I'm quite excited. I've pencilled this into my diary.

Well obviously there has been a gaping hole since Frank Gallagher and his brood left Channel 4. However Irvine Welsh graphic novelist and purveyor of drugs and filth has written a new drama for Channel 4.

Wedding Belles tells the tales and misadventures of 4 friends. One is about to get married the other three are her bridesmaids. Obviously it is riddled with dysfunctional anecdotes, drug use and abuse, alchohol fuelled capers, foul language and scenes of a sexual nature.

Right up my street really. Thursday nights starting March 29th on four.

ALWAYS MORE (TO THE FLOOR) ON FOUR!

Vernon's little book of calm was not as helpful as he'd hoped for!

I wonder how many bloggers were lucky enough to celebrate Mother's Day yesterday?

It's commercial and why should we need a speciifc day to remind us to appreciate and spare a thought for our respective mothers? Why indeed?

I am not a bleeding heart blogger. Nor am I a blogger with much of a social nor moral conscience. I blog purely for the fun and social interaction I get from likeminded bloggers.

But yesterday was different. Yes, it was Mother's Day but it was also the day I read about the death of Sally Clark. A mother of three children. A mother, and a family, systematically screwed by the criminal justice system and so-called expert medical witnesses. To loose a child is without doubt one of the most tragic experiences we hopefully will never have to live through in a our life time. But to loose two and then be wrongfully convicted of their deaths on seriously flawed medically expertise and then spend time in prison must be a living hell on earth.

This lady died on Thursday evening - she was 42. Her conviction was overturned and she was at home in bed when she died of suspected heart failure. I suspect she died of a broken heart.

So as I celebrated Mother's Day yesterday - my heart went out to Sally Clark and her boy who no longer has a mother.

Travel lodges nationwide have just launched the latest sleeping accompaniment for people missing their partners whilst on the go. The cuddilow (do what John) has been introduced for lonely bedfellows. Apparently its a pillow with wrap-around arms. I jest not. Sort of less scary than that disgusting looking hug-a-soup hair ball used in the soup commercials.

Well having never used a travel lodge I can only guess at why these pillows may feel comforting. What's wrong with getting blind drunk and ordering a take-out pizza for christs sake? Then who cares where or with whom you sleep? Live a little!

I normally pretend to shun all those so-called sell-ebrity rags called "Look ere!", "Close Up", "Nowt-On", and "Breasts A-bare" for the more serious Vague, Tittle-Tattler or Horse and Gucci Harness". They can give you good advice on where to do lunch for under £50 a starter, how to look like Kate Middleton. Who dear? And where to buy that must-have new season handbrag (thus named because this sort of arm candy normally sails in at a mere £800 plus). £800 for a handbag. Jesus H Christus on a pogo stick, if Lady Bracknell was alive today she would have been shamed by the association.

Anyway back over to the rag mags. It was with much mirth today that I purchased a copy of the latest Heat magazine. It was a weak moment. The man infront of me in the queue in WH Smith was dallying over the price of a pouch of snuff. And on the cover of Heat was an ignonimous display of guts. Celebrity guts - white, putrid and looking like week old tripe. When feeling remote - have a gloat, is my motto! So there. I bought it.

The bellies did not disappoint I have to confess. I did feel rather superior even though I had taken the precautionary measure of hiding it in my copy of "The Times".

However the pinnacle of my pleasure was a phrase unique to "Heat" bless their cotton type-face. You see, much has been made of the latest craze originating from LA (thank god). Ladies without knickers. Car/limo/taxi clambering-out-of is the obligatory accessory. A flash of the crotch coupled with the ungainly exiting = a lady garden!

Would a gentleman's be known as a football pitch? Well.....posts and balls?

Lawks, cripes, jeepers and whatever........

I'm so excited. My all-time favourite band (naturally not counting Led Zeppelin) are playing in Oxford Street. Well not actually in the street but at the 100 club in Oxford Street. And I've got tickets. No idea where the 100 club is but since when has that stopped anyone when the band in question is ALABAMA 3

This is the same band that a music journalist once said of "They are possibly one of the best bands to watch live but they are not exactly the sort of people you would want as friends!"

Well I wouldn't want the charming and purely altruistic Lord Levy as a friend but at least the A3 have a drug history, character and talent in skip loads. Which reminds me: Ozzy Osbourne once said ..."at first we woz a rock band dabblin' in drugs, but now we are a drug band dabblin' in rock"

"Just remember little man, don't you go to Goa!"

Today - this is not the John Humphries radio 4 today but MY today..........

Driving back through a very respectable area of North West London stood an armed policeman. Combat jacket, stanley knife, bandolier and grenade. Well perhaps not the stanley knife (that's for carpet laying at B&Q) but the policeman stood outside a home with a bloody machine gun.

Totally uncalled for. This is not war torn, cliched anywhere that has had its hymen torn asunder, this is not the underbelly of Africa clawing its way through clusters of civil unrest. This is St John's Wood. The nearest to a fracas may have been Liam Gallagher taking a pop at a papp that got too close to his neanderthal side burns. The nearest civil unrest might have been a dog on a rope taking a poop without the walker carrying a poop packet.

Too add insult to injury another policeman stood in the middle of the road and halted all oncoming traffic. I couldn't stick around for why. I was heading in the opposite direction thankfully. But I did give a thought to the "up-in-arms" rhetoric concerning replica firearms.

If we feel concerned about the "down in the hood" gun culture that is hip-hop-happenin' right now in the Peckhams and the Balhams, then it follows that a policeman carrying an AK47 in a residential avenue of suburbia is equally questionable, if not "a little over the top". There was no (kerrist I'm gonna have to use an Americanism here) "clear and present danger". Namely no Tony Blair nor George Bush dropping by for tea, nor a heated discussion between either of them regarding the best salon for a speedo bikini wax.