As far as I am aware the majority of us that visit blog realm live in the northern hemisphere. Okay some then - whatever! On the cusp of summer, the evenings are light, the trees are in full leaf (at last) and the bees are pollinating the birds.

It must be summer. Woolies, Homebase and various garden centres (sorry if the phrase garden centres causes offence) are selling off their summer stock at MAD prices to make way for the Christmas shite. I just bought a fantastic swing hammock for 99p. Complete with a flake in it!!

So where is the warm weather? No I don't mean this as a rhetorical question. Or as a sar-caustic remark made by Anne Robinson on the Weakest Link. Where? I've got my sandals ready, the cropped cex, the enormous poseur shades (Channel darling) and the thermostat turned right down. Just one thing missing - the sun. No I don't mean the tabloid tat with tits on page three. Or that weak, watery, effort meaner than one sheet of single-ply bog paper, accompanied by an Artic howler cold enough to freeze bum to aforesaid bog seat.

The lack of warmth and well-being is making me very critical. I want to point the finger of blame for the lack of summer. Personally I think the government is to blame for the parsimonious summer season. And in particular John Prescott. He needs that extra shove right now. He's hanging on to office for dear life. Prescott I blame you. You're fired! And if things don't hot up within the next couple of weeks, Tony pack your flip-flops and your Berlusconi Italian linen sarong and stroll on!

I have just spent at least one hour trawling the net for razor wire. Well it was bound to happen sooner or later. I was burglered. Is that a word? No? Okay I was burgled last night.

Persons climbed over my locked, tall wrought iron gate and entered my garage. I have another fridge in my garage. It houses the excess alcohol. Well you know how it is. You have friends around. You stock up and that's where I store my social supplies.

This is not a joke post. They stole:

4 bottles of mateus rose,

6 Becks beers,

12 diet caffiene-free cokes,

2 bottles of Belgium beer,

2 bottles of Stowford Press cider, and a multi-pack of cranberry juice.

The thieving bastards might have a urinary tract infection. I bloody hope so. I called the police this morning and I'm still waiting for forensics to arrive. In the meantime, however, I did a spot of internet shopping for viper spikes, razor wire or just your good old, homestead barb wire. I was told I was not allowed to fortify my gates with the above-mentioned in case the cystitic burglars injure themselves on my property. Who the fuck cares if they do? It will be infinitely less dangerous than if I catch them coming back for another round.

"Crime won't crack itself"...........Phil and Nige (the bent coppers - Early Doors)

For some considerable time I have had a slipped disc in my neck. Some days are (sorry I hate to use quotes but this just sums up the experience) "finger-lickin' good" and others are "arse-wipingly bad". And today was similar in equal measures.

You see one of the reasons for the burning pain is sitting at the pc blogging on a camping chair! Well actually that is a little wide of the mark. But it might as well be a milking stool for all the support it gives me. And so to bite the bullet. At the cost of approximately £four muffle, muffle, and 93 pence plus a 10 % discount I have been plunged into the sensible world of spinal support. Lordy (and I don't mean those ridiculous Finnish creatures resembling wet ponchos knitted for a Man from Atlantis set)! Some of these chairs cost over a £1000. Worse they look like something you wouldn't want in the sale at DFS. Does anybody ever want any chair advertised by DFS? Even if you don't have to pay for it for another 10 years.

Hard as it is to consider the "A" word, after the purchase I was duty bound for Harvey Nicks. Well what's a gal to do? With an ego battered thicker than the last cod in the chip shop, I got myself a frock. A frock that rocks! And despite my penchant for chips, I'm still wearing a "P" size. That's "P" for "petite" and not "piss artist". Well one has to salvage a little dignity from somewhere. Mine comes with a "p". And I ain't talking mushy "p"s.

Did anyone see that programme on Sunday night called Funlands? All the fun of the sick, twisted fair? Uurrgh! Gross and disgusting but I couldn't switch it off. Scheduled right after the repeats of "the Office on BBC2.

This programme is an Eastenders/League of Gentlemen collaboration that makes a hen night in Blackpool look like Brideshead Revisted.

Can't wait for next Sunday's episode.

Now where did I put my Teddy?

What a match!

What a guy - Gerrard!

What a manager - Raffers!

Beautiful weather today. Summer in the city. The freshly blown diesel fumes fan the pavement cafes. The litter flirts gently around the legs of the wrought iron benches outside the Post Office. The fiat fiasco, boy racer, occupants blow their boom boxes through open windows. Mrs Stay-Puft, teenage girls proudly flash cattle-nose-ringed, belly jewellery. Ah readers enjoy..............for tomorrow it rains.

I had a pedicure today - toes look nice but my feet are bloody killing me.

For the love of Birkenstocks! Poor feet feel like they've been pelted in stocks! Go back to socks. Blimey this is starting to sound like a Dr Seuss verse that rhymes with ............

Julian Fellowes (him of Never mind the full-stops) the man that looks like a cross between Iain Duncan Smith and William Hague uttered a marvellous word this morning: GRUBBLE.

I've been grubbling all my life but didn't realise it. And worse, I could have been using this word to enrich the experience of doing same.

To GRUBBLE is to fumble or grope around in the dark. Of medieval origins (well they had no electricity then) grubbling must have been a daily occurrence. Although I can't imagine that the action itself has lost its popularity today.

I grubble frequently and shall be doing it with renewed vigour simply because the word superbly fits the "doing".

I don't know or really care whether this article is yesterday's chippie paper.

Frankly, Mr Shankly I was compelled to post for the sheer, abject and unexpurgated horror of the picture. Well what else is there to do? There was I minding my own business in the dentist's waiting room this afters when an April issue of "hello" or "OK" (well what difference does it make?) forced itself into my mischievious mitts. I protested but obviously not enough for me to stop avidly turning the pages. Naturally seeing Mr Gest my world ground to a halt in full-on handbrake yank mode.

"Megastar Liza Minnelli is fighting back as she is hammered with lawsuits from every direction.

Estranged spouse David Gest is claiming assault and now a former bodyguard is alleging he was forced to endure beatings and reluctant sexual romps. With millions at stake in claim and counter claim, Minnelli is hitting back and is resting her civil action on the fact that she has been totally traumatised since discovering Gest’s looks did not improve after she sobered up following their wedding ceremony.

The Cabaret star’s close friend and ally, popular recording artist Michael Jackson, will give testimony that his behaviour also became somewhat erratic after glimpsing Gest in broad daylight.

In a six-page complaint filed in Manhattan Supreme Court, personal bodyguard M'hammed Soumayah said that "without his consent," he was forced to have sexual relations with Minnelli."

Now I fully understand the Americans preferred choice of the simple brown paper grocery bag. Even Bloomingdales do them and it's easy to see why.

BTW Does anyone know what age Mr Gest is? Does anyone know what planet Mr Gest is from?

"This is how it manifests...

I decide to water my garden. (No! There is no hosepipe ban in blog world) As I turn on the hose in the driveway, I look over at my car and decide it needs washing. As I start toward the garage, I notice post on the front verandah table that I collected earlier, just after the postman had been.

I decide to go through the post (this means throwing it in the bin) before I wash the car. I put my car keys on the table, and notice that the bin is full. So, I decide to put the post back on the table and take out the rubbish first.

But then I think, since I'm going to be near the post box when I take out the rubbish anyway (and the postvan collects the post at noon) ...

I may as well pay the bills first. So, I take my cheque book off the table, and see that there is only 1 cheque left. My spare cheque book is in my desk in the study, so I go inside the house to my desk where I find the can of Coke I'd been drinking earlier this morning.

I know I going to look for my cheque book, but first I need to push the Coke can aside so that I don't accidentally knock it over. The Coke is warm, so I decide to put it in the refrigerator to make it cold again. As I head toward the kitchen with the Coke, a vase of flowers on the dining room table catches my eye -- they need water.

I put the Coke on the dining room table and discover my reading glasses that I've been searching for all morning. I decide I better put them back on my desk, but first I'm going to put more water in the flowers. I set the glasses back down on the table, go to the kitchen sink to get a jug and fill it with water and suddenly spot the TV remote on the window sill. Some-one left it there.

I realise that tonight when we go to watch TV, I'll be looking for the remote, but I won't remember that it's on the window sill, so I decide to put it back in the lounge room where it belongs, but first I'll water the flowers. I pour some water in the jug, but spill some on the floor.

So, I set the remote back on the kitchen bench, get some towels and wipe up the spill. Then, I head down the hall trying to remember what I was planning to do.

At the end of the day:

- the car isn't washed

- the cheque's aren't written for the bills to be paid

- there is a warm can of Coke sitting on the dining room table

- the flowers don't have enough water,

- there is still only 1 cheque in my cheque book,

- I can't find the remote,

- I can't find my glasses,

- the rubbish hasn't been taken out

- and I don't remember what I did with the car keys.

Then, when I try to figure out why nothing got done today, I'm really baffled because I know I was busy all day, and I'm really tired now.

I realise this is a serious problem, and I'll try to get some help for it, but first I'll check my e-mail.

Don't laugh -- if this isn't you yet, your day is coming!!

GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY.

LAUGHING AT YOURSELF IS THERAPEUTIC."

.....................Stolen from a mate.

Chippies god love 'em. Well we all certainly do on this sceptred isle (or should that read "sceptic"?). An national institution fish n chips. Then why is it that no matter how much salt and vinegar you eagerly stress is required for your chips, this is blatantly ignored. It might look like he's just poured a litre of vintage sarsons malt as far and wide as your polystyrene carton can see, sprinkling the wrapping paper liberally, but this is never the case when you open the wrapper.

THERE IS NEVER, NEVER ENOUGH VINEGAR And that's enough reason for me to be using the "c" word........... COD please but hold on the radioactive waste aka mushy peas. It's all that bicarbonate of soda! The sort of self-propulsion experienced after a carton of peas (in nuclear green) can take anyone home via the short cut. Where, lucky you, you can add your own vinegar. If the chips are still warm and there are some left...............food for thought.