like petrol and feels all greasy. So I looked up drinking petrol online, and apparently it makes you high.

No kidding...

This doesn't account for the fact that I'm not the only person who thinks everything's all wierd today, however, so we might still get World War Three of the La Palma megatsunami.

New Year's Revelations

1) Why beautiful famous people marry/shag and have children with ugly people:

So they can blame their inherited pre-surgery nose on their partner.

2) Everyone loses at political Chicken:

They've started wars, they've taken bribes for honours, they've wasted valuable parliamentary time on bills to standardise the length of hamsters, but still we can't pull away because then we'd get the conservatives back.

3) Just because they're after you doesn't mean you're paranoid:

If they send you a letter without you expressing an interest, they're breaking the law, if they call you without your permission, they're breaking the law. If they email you without your permission, they're breaking the law. But Human Spam can jump out at you and dance in your path in the street, trying to decapitate you with their free Newsaccino (purple or Burgundy, take your choice)/ fliers/ phone cards/ temp magazines/ hard sell bully tactic Jewish-Grandmother-At-Hanukkah-Would-Be-Ashamed-Of-It Guilt trip, probably not legit, £3 a month and give me your bank details in the street and I'll still try to stop you tomorrow Chugger routine/ drunken or drugged plea to buy the Big Issue and if you buy it once they pretend you're their friend/ fake gypsy 'Give me paper money', AND YOU PUT UP WITH IT! What's wrong with you people? If they have purposely intercepted you you can argue self defence due to harassment, if the good lords had meant you to be pacifists, hey wouldn't have allowed you to evolve fists or high heels.

4) There is always another shoe, even if two have dropped already:

You think it can't get any worse but:

One grandad dying on your twenty first birthday doesn't mean the other one won't die on Christmas eve, of almost-certainly-smoking-induced cancer, so you can't go outside and have a cigarette and cry quietly, which is how all decent people deal with things.

Your family are all clinically insane, and there is one who WILL kick off at the funeral, so you're going with £40 in your pocket to take his (same age as you) kids to the pub while a swiftly elected family member takes him round the corner and kicks his head in, plus a packet of fags so we can begin to begin our coping process once grandma can't see us. (You just wait and see...)

All this will happen in the actual very last place that anyone would want to be at this time of year, including the blokes off 'Deadliest Catch'.

Everyone else may have been a total bitch/ kicked off unreasonably at the slightest little thing/ been a total bully, sniping pain in the arse, or have a temper they don't even seem to be trying to control, but get a bit pissed off because someone is bitching/bullying/sniping at you, and stand up for yourself for once, and you WILL be ranted at and blamed for everything that ever went wrong in your life, usually by the person who was actually responsible.

Never mind what stable view you have of your family, or how many skeletons have already come out of the closet, there will be something else. Not revealed in the middle of the service, cos that's TV, but when everyone is only one sherry in back at grandmas. (Ok, it hasn't happened yet, but trust me...)

You will, as a pagan, sat next to your mum's Very Christian best friend at the funeral, who will glare at you for not singing hymns or saying the lord's prayer.

As you may have guessed, I haven't had the best festive season.

Watch This Space

Fabulous news peeps, I should have a computer at home within the month! For those of you who know where i live, it'll be second hand, so not worth thieving!

Second, appeal:

If anyone has access to Sky One on the 17th & 18th December, and could record Hogfather for me, I would be eternally grateful! Leave me a note in comments, and we'll work out how to swap details. There is a big drink in it!

Oh Baby, Baby, That's Why We Got A Pre-Nup

With Apologies To Nanci Griffith- Ford Econoline

She drove west from Louisiana to the California coastline

She hit the road to notoriety doing sixty miles an hour

She had a husband on her bumper

She had two "bandaid" children

She was singing sweet as a mockingbird bout that Kevin Federline

[Chorus:]She's the salt of the earth

Straight from the bosom of the Baptist church

With a voice-like whine

Cruising along with that Kevin Federline

Now her husband was a gambler,

He was a Vegas city rambler

He built a white trash cage around his silver-throated wife

Too many nights he left her crying with his cheating and his lying

Cos her big mistake was him marrying that Kevin Federline

She'll be falshing her shit around this country

From Seattle to Montgomery

The kids will groan and that sponger know

You cannot lig a life

Along the back roads of our nation, she'll become a living legend

She'll wed bunch of men but she wont live down

That Kevin Federline

She'll try the church again but she wont live down

That Kevin Federline

Raindrops on Posters and Kittens on Knickers

The WITCH Institute Presents:

A Few Of My favorite Things

My new pink Filofax. Now my cards and cash live in the same place as my newly organized entire life, I got a mirror for it so I can do my hair and make up in it, and a cheerful pink ruler tells me what day it is. My life is thus complete.

The Puppini Sisters. You haven't lived til you've heard their cover of 'Wuthering Heights', you really haven't.

Jones Candy. As if soda with cool labels and a motto in the cap wasn't good enough, now they bring us fizzy sweets in sexy tins with a motto in the lid. It's like the cool, growed up equivalent of Smarties. Mine says "In five seconds now will be then." See, Jones Candy really DOES have the answers! You can get it from www.cybercandy.co.uk Unless you're me, who can get it from the shop in Covent Garden.

We Are NOT Amused

I AM DEFINITELY SULKING.

Brucey- He's Our favorite!

Hooray hooray, Strictly is back! With the right and proper loss of the boring newsreader and the lardy bird, with the last really useless one looking set to go out last Saturday, everything was shaping up nicely. Then for some unknown reason Spoony went out instead. This is a) Not right and b) Really annoying as he was the only person in the competition this year that my husband liked, thus his tolerance for Strictly in general has gone down.

So, will you all please vote next week, or I may have to throw some tantrae. And we don't want that, do we? To assist you in this, and for those of you who are happy to donate your 12p to Children in Need but not cool enough to actually watch the show, here is the list of phone numbers in order of how good the dancers are:

=1st- Emma 'Baby' Bunton: 0901 121 4006

=1st- Louisa 'Ruby' Lytton: 0901 121 4002

2nd- Mark 'It's Not Cricket' Ramprakash: 0901 121 4013

3rd- Matt 'I May Not Know Much But I Am Jolly Good At Rugger' Dawson: 0901 121 4001

4th- Ray 'I'm not just on Corrie, I'm an actor too you know' Fearon: 0901 121 4005

5th- Carol 'Strangely Tolerable When Too Out of Breath To Speak' Smilie- 0901 121 4004

6th- Peter 'Frankenstien's Ballerina Barbie' Schmeichel- 0901 121 4007

7th- Jan 'Only because she's dancing with Anton' Ravens- 0901 121 4010

8th- Claire 'Hard Faced Ol' Slapper' King- 0901 121 4014

9th- Georgina 'Don't bother learning to pronounce it, her career's over' Bouzova- 0901 121 4008

Onna Stick Inna Bun

It has been brought repeatedly to my attention that I haven't posted anything for ages- forgive me, I am very busy and important. So just to show I care, here's a recipe for comforting, filling winter food that even a boy could cook without moaning. We don't measure in my house except for cakes, so this is done by eye. The important reason for this is that it almost never matters exactly how much of each thing you have in a recipe unless it's wildly out of proportion. E.g. There should be more bread than marmite in marmite on toast.

You will need:
1 bag of sweet potatoes (about 6-8)
1 Goats Cheese (don't buy the spreadable crap, get one with a skin on)
1 oz butter (that's half way between the 50g lines on an Anchor packet)
Some fresh parsley (about 2 good sized sprigs)
Nutmeg

For the sauce:
1 small pot double cream
2 cloves of garlic
A little butter
1 small packet of asparagus (the thinner the better)

Peel and chop and the sweet potatoes, then put into boiling water with a little salt and boil until soft. While they are boiling put the butter in the bowl you will mash the potatoes in. Cut the goat's cheese into little chunks, taking the skin off or not as to taste. Put this in the bowl with the butter. Take a mug, put the parsley in, then insert the kitchen scissors into the mug and make vigorous cutting motions in different directions until the herbs are all chopped up. You can try to do this with a knife and a chopping board, but it never works properly and is harder to clean up after.
To make the sauce crush the garlic, chop the asparagus into roughly 2cm lengths, put both in a small saucepan with a little bit of butter, and heat until the butter has melted. Put the cream in, and keep on a medium low heat, stirring occasionally.
When the potatoes are soft drain and tip into the bowl with the cheese and butter, then mash and mix until the cheese is mixed in and the mixture is only as lumpy as you like your mash to be anyway. Mix in the chopped parsley.
Serve the mash and spoon the asparagus sauce over it or whatever you are serving it with. The pub I stole the recipe idea from had it with roast chicken, but it's also good with sausages. Do not serve with salmon, as the colours will clash.

Happy eating!

Fairuza Balk is in all the best films...

You know you want one...

Class A for Archers

ED GRUNDY'S ON CRACK!

BBC Mainstay Causes Middle Class Outrage!

Surbiton Shaken By Tremor Caused By 100,000 People Simulataneously Going "Tch."

Cows or crack? Cake or Death?

Archie says: Ed tu Edw'rrrrd?

Peekaboo! Where's Suri?

Isn't it Elronic, don't you think?

Some of you may have received an email from me when The Media revealed that Tom Cruise was planning to eat Katie's placenta when the baby was born. "We're all thinking it," I said, "really hardcore Scientologists eat the whole baby."

Now we know. He bribed and brainwashed Katie, had her impregnated with a frozen alien-Elron hybrid embryo, then ate the resulting baby in order to absorb Elron's mystic power.

The race is now on to find a credible replacement baby. The London Scientology Centre has been moved from Tottenham Court Road to next door to a maternity hospital in Sarf London.

Enter the Holly King- It's All Down Hill From Here...

Jesus was a Capricorn, he ate organic foods.

He believed in love and peace and never wore no shoes.

Long hair, beard and sandals and a funky bunch of friends.

Reckon they'd just nail him up if He come down again.

'Cos everybody's got to have somebody to look down on.

Who they can feel better than at anytime they please.

Someone doin' somethin' dirty, decent folks can frown on.

If you can't find nobody else, then help yourself to me.

Get back, John!

Egg Head's cousin Red Neck's cussin' hippies for their hair.

Others laugh at straights who laugh at freaks who laugh at squares.

Some folks hate the whites who hate the blacks who hate the clan.

Most of us hate anything that we don't understand.'

Cos everybody's got to have somebody to look down on.

Who they can feel better than at anytime they please.

Someone doin' somethin' dirty, decent folks can frown on.

If you can't find nobody else, then help yourself to me.

Help yourself, brother.

Help yourself, Gentlemen.

Help yourself Reverend.

And...Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life

Happy Eoster

Have a Judges' Bun...

WITCH Institute: It's not a fake, it's an 'ommage.

I think that when it comes to style, you know, I take the cake.

"The Roland Mouret Dress" from Dorothy Perkins, as worn by Moon.

Beware, even something so nice can look so wrong. I guess some of us make high-street look designer, and some of us make gorgeous designer frocks look like a young Thatcher at a cocktail party...

Same style, wrong material, wrong figure, wrong age. Even the faux-husband accessory can't save this sartorial smeg up.

Summer '92 I Remember It Clearly...

Chris Penn

10th October '65- 24th January '06

When he choked on the olive in his dry martini

There was dismay from the friends he was close to,

Well it may sound funny but it wasn't supposed to...

Mother Of 17 Year Old Preganant Girl Does Not Get Way On Sex Advice To Teens.

Judge Tells Bad Mother He Will Not Condemn Vulnerable Girls For Her Stupidity

Finally a victory for common sense over unthinking grim Northern chavvery! Or as Sue no doubt puts it "They can't do that can they? It jus' isn' right. It's against Gawd's law it is. You shud tew youw muvver everyfing, speshally if youw finking of not keepin youw li''le bayebey. We'd hewp you, luv, and youw get aw those benefi's. And aw youw friends have bayebeys, you wanna fit in dahn't you?"

And from the ever logical Pro-Life Alliance (now picketing old people's homes near you and throwing acid at undertakers):

Anti abortion group The Pro Life Alliance said it was staggering a young girl could "end the life of another human being without her parents knowing anything about it."

Yeah, cos the first thing you do after you kill someone is tell your mum.

Children are innocent and precious and must be protected.

The Truth Is 'Out' There, Mfanwi

We'll Show You What We Can Do With A Load Of Balls And A Snooker Cue

'S eight o'clock in the morning. 'M at work. Jus' went past Warren Street on the bus and thought, 'Hey, I was only just here six hours ago.'
'S Masters final las' night, las' one at Wemmerbly, classic match the little man, wassname Parrott, possibly, can't remember, too tired, the little man said. Had the little earpieces to hear the commentary, got a program, saw Dennis Taylor (You're my favorite!) and Parrott walking down the road on our way to the venue, got a souvenir mug for lovely husband, everything (except Ronniestyle I Love Snooker t-shirt, of which they had sold out. Russum). Very exciting match. Went aaaaall the way to a decider, very exciting, very late, very annoyed nasty Higginses stole the precious from Ronnie (10-9, 64-60 in the last frame scored like so: Ronnie gets 60, misses one ball and chubby t'iefed the match).
Very lucky to catch the last tube. To Baker Street. To walk aaaaaaall the way from Baker Street to Warren Street in the very very cold, then get a bus home and get in and look at the clock and say, "I have to be up in four hours."

Ronnie behaves self suspiciously well (You're My favorite!).

'S FUCKIN' BRILLIANT! So doing it again next year!

In other news:

Lib Dems Steerpiked again by 'Homo-Affairsgate'.

Government announce plans to allow up to two Liberal Democrat MPs to set up house together.

Kennedy wishes he'd kept his mouth shut another couple of weeks. Wee snifter doesnae seem so bad now, does it big man?

You're My favorite!

As the closing lines of 'To Be A Pilgrim' roll on, sounding for all the world like the voice of Death in the Discworld novels, the headmistress takes her place at the lectern.

Right, boys and girls. After the unpleasantness of last week I'm sure you are all aware of the need to appoint a new head of Centre House. This will be Menzies Campbell, there will be no argument about this, and he will only be referred to as Ming The Merciless to members of the other Houses, not amongst the other prefects of Centre House or by the first years. Right, that's that.

Secondly, with regard to the aforementioned nastiness, and with regard to the absolutely disgraceful behavior witnessed in the prefects' common room afterward, the following boys will be outside my office at four PM. We don't like sneaks here, and we don't tolerate smugness. Blair, Steerpike, we have already searched your locker Steerpike, and Hughes', so take that look off your face, Hughes, Oaten, Huhne.

That will be all.

If You Only Read One Book This Year...

" The next page went:

Where's my cow?

Is that my cow?

It goes "Hruuugh!"

It is a hippopotamus!

That's not my cow!

Sam Vimes liked doing the Hruuugh! But he said to himself: This is getting daft! This is no way to find your cow!

So he said to young Sam:

"If you lose your cow you should report this to the Watch under the Domestic & Farmyard Animals (Lost) Act of 1809. They will swing into action with keenness and speed. Your cow will be found. If it has been impersonating other animals, it may be arrested. If you are a stupid person, do not look for your cow yourself. Never try to milk a chicken, it hardly ever works." "

Can You Hear Us Honking On Your Radio?

My Christmas Dinner Is Famous!

Click to see a picture of my mum and dad's mate Phil, Goose Farmer and possible Beast Of Oak Wood (something's been taking deer up there, and frankly it's either Phil, my dad or an actual big cat, and dad swears blind he couldn't run one down on his dodgy knee), talking to Sheila Dillon on The Food Program at the weekend. If you're really enthusiastic, you can even listen to the program! That noise you can hear is part of my xmas dinner happily fattening itself up, then being humanely killed. Mmmmm...... radio fresh!

The Beeb have also kindly included the farm's contact details, and given Phil and the very nice Liz are also recommended by Ew Furnely-Wotsit, I'd order now if you want an organic free range goose for Xmas 2006. None of them have mentioned Phil & Liz's daughter, who works in the farm shop and is lovely, so I am! Hello! Save me a tankard of the Home Farm Dry, yeah?

A Wean In A Manger

Well, I'm nearly Yuleready. Presents for everyone, little stocking filler extra bits and surprises, inconvenient near-xmas birthdays sorted. Pretty dress for Christmas day (vintage 1970s Jean Muir little black dress, sweetie), pretty accessories for same, nice shimmery makeup. Nice wellies, warm jumpers, attractive scarf, snowball proof gloves & fabulous hat for going for walks in the country and hopefully rolling in the snow with husband too. New suitcase on wheels to put the presents and clothes in.
I've got the days off I wanted, train tickets with seats booked for the nearest time to xmas day when Waterloo won't be a bear pit (half one on Thursday afternoon), I've got an open return so I don't have to rush back. I've got the promise of a three bird roast for xmas dinner (that's a partridge stuffed in a pheasant stuffed in a goose), I've got myself volunteered to make Coquille Saint Jaques for starter on boxing day. I've got a fair idea that my father has purchased enough and strong enough alcohol to both float and dissolve a battleship.
At home I have inserted festive cheer by means of a little fibre optic maribou tree (similar to the one in the picture, except mine has five pointed stars as well as bunches of fibres, and on mine the lights change colour. Hijack our symbols would you? Well I'm just gonna hijack 'em right back harder.) and a set of antlers and a red nose on one of my cows. And of course my precious, my Yule present, my new life sized fibre glass baby cow. Cows are very festive. My favorite bit of The Christmas Story is the bit where Joyce Grenfell says "Oh you're a cattle are you? And you're going to low! Well that is lovely!".
It puts me in mind of what Billy Connelly said about thinking the words to the carol were "A wean in a manger...", and his friend thinking the hymn was "Gladly the cross-eyed bear". Sometimes it works the other way, too. Being middle class, I always thought you pronounced Margate 'Mar-gate', but since I bought Chas'n'Dave Live At Cesar's Palace Luton I've discovered it's 'Marg't', you know, like 'Highg't'? I've always had this problem myself. It was years until I realised (what with that guy's big Scottish accent making it hard to hear the words properly) that 'Donald, where's yer troosers?' was about a bloke in a kilt, as opposed to someone who'd just forgotten to put his trousers on... Mind you, I used to think it was "Wombles of Wimbledon, common are we", because they lived in a house made of rubbish. Now I'm older, I know better. They were eco-friendly recycling types, so upper-middle. They're probably having the four bird roast for their xmas dinner.
So, all I have to do now is sort out everything at work, take my sister shopping for her present before she heads for the country, buy a few packs of new socks etc to stop my mother squeeking at the state of my husband's footwear, get a suitable box for and wrap and post my dad's birthday present, wrap and post my grandma and grandad's Christmas presents, write and post my cards, make sure all the clothes we want to take with us are washed, wrap the remaining presents, clean the flat, find my railcard, do all the girly de-fuzzing and nail painting and exfoliating (I could swear I don't have any leaves, but you can never be too careful), pack..... Oh fuck, I'm really not ready at all, am I?

"It's only our first exchange, and already the prime minister is asking me the questions!"

What a diabolically clever little monster.

I am concerned. To go in to your first session as leader of the opposition, a Tory opposition at that, look Tony Blair in the eye and ooze "We're going to support you all the way, so there's no way you can fail to get your reforms through, is there?" is utterly too nasty for words. You could see the Labour backbenchers in the background twitching like sharks catching the scent of blood in the water. Henceforth Mr. Cameron shall be referred to as 'The Rt. Hon. Steerpike'. Tony Blair has to go NOW. If we have three years of NewTory/NewTony machinating away until Blair has to rely on their votes to get his reforms through, then we have to trust the Great British public to vote for Gordon Brown after he's only been in a few months, there is a serious danger we will end up with this flaming weasel shite as Prime Minister.

There is also the problem of Thatcher. Although I still wait in breathy anticipation every time a BBC news alert to pops up on my screen, although I still jump out of bed in the morning and sprint to the TV in case today's the day, although I am quietly bumping off a generation of Scousers to get nearer the head of the conga line that will dance over her grave (and we were close, so close. As a wise man once said, it's not the despair, I can cope with the despair. It's the hope...), I greatly fear that Thatcher will deal out her last piece of evil and pop her clogs in the very very near future, thus creating an 'End-Of-Days-Dawning-Of-The-Age-Of-Aquarius-A-Chosen-One-Shall-Arise' situation.

WE MUST FIGHT, PEOPLE! WE CANNOT ALLOW THIS TO HAPPEN.

The trouble with the British is lack of blood flow to the extremities, as it were. Look at the bloody state of us! It has come to a pretty pass when you can get chucked out of a rock band called The Libertines for taking too many drugs. "Why does it always rain on me?" indeed! Because you're utterly wet and a weed and nature likes a joke as much as anyone. When was the last time someone famous died in a pool of their own vomit? Even George Best went quietly. We are being seduced by the American Oprah Winfrey Rehab/Detox culture, when it's utterly alien to the way the British mind functions.

Religion in America is about what America is about: new starts, forgiveness, absolution, the idea that you can make yourself a person fit for heaven, even if it is on the nineteenth try. Religion in Britain is about the need to believe that by getting on with the interminable grind of life day after day for the whole of your life you can earn your place in paradise. We don't expect to feel the holy spirit of whatever religion we are coursing through us like electricity. We don't expect a personal relationship with a deity. You know that poem thing about the guy walking along the beach with Jesus, seeing footprints in the sand and wondering why at the hardest times of his life, there was only one set of prints? In America, Jesus says "It was then that I carried you." In Britain, if we're walking down the beach with anyone it's likely to be the dog, and for those of us that do have someone in our lives we love and trust to look after us always, the poem would finish "When you saw only one set of prints, it was then that I had gone to get you a beer."

Well it has to stop. WAKE UP!

Ladies and gentlemen of 2005, get passionate. Drink glasses of flaming spirits, dance and shout and wave your arms around. Wear bright colours. Vote for politicians who look like they'd face down a tank to defend your liberties. Demand that people do their jobs. Celebrate and appreciate excellence. Stop watching programs about gardening and hanging wallpaper. Turn that damn music up. Stop allowing Katie Melua to release records. And fight fight fight to stop insipid, insidious and downright insane politicians hijacking our country and using it as a guinea pig for their loopy foreign-sounding ideas. All-night drinking? Bloody stupid idea. If you're out much past eleven thirty on a Saturday, there's no way you'll be up in time for the Archers omnibus Sunday morning. And if people stop spending two hours every Sunday listening to mooing noises and meditating on what it is to be English and middle class, then where will we be?

That's right- France. With President Steerpike telling us that we can't put beautiful new words like chav in the dictionary.

Three Ways You Can Tell British People Never Learn

1) Don't you all come running to me when it's nearly two decades later and there's no viable way of getting rid of her.

2) "Yeahbutnobutyeahbutnobut my forcast might have been wrong, yeah, but there's more money to stop council tax going up and I'm extending the winter fuel payment."








3) "Awright Tory geezers, I'm your new "Leader", innit?"