Now that the confetti is all over the Mall, the Taiwanese-made Union Jacks have been furled and everyone is satisfied that two people who have been shacked up for years have kissed unconvicingly, it is time to take an EXCLUSIVE look at what happened during the Royal Wedding Reception.

So for God's sake take off your home-made hats, lay-down your poorly spelt banners and take a peek at what happened at the Right Royal Shindig  from these rolling news excerpts.


10.38PM - BREAKING NEWS: The Palace confirms that the Queen has popped her hip doing the fast-kicky bit of Dexy's Midnight Runners' "Come On Eileen".

10.53PM - In other news Prince Charles has put his back out trying to lift Camilla during the Duke of Edinburgh's karaoke version of "I've Had The Time Of My Life"...

11.20PM - Princess Beatrice's Caramac Octopus hat knocked off as she tries to do Big Fish Little Fish Cardboard Box...

11.46PM LATEST: Countess of Wessex leads the girls 'boat' during 'Oops Upside Your Head'

MIDNIGHT - David Beckham spends 20 minutes trying to convince a coatstand to "..at least stay until The Macarena..", not realising that Victoria left over an hour ago.

01.06 AM EXCLUSIVE: Ejected for minesweeping Krug, the Duke of York is caught singing Hi Ho Silver Lining whilst wazzing in a nearby shrub.

01.55PM - UPDATE: Prince Harry quietly scolded by the Princess Royal for putting a twenty quid note in a Beefeater's garter and yelling "Off! Off!"

03.20PM HEADLINES: The Serbian Royal Family and King of Tonga opt out of the traditional Last Dance To The Birdie Song and share a cab to go looking for a kebab shop "before the queues start". 

04.33AM - Party officially winding down as 80% of guests have now retired to their palaces, hotels and embassies - to dream of Pippa Middleton.

Ohhhh, Pippa....


Tracey Emin ruins any chance of a mention in the New Year's Honour's List after she vomits on a napkin EXCLUSIVELY for The Independent's Royal Wedding Special Brew.

That's all folks.
Well done, Britain.

Now get back to work and start paying for it all.


See you in 12 months for that extended international PE tournament.






So it's finally here.

After weeks of the type of invasive and disrespectful tabloid attention that killed her mother in law, and 'journalism' that has ranged from photographs in The Sun of the very toilet that she may be nervously using the night before her wedding, to an Australian breakfast radio show holding a phone vote to determine the nature of her pubic topiary, and at the cost of just 18p per person we're finally getting a brand new addition to the Civil List.

All hail Princess Kate, Queen of Hats.

In previous blogs I may have hinted that I might not be quite as enraptured as many of the other 'ordinary' people that the media are vox-popping to prop-up their tired, flaccid and outdated periodicals and programmes.

I may have given the impression that I didn't give a tinker's cuss about the "happy couple" and their "romance".

I may have suggested that this noisy and transparent diversion tactic is an excuse to bolster the flagging economy (of China & Taiwan) by flogging us unnecessarily expensive tat.

I may have highlighted the stupid commercial and irrelevant Royal Wedding tie-ins (like this Leeds sunbed shop) 

or the grubby con-merchants selling everything from sickbags to Royal Wedding air.

At times it seemed like people were actively encouraging my dissent, fanning the flames of my anger.

Pricks like Chris Balcombe.

He's made a Royal Wedding Dalek.




That's what K-9 was for, you fucking dildo.

Seriously though, what on Earth posessed you to think that an emotionless, Empire-building monster with delusions of being a pure-bred, supreme-ruler was in any way relevant to the Royal Family??

Fuck's sake.

As I say, I may have suggested that I just wish it was all fucking over and done with.

If I gave that impression it is only because that is exactly how I feel.

However, I will now, quite hypocritically, be attending a Royal Wedding party.

I know.
I know.

The reason for this is that my beautiful tiny girlfriend's beautiful tiny daughter wants to see a "real person being made into a Princess".

Like thousands of tiny girls across Britain and after years of careful, systematic brainwashing by Barbie & Disney about the nature of Royalty and the role of Princesses, she is now an ardent monarchist.

So much so that at on our recent trip to London's infamous Tower of London she picked up a Tudor teddy bear in the gift-shop and has named it 'Ann Boleyn'.

"Let's go on the swings, Ann Boleyn"
"I'm going to show you how to get up the climbing-wall Ann Boleyn"

She took that little bear all around London, explaining the sights to her, having little imaginary rows with her. It was very cute.

She loves Ann Boleyn.
Much more than Ann Boleyn's husband ever did.

When I asked her why she wasn't called "Queenie" or something a little less factual she explained that Ann Boleyn is her favourite of all of Henry VIII's wives as she gave birth to Queen Elizabeth the First who "was the most important woman ever".

She then asked who MY favourite of all Henry VIII's wives was but seemed less than impressed when I pitched Jane Seymour ("because I really fancied her in Live & Let Die..").

Seriously, how has that woman not aged a day since I was seven and yet I'm bald and losing my teeth??

(- by the way, THIS is the final bit of tomorrow's ceremony that they haven't done in the rehearsals, Kate. It was Prince Philip's idea.)

I love that my beautiful tiny girlfriend's beautiful tiny daughter is becoming a lot more aware of history, and it's thanks to a brilliant kids show called 'Horrible Histories' based on the Terry Deary books of the same name.

She's become quite the authority on the River Thames ("it was full of poo in olden times"), the Romans ("they wiped their bums with a sponge on a stick") and Queen Victoria ("British things! My British things!") and although she had difficulty pronouncing it, she did have a good stab at explaining the Reformation to me too.

If you haven't watched any Horrible Histories then you should, it's great fun and quite addictive. Also it was voted the funniest sketch show at this year's British Comedy Awards - but then again they gave Lenny Henry an outstanding achievement award...

Scrub that.

Just find a clip on YouTube, it's very funny.

So London was decked out like a BNP funeral and looked resplendent in the sunshine as it always does. It's a beautiful City when you're not living in one of it's dodgy gun-toting boroughs. I hadn't been back in about 5 or 6 years and although much of the place is hidden behind scaffolding and builder's plywood walls as they hurriedly try to make it look nice for the 2012 Olympics, I had a thoroughly wonderful time.

Dinner in Covent Garden.
A ride on the "London Of Eye" (as the little one insisted it be called).
The Tower of London.
Annoying street jugglers.
The Beefeaters.

Ideally, I would have liked the Beefeaters to have dealt with the street jugglers, but we live in more "enlightened times" now.


As Doctor Samuel Johnson once so wisely put it "When a man is tired of London he has probably just seen his fucking bar-bill.." however, since every city in England now has a number of poncey bars that think that just because they employ bar-staff that dress like David Beckham and are trained to ignore you for 20 minutes and then charge an exorbitant amount for a bottle of Premium Strength Bavarian Piss-water, they are actually IN London, that is less of a shock these days.

No, Dr Johnson never lived in Seven Sisters in the early part of this millennium and he never had to get on the bloody Bakerloo Line. People who are tired of London are not tired of life, they are tired of queues.
And of being shot at

But right now London is looking good. Happy in the sunshine, looking forward to its future, championing its past and about to host the single biggest media event of the year.

Forget Libya, Haiti, Cairo, Japan, Afghanistan or Iraq - nothing is happening there. It's all about London.

American news crews are already there (CBS & MSNBC were setting up their stages at The Tower, oddly, and Trafalgar Square while we were there last week) sending more journalists to the Big Smoke than any of those conflicted regions.... and you'll never guess who's one of their top Royal Correspondents?


So, under duress and because I want to see my beautiful tiny girlfriend's beautiful tiny daughter's happy little face more than my own selfish, grumpy need to destroy and hate this simpering, freeloading, parasitical family parade their wealth and constructed display of duty, I shall attend a Royal Wedding party.

Besides, it'll be on TV, Radio, Facebook, Twitter, in the pubs and in the streets - it's not like I can AVOID the damn thing. I'll just have to grin and bear it.

"We knew you'd come round to the idea, ya moany old cant!"

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see if there's anywhere still open that is selling Union Jack serviettes.

I just hope it doen't rain....





I've just had to endure Jimmy Smith's version of 'Mack The Knife' and it as close to being a detainee at Guantanamo as I ever want to be.

Not only should it come with a Health Warning, it should also come with a direct-line telephone number to the Head of Amnesty International.

It's that bad.

Go on... try it.
I defy you to enjoy it.

It's not only bad - it's fucking endless!!

There are parts where it sounds like he's drinking a yard-of-ale with one hand while tapping-out a coded message with the other...


... and at another point it sounds like he's put his lunch down on the Wurlitzer's keyboard and forgotten that the lid is up.

I hate jazz so much I should be called Johnny*.

It's not sophisticated, it's not cool, it's not GOOD.

"Fuck off, Acker."
 A colleague asked me "How can you not like jazz? It's where ALL music comes from...."

Then how come it sounds like where all music has been fucking dumped?

Like a massive, stinking, abandoned, rotting landfill of sound.

I know there's a degree of technical skill involved in making the instrument you are blowing, plucking or battering sound like a fire in a fucking pet shop but I really don't need to know all the fucking notes that are rattling inside your head right now.

Just play the fucking tune!!!

Not the notes around the tune, not some notes you think the writer has left out, not the ones that you and your fret-wanking key-slapping friends are enjoying more than your audience - BUT THE FUCKING NOTES TO THE TUNE!!

You wouldn't make up the ending of an Agatha Christie or add another couple to double-date with Romeo & Juliet or draw a massive wanger on Van Gogh's Sunflowers  - SO DON'T FUCKING DO IT TO MUSIC, YOU ARROGANT, GITANES-SMOKING TWATS!!!

"Ah, much better...!"

As for 'scat' - that's just nasty.
You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

By the way, Jazz Greats, you're not cool just because you're in black & white, you know. It's just that nobody wants to see your pock-marked, booze-addled, junkie, syphillitic faces in full, putrid, Retch-icolour.

Have you never wondered, Jazzers, why you're kept in basements?

I reckon that the reason they were all junkies and drunks is probably because they had to take something to numb the pain and get them through the fact that they had to play jazz all the fucking time.

I suppose it's a good thing that there are lots of Jazz Clubs dotted all around the country to house these bastards, so we know where they all are and can avoid them.

Otherwise they'd be loose in normal society...

‎"Hello, Jazz Ceramics? It's about this double-handed teapot with five fucking spouts you've sent me..."

"Is that the Post Office? One of your employees is doodling bits on my Gran's postcards from Guernsey. Could you ask him to stop?"


So fuck off out of my ears Dizzy, Coltrane, Mingus, Satchmo, Ginger, Bernie, Monk, Bruebeck, Basie, Beiderbeck, Jellyroll, Artie, Fats, Chet, Miles, Herbie, Buddy, Bird, Sonny, Sun Ra, Rueben, Lonnie and especially you, Jimmy Smith.

In fact, all of you, just fuck off.

And take those shades off indoors.

Who the fuck do you think you are?



(*A top quality gag - callously stolen from the brilliant mind of Rachel Jacobsen!)


Hmmm. What would Kriss Akabusi do?

Hello Chums!

So I took a week off and it seems the whole world has changed. I hardly recognised the place. The sun is shining, we're all monarchists this week and everyone has got a brand-new, spanking set of priorities these days. All those boring, dusty old worries have just fallen away.

Japan - sorted.
Middle East - resolved.
Recession - averted.
Qaddafi - cured.
Phone tapping - accepted.

All we have to worry about now are breaching that Mega Injunction that the High Courts have put in place to stop people saying that Sir Alf Ramsey once bummed a monkey, and picking a new electoral system based on who makes up the Celebrity XI in the big AV or Not-AV scrimmage.

For those of you less politically astute than myself, AV stands for Alternative Vote, which was what goths and shoegazers used to do in the NME Brat Awards before they got sponsored by Shockwaves Gel. This new AV is a way to make the electoral process fairer, cleaner, more efficient and zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Fucking hell.
I've bored my own keyboard.

Basically, Eddie Izzard, that lad from About A Boy and Skins, Jonathon Ross, Thick Of It star Chris Addison, stuttering-King impersonator Colin Firth, John Cleese and Kriss Akabusi are all for AV...

....whilst David Gower, Lord Robert Groucho Winston, Paul Heaton from The Beautiful South, Dara O'Briain and The Ghost Of Sir Winston Churchill are against it.

Because I don't know about you, but everytime I have to make an important decision I always have to ask myself "Yes, but what would Kriss Akabusi do?"

Fuck's sake.

They should just have a big game of "Hole In The Wall" or "Total Wipeout" and let that decide.

There are plenty of little amusing viral ads and cartoons to help you decide. Just go and vote, don't make us look like the apathetic, apolitical, simpering twats the rest of the world thinks we already are. I don't care how you vote, just vote.

If you can't be bothered with easily accessing a 21st Century information medium like the interweb, then why not look through the many, many articles or editorials in the hackneyed and corrupt 18th Century medium of newspapers?

They are helpfully sub-editing and then printing all the ghost-written opinions from all those cultural icons whose privacy they haven't bothered to invade, to help you choose which Government won't properly or fully investigate their shady, illegal practices as much in the future.

Yes! Why not have a read what David Gower said in The Sun - and then make your decision.

Yes, David Gower. Remember? He was on telly back in the 80's and 90's. David Gower. What do you mean you can't remember? I just printed a fucking picture of him. David Gower. Yes. The cricket man. David Gower. Let's see what he thinks.

No. Not Sienna Miller, I don't care if you like her. We don't want to know what she thinks. Or Hugh Grant, George Galloway, Tessa Jowell, Andy Gray, John Prescott or Leslie Ash. No-one wants to read what they think anymore. Fuck them.

No. Read what David Gower thinks about AV. Then vote like him.

That's fine.
I don't care.

Just vote.

Obviously, I don't want you to ever speak to me.

You're a fucking idiot getting your astute political analysis from the bloke who, once he had retired from hitting a small cork ball with a plank, dressed as a pantomime dame to feel up lady potato wrestlers.

On national television.

But then again so did Jonathon Ross... but you kind of expect that behaviour from him.

Just go and find out the information for yourself and make an informed decision. Don't be swayed by the way our guileless, lying, swivel-eyed, guppy-looking sweaty-faced, scumbag politicians are trying to make you feel like you're giving Nick Griffin a loving handjob if you vote one way or the other.

Forget them.

Forget Clegg, Cameron and Milliband.

It's astonishingly easy to do. Forget their bleatings and worry-mongering. No-one elected any of those three ponces anyway. No REAL people, anyway. Just other politicians.

So forget them, as Cee-Lo Green would say if his mother was in earshot, and have a look at the system you'd be voting on. That is important. Because the current one seems to be more than a little bit fucked.

Look at who we've got RIGHT NOW with the First Past The Post (or Second & Third Past The Post If The First Past The Post Hasn't Got Past The Post First Fast Enough) system we currently have, and what they are actually doing in the name of Government.

YOUR Government.

Look at the mumbling, nervously-gulping man-child we've got to whimperingly protest against them.

Clegg might look like the Prefect trying to suck up to Cameron's Head Boy, but Milliband looks like he would gladly and excitedly hold their coats on a cold riverbank as they went off rowing together and continually forgot or mispronounced his fucking name.

Just look at these uninspiring, pathetic, grubby, little men and watch as they so blatantly ignore every single one of your concerns. Is there a way that a new system would make them more GENUINELY accountable? Or do we muddle through with this same old shit until much further down the line we get an even more diluted-down version of George Osborne running the country?

It's up to you. Vote however you like.

Anyway, go and read up on it yourself, I'm not your Dad.

It'll give you something to do while they all try and distract you with stories about Kate Middleton's most  favourite hat, how The Only Way Is Essex has been nominated for a BAFTA or what really gets Andrew Marr up early on a Sunday morning.

That's one celebrity's position I really don't want to hear about.





I think that Easter is probably my favourite of all the holidays. Christmas is a bit jostly, angry and cold, the Summer holidays are a bit disappointing and endless, I'm not all that bothered about pancakes, I don't really get May Day, and although I like Chinese New Year and Diwali I don't think that they're really designed for me.

But Easter is great. It's just the right length of time and it's full of chocolate.

Of course the whole religious thing tends to get in the way a bit, as it often does, but that just means another airing for El Cid, The Robe, Samson & Delilah, The Agony & The Ecstasy or one of the other great Technicolour epics to explain why we're all having a few days off.

I'm no theologian, but as I understand it God sacrificed his only son off a wall in front of some Romans and their horses who then couldn't put him back together again.

Which is why we get eggs.

I think...

I'll have to check with the Charlton Heston, but I think that's right.

"Who ordered the Family Size Dairy Milks?"

I'm being wilfully obtuse for comic effect, obviously, but the whole notion of Easter and its celebrations are no less confusing.

At around this time, when I was a schoolboy many years ago, we were also taught one of the jauntiest hymns ever written - The Lord Of The Dance - in which we were encouraged to gleefully sing about being "whipped", and then "stripped" and then "hung from on high", having in the previous verse been "dancing with a Devil on your back".

Instead of lamenting the death of a Saviour's selfless sacrifice (although this scenario is muddied by the involvement of Judas and the predicting of him being a traitor, and therefore possibly manipulated by a deity) and acting solemn, mournful and grateful, we then reward each other with as much chocolate as we can stuff into our faceholes and can even buy little buns decorated with the exact same torturous implement of death that the Lamb of God was nailed to.

(... albeit a delicious, sugary implement of death.)

There's another oddity - 'The Lamb of God'.

What kind of name is that? Rastafarians have a Lion (latterly a mouse) so why do Christians have a Lamb?

Is it because it all happened around Easter?

Or was it a school nickname that just stuck, because someone found out that Jesus was born in a barn?

"Baaaa! Baaaa! I'm Jesus! I like eating grass! My best friends are shepherds.. They came to my birthday party!! Baaaaa!!"

It can't have been that, thinking about it, because little JC could have easily played the 'My Dad's bigger than your Dad' card and smited the mouthy little fucker right there and then.

I mean, he must have had tantrums?
Nobody is THAT nice.

"How many times have I told you not to go around smiting people? It's not nice."
"Shurrup, you're not my real Dad anyway... I HATE YOU!!"
"Jesus H Christ, you come back here this instant!! This wood won't plane itself... oh, it is doing. NO MAGIC IN THE HOUSE! I'LL TELL DUMBLEDORE!!"

As I say, I'm no theologian... but that is EXACTLY what happened.

I checked with Charlton.

We also get a day off work and school to celebrate the murdering of the Son of God, which again feels a bit odd. Then there's the day everyone thinks he is dead in which we don't do anything at all - no mourning, the shops and pubs are all open as usual, and then on Sunday it's Egg & Bun Day to celebrate his Rising From The Dead - again, an odd way to react when confronted with a zombie.

Thankfully, we're much better informed and prepared these days...
Just aim for the head...

 But putting all the religious stuff to one side, as the vast majority of us do, Easter is a lovely time. The trees and fields are greener, the weather is usually on the turn (SNOWMAGGEDDON being a distant memory), the evenings are lighter and people are in a generally better mood.

One of the reasons for being in a much better mood is that we have those extra days away from work, either side of the weekend. And even though most people are not religious they will still emulate the last actions of Christ by getting completely hammered on Good Friday and then not rising for three days.

I find that much less insulting than hot-cross buns.

So Hooray for the egg-hunts, the egg-decorating, the egg-rolling, the cards, the chicks, the bunnies, the bonnets, the sunshine, the smiles, the walks in the park, and the endless, endless daffodils.

Who cares if the story has been corrupted?
Apart from Christians?

The whole Christian celebration hijacked the much older pagan fertility celebration of springtime anyway. Even the word Easter is derivation of Eostre (a.k.a. Eastre) the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people of Northern Europe.

So celebrate Jesus of Nazareth if you like, or for that matter Aphrodite from ancient Cyprus, or Ashtoreth from ancient Israel, or Astarte from ancient Greece, or Demeter from Mycenae, or Hathor from ancient Egypt, or Ishtar from Assyria, or Kali, from India, or Ostara a Norse Goddess of fertility.

It is all very confusing, and it is entirely up to you how you celebrate Springtime....

...but I know which one of these I'd rather be with.

Death by Chocolate, anyone?




I've not slept properly in ages.

In fact, as long as I can remember I have had insomnia. Not all in one go. That would be mental. And this blog would be even more nonsensical and gibbering than it already is.

 I mean, I'm tired. Dog-tired. I haven't had a full night's sleep in a week as I keep getting up at the slightest noise. Just recently my beautiful tiny girlfriend has been full of some diseasey-virus thing and the poor love hasn't been able to sleep. Which means that, selfishly, she's not been letting me sleep.

That coupled with the fact that it is the Easter Holidays has meant that my beautiful tiny girlfriend's beautiful tiny daughter is "bored" from the moment the clock strikes 6am and needs entertaining.

I have always had trouble sleeping. As a child I was very nervous and prone to nightmares and flights of fancy that would keep me awake for hours at an end. The strange, swirling shapes on the curtains caused by the swaying shadows of the trees outside would send my mind racing and create life-threatening scenarios inside my head.

The poster of Great Uncle Bulgaria would become hateful and malevolent. Witches danced in my garden. Pixies invaded my room. Cobras coiled within the patterns of our 70's carpet and the wind cried scary.

My head would become the set for the opening titles of Roald Dahl's Tales of The Unexpected....

...but with more Victorian china dolls and fewer dancing nudey ladies.

As well as firing up my boyhood imagination, which was already stuffed to bursting point processing comic books and cartoons, it also fired-up my Dad who had to be at work at 4.30am every day.

My nightmares were so powerful that they would keep 40% of the household up all night.

According to my Mum I would sometimes see things that weren't there. Or at least things that she couldn't see. I'd break off from telling her why I had woken up screaming "PIXIES!!!" or "WITCHES IN THE GARDEN!!" and then silently and suddenly stare fixedly at the top of the window frame and follow an imaginary creature's hastened departure from my bedroom.

Make that 60%.

When I left home and started college I started working in a nightclub, so long nights meant I slept in a lot. Working til 3am most nights and waking around noon became the norm. There's something so freeing about working nights, or at least the late evenings to nights. Working right through the night until, say, 5am is bloody awful. You sleep during the whole day. Winter is a constant shroud of blackness and cold.

But working til about 1am-3am-ish is great. You get to spend your day as you like, the shops are less busy, museums and art galleries are yours to savour, the swimming pool becomes a private pool (provided you time it so you don't visit during the local school swimming lesson) and pub lunches can be taken anytime you like.

It's glorious to have the day to yourself, instead of the crappy evening. Evenings are shit. I'd ban them. Nothing good happens in the evening.
The night, yes. Evening, no.

Evenings are for traffic jams, crowded trains, rainy bus-stops, crowded supermarkets, local news, Hollyoaks, Australian soaps and Eggheads.

Why would anyone want to finish a day at the office looking at a parade of smug twats and then watch Eggheads to relax??

Or be told how people in Kippax are celebrating National Cat Awareness Day?

Fuck evenings.
I'd rather be at work.

Mornings are even worse, which is why I avoid them by staying in bed until they've had the common decency to pass.

This was never a problem at college and university as hardly anyone used to go in before midday. It wasn't wise to disturb the hungover lecturers. Especially if they'd just found out they'd made one of the Fresher's pregnant.

I used to be so bad at waking up before noon that I would wake up violent. Like a bear with a sawn-off shotgun. It got so bad that my mate Pete would actually break-in to my security-unconscious flat and make me a brew before waking me up.
It was Pete who first nicknamed me "The Lie-In King".

Quite apart from the late nights was the insomnia.

Insomnia, if you've never been tempted to try it, is like having all your maddest dormant thoughts pop into the spotlight and do a 3 hour routine at the centre of your brain, often battering you into submission with their twisted logic to the extent that you actually think you are having good, marketable ideas.

Basically, your head turns into the audition stage of Britain's Got Talent coupled with Dragon's Den, only in this state, a school for tap dancing dogs not only becomes plausible but a real missed business opportunity.

Other things that occur have included:

"Why don't Oxfam put everything on Ebay?"

"Could I market musical wristband tissue dispensers at small children with constantly runny noses? Ben 10 ones for boys, Barbie ones for girls - I could call them GreenSleeves.."

"Why didn't Prince William use his vast wealth, youth and the resources available to him to dress up like a Bat and avenge the death of his mum? 

"Why has THIS been allowed to be made?"

and that old favourite...

 "How does Uri Geller eat yoghurt?" 

Or I start unfavourably comparing celebrities:

Is Jessie J Mystic Meg on Botox?

Is Robert Peston a dowdy David Tennant?

Is Lady Gaga the disco Myra Hindley?

Is Beth Ditto the indie Susan Boyle?

The answer to all of these ridiculous enquiries and stupid questions is, of course....
Just get some fucking SLEEP!

But that is easier said than done, your mind may be wanting stimuli but your body is too tired to lift a book or magazine, let alone flick on the box to watch the cheats in sunglasses and balaclavas on late night poker.

Well, I suppose, as I'm here, I could look back on a few old blog posts?

They seem to be quite popul....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It's 3pm.

That's the last time I buy brie from a car-boot sale...