Dear, oh dear, oh dear.........

It buggers belief to learn that a man now has a criminal record for not being able to close his bin lid firmly shut. An offence, I believe, is what the clown from the council called it. An offence? Apparently Coco (from the council) had previously "worked" with the family on matters relating to rubbish and proceeded to inform a BBC journalist that Mr Family Man was a multiple offender!!!!!!

A multiple offender of: stuffing your wheelie bin with enough rubbish as to render closure of the lid impossible!!!!!!!!!!

This is clearly not an offence. An offence is thieving, mugging, burglary, aggravated assault, stabbing, murder, etcetera, etcetera.

Ramming a wheelie bin lid shut on a couple of empty baked beans tins will now bring the full force of law upon you. Mr Family Man was fined and refused to pay. What should he have done with his rubbish I wonder? As he said himself, if he had resorted to the nasty nature of fly-tipping the peek-a-boo bags, his fine would have cost less.

Fly-tipping: 19th-century British slang usage as an adjective meaning ‘clever’. Fly in this sense has connotations of being sneaky or dishonest, hence the idea of sneakily placing something where it shouldn’t be.

Evidently his peek-a-boo bin bags where somewhere they shouldn't be. In this instant, his own bin!

For the next best thing to sitting in the sunshine, with a paper and a coffee/glass of white/red/slice of carrot cake/cheese and marmite panini/ click on the link below.

http://www.ukdigitalradio.com/news/display.asp?id=290

Please note that the line up of birds featured in the cast may change without warning due to illness, weather, migration, noise pollution, in-house squabbles and lack of bird-feeders!

Not content with running all 26.2 herculean miles of the London Marathon, I entered a Marvin Gaye step class shortly afterwards. It was all that peanut butter. They slather it over everything in the run-like-a-hare handbook.

Now where is the vasoline?

The Gunners are gone!

And "Scousers rule the world" as observed on a nice little tea-towel resplendent at the Kop (head) end.

Bring on the Chelsea boots!

Rafa I love yer

On a roll fresh from my Grand National winning streak, I went oot on the razzle-dazzle early this evening. Bearing in mind that I am fast approaching middle age, and just getting in and out of my silver cloud Roller causes hip pain worthy of Thora Hird (is she dead yet?) I took dinner at the Grove. Only posh people take things. Dinner, tea, toilet rolls and biros from waiters. Ordinary people steal things. Do keep up Algernon!

The Grove is an irritatingly obsequious chateaux set in the golfing grounds of a Jolly Green Giant. Christ, it even has its own troll-bridge and traffic light, stable block, spa palace, and fresh, folded towels lurking in every corridor. It was in this deeply pretentious set-up I sampled my first air-dried caper!

AIR-DRIED-CAPER. What does this mean? A man, with a hand-drier blowing hot air on a shrivelled, olive coloured pea? This descriptive hyperbole just has to stop. Next we'll be buying war torn testicles from abysinnian goats.

I shan't let Marks and Spencers know about this new food fetish. What can they say in that throaty, pulsating, languid voice about an air dried caper vaguely suggestive of a blow job!

Comply or Die.

With a name like that (it gets me hot under the saddle) I may just have to slip to the betting shop today.

I wonder if mad Max Mosley, for it was he he caused the rumpus within Formula 1, might have a flutter on the Grand National.

Its a more passionate race and they are not averse to the odd flick of the whip!

So the gunners thought it would be a walk-over did they, playing on their home turf. Some left for refreshments 7 minutes before the end of the first half. Dear-oh-dear spoilt little disgruntled emirates.

I salute Rafa and the lads for the holding steadfast and true. Call me old-fashioned but I do like a nice home-grown Liverpool lad scoring for his team. Roy of the Rovers it may be but what's wrong with that?

Sounded like a great match. I say sounded - regretfully I don't have Sky Sports 2. Please let the second leg be played on terrestrial TV

Anfield awaits you with untethered antici-PATION - C U (all) Next Tuesday!

Nanny MacPhee was I believe a fictious witch.

Nanny MacGovern is contrary to popular lore NOT Jimmy Mc'Govern's script-writer's best friend and bum-wiper but the leaders of our alienated nation.

Nanny MacMail is the of course the Daily Blurt. The Daily How-Would-I-Ever-Write-Without-the-Windsors!!!!!!(To be sung in the style of How do you solve a problem like....well you get the message).

Yes it's fashionable to disparage and fashionable to detest and for good reason. Yesterday I spotted a list of tunes published by the Mail (Daily Tedium) regarding what songs to drive your car to. I've heard of music to watch girls go by but this really takes the dog's biscuit, bowl and fucking blanket too!

And guess what song you should NOT be driving to?

THE PRODIGY'S "FIRESTARTER"!

I happen to bow down at the alter of the drums 'n bass, in-yer-face, Prodigy. I love them. LOVE EM! And as someone once famously opined, I will be in court for loving 'em.

However something creeped into my subconcious after reading this babying-bum-wiping bilge. And that is: Did the Prodigy ever thing that they would be mentioned in the same sentence as the Daily Mail? More signifcantly perhaps, do Daily Mail readers own Prodigy albums? Does that mean the Prodigy have lost their un-loving feeling? And finally is all that "twisted instigator" and "smack my Bitch up" anti-establishment sentiment now worthy of a mention in the Daily Mail femail, hormonal, post-menopausal, supplement?

Get off my cloud Daily Mail. Get outta my car!