It is my first weekend in my new home. Bored with the wallpaper, I walk into the night and enter the local pub. I ask the landlord if this is the pub where the quiz night is being held.

"Who wants to know?" he says.

I am wrestling with my conscience.

He's a biggun.

I have brunch with Alan Yentob.

I am a postman. I have a special delivery for Mr Evans. I walk up his driveway. I knock on his door. There is no answer. The bastard never answers straight away. I waste so much of my time at his house, knock knock knocking on Evans' door.

I am in a cafe with my betrothed.

We order, "Two BLTs and hold the mayo!"

"Until when?" asks the waitress.

My cat hates the word "professional".

Tired of trawling through War and Peace, I try the new novel by Lester Read.

I enter the Miss Faversham Beauty Contest.

I am crowned Miss Haversham.

The car is full of England fans and flags. The sign on the back windscreen says "BABY ON BOARD".

The baby is on the roof.

I am heading to the town centre. Two teenage girls are heading towards me. As they walk past me, one says to the other...

"He ain't that bad."

It's a lovely day.

I decide to take my medication alfresco.

I've got an ear for the ladies.

I am in the Hot Club of Paris.

Jesus, it's hot. Don't they have any air conditioning? The sweat's flying off Grappelli's fiddle, showering the whole front row. The air's thick with Gauloise smoke and body odour. Christ, it's unpleasant. I'd willingly throw up if I could get any air into my lungs.

There is a new search engine - Googoo.

So simple, a baby can use it.

I break down on the roundabout in Basingstoke. There is a man there in flagrante with a car exhaust.

He asks me whether I'm dogging.

I tell him he's barking up the wrong tree.

I take my dog to a drive-in poop 'n' scoop.

I am at a Rotary Club meeting.

We just keep going round in circles.

I am in the basement of a public house, a room in which informal poetry readings are held.

Tonight is special as there is rumoured to be an appearance by poet/singer, Morrissey. We wait in eager anticipation of seeing and hearing the great man reading out lines from his classic songs.

There is a commotion in a room to my right: the pub's kitchen. We hear what sounds like the quacking of a duck. It is a duck and it waddles under the swing doors, swiftly followed by Morrissey, chin jutting in anger, holding a meat cleaver above his head, and screaming at the top of his voice, "THEY ALWAYS LET ME DOWN!"

This horrible scene is cut short by a hefty bouncer's knee connecting with the duck hater's groin. The cleaver drops from the singer's hand and misses the terrified duck by a mere three inches.

As Morrissey is bundled into the kitchen, the MC climbs onstage and says, "Sorry folks, I'm afraid tonight's gig is cancelled."

We all boo like cows with bunged up noses, but the MC calms us down with the following words:

"But a little treat for you next week. Keep this under your hats, but next Saturday the one and only Ted Nugent will be reading Under Milk Wood."

We whoop and whoop and whoop.

I am at a psychic fair. I fall off the merry-go-round at high speed. A man picks me up and says, "I could see that happening."

I photocopy my home town.

I am in two minds whether or not to shred it.

I am in my Easter Bonnet.

A woman mistakes me for her baby. She straps me in the back of her SUV and roars off at high speed.

I go to a Boot Fair.

I buy one, put it on, and hop home.

I open my wardrobe door. Standing before me, in shirt, pants, and socks, my trousers in his hand, is Brian Rix.

He smiles at me.

"I've found them!" he says.

I am on a paintball stag weekend. The tutor lines us up and asks us, "Any paint virgins here?"
I put my hand up and the bastard shoots me four square in the bollocks.

I buy a clockwork piggy bank. I wind him up and watch him run around the room. I wind him up so much that he gets the arsehole and runs away with all my money.

I am invited into the crazy world of Arthur Brown.

"Would you like tea or coffee?" he asks me.

T Rextasy: The UK's No 1 Live Tribute Band (as voted on BBC1's Battle Of The Fantasy Bands)


I am at a Glam Rock Tribute Nite at Crayford Town Hall. The bands are all reasonably local as they have to get up for work in the morning.
The line-up is as follows:-

1. The Bromleyan Roxy Music (all except the drummer are ex-Bromley Contingent)
2. The Dartfordian Sweet (whose lead singer's real name is Brian Conley - I'm not kidding)
3. The Crayfordian Slade (ex-Oasis tribute band Sally Can't Wait)
4. Eltham John (originally from Leek, Staffordshire - moved to Eltham in 1992 to further his career)

I am watching Tomorrow's World at the exact moment when Slade turn from being a skinhead band into a glam rock band. The band are lined up in silhouette, and Raymond Baxter asks if we can identify Noddy Holder.

He is quite clearly to the left of Dave Hill.

I am watching a game of 5 a side bollocks.

One of the bollocks gets sent for an early bath for ungentlemanly conduct.

Mrs Worthington puts her daughter on the stage.

I have Bette Davis' eyes.

I swap them for Ben Turpin's eyes and £3.64.

I am participating in a game of Celebrity Poker. I don't know who half the celebrities are.

I lay a pair of Anne Robinsons, not realising I have a Hollyoaks Royal Flush.

I am hothousing my 4 year old for Junior Mastermind.

And while he's there he can fucking water the plants.

I am a sensitive singer-songwriter.

My piano brings me out in a rash.

I am on the Tears For Fears bus. The conductor puts on a cassette of a bootleg Tears For Fears concert, live from Dudley JB's. The boys come on stage accompanied by Holst's The Planets. Roland steps up to the microphone and says, "Hello, Dudley!"

They start to play and the whole bus sings along.

I am walking along, minding my own business, when a large skinhead approaches me and asks me where I got my Little Brown Bag.

"Sanny Claus gave it me," I say.

"Can Sanny Claus get me one?" he replies.

My acupuncturist sticks needles in my eyeballs as he says they lie on the Greenwich Meridian.

I am a rich, famous poet and author. I am extremely drunk and I can't find my way home.

I've lost my mews.

I walk into my office first thing in the morning. The IT man is lying dead on the floor.

I answer an advert for 'Live In Head' at a private school in the country for gifted children.

I get the job and spend my working hours locked in my office, daydreaming. The children teach themselves.

I go to a Police Auction of unclaimed goods. I buy a dot matrix printer for 7p. It doesn't work.

Infamy.

I am given a copy of the new River Cafe Cookbook. It has three chapters:-

Minnow

Stickleback

Tiddler

I am rowing a couple of chums up the Thames to Richmond.

We get wolf-whistled by the River Police.

Everything in the Holy Bible becomes true. Cats do not exist.

The meece inherit the earth.*

*Thanks to Betty for this one.

Carla Lane's new sitcom is about a family of Liverpudlian French bulldogs, The Gerrards. Jean-Pierre, here, is to open a vegan restaurant in Walton.

I am 75. I go for a roll up* with 3 men and 2 women. The women are married to 2 of the men. The other man's wife is too ill to play. I'm taking her place as I owe her husband a favour. Last week he gave me the kiss of life.

* bowls vernacular

A pair of long johns in her left hand, my grandmother is freebasing cocaine off her ironing board.

Prime Minister Gordon Brown proposes to the House that to set an example to the nation, Members' genitalia should be enclosed in Union Jack underwear.

I answer the phone. It is a woman from another department.
"Are you sitting on a cheque from Mrs Cramp-Iron?" she asks.
"We don't sit on cheques in the Accounts Department," I say. "Any cheques we can't allocate we send to your department."
"You've sat on cheques in the past," she says. "Can you go and check?"
Angrily, I put the phone down. I stand up. I feel something on the seat of my trousers. I pull it off.

It is a cheque from Mrs Cramp-Iron.