Which gilded wordsmith wrote:

We do not stop playing because we grow old
We grow old because we stop playing.

NEVER BE THE FIRST TO GET OLD!

Press the red button on your shop mobility cart now for correct answers.

Anyone wearing slippers is automatically disqualified

I was utterly devasted to learn that the price of a bag o'chips is about to rocket.......yes rocket! The bag o'chips (as it is affectionately known) is the staple diet of all right thinking people in this country today. People make the common mistake of thinking only Irish people love chips - hence the "bag o' chips" found chalked on good blackboards everywhere. Wrong! Scotts people like them too ergo McFries (they're lovin it). Greeks - spudulike (sounds a bit like nike).

Of course I have pretensions to grandeur as I would never knowingly cover a portion of the revered potato with mushy peas. It's radioactive mashed up carpet lint for people who just want to have farting competitions up north! Curry sauce I would give the nod to if they knew how to make it properly but sadly this could all be academic as we may never be able to afford a chip again.

I shall be stockpiling Sarsons malt vinegar and growing my own. Beware all reconstituted, mechanically recovered imitations.

And if you are charged more than £1.20 for a small portion o'chips - report it on crimewatch UK

Ken Liviingstone is a dolt!

Man, am I really bored by seeing footage of him with his footage firmly lodged inside his gobbage.

Today we learn Ken, and not Ken Barlow, nor Ken that knows Barbie in the biblical sense has been doing a deal with Venezuela for the purpose of cheap oil for London. How very magnanimous of our Ken.

Have I missed something here? Since when was London twinned with Venezuela?

Or perhaps our Ken is twinned with Kazakhstan's Borat. Neither is implausable.

I have found myself spending a little more time in the post office than is normal. Sad, I know, but isn't this the bit when somebody pips up with .......Hey! Get out more...."

Yesterday I was standing in a post office queue (no change there then). This scenario had "mercy killing" written all over its mailmate jiffy bag! It was 1pm - lunch time in Toon. A conga-cute queue meandered from the "please wait here" sign and continued with joyless mirth right out the door. Naturally there are 20 cashier desks but only two of those will be occupied. Remember! It's lunch time.

The stationery when available is never the right size. A customer up front wants a bank vault's worth of Japanese Yen. All the biros have been abducted or molested and the quick passport photo booth is stuck on a recorded message saying..."sorry, I have a cold. I'm out of order today and possibly not coming in tomorrow either...."

So far so good......

This is service these days.

It's just then that the all pervading, septum-soaking stench of piss means that you might be having a bad hair day. And I'm talking nasal cavity hair! This hair never got outta bed a little bit flat, a little bit insouciant. No sir! This hair has been assailed and annihilated by ammonia soaked clothes or post office soft furnishings (aka nylon, carpet tiles)!!!

Post Offices stink - why?