Barnacles and muffins

What a great show to start the week Kid. After a four day orgy of tall ships, it was good to hear Lazarus, aka-Jordie speaking from the tomb where he grows his mushrooms.

The BBC coverage of the tall ships was first class and no injuries or cases of scurvy to report. The only casualty was the little land lubber from Strabane,Hugo Duncan, who was taken into dry dock to have the barnacles scraped from his bottom. No man, or indeed woman, suffering from duck's disease should be allowed near tall ships. It's an open invitation to any barnacle who may be lurking in the deep. "LOOK!" the barnacles scream. "A little short ass, let's go and attach ourselves to his bottom."

I looked at Tommy my cat who was pretending to be Nero. Tommy, dressed in imperial purple, was fiddling frantically as he watched a sofa he had just set alight, flash back over the ceiling and set fire to my prized collection of shrunken heads.

I drew Tommy's attention by saying his name, "Tommy," I said ,"did you hear Gerry allude to the fact that all Italian women over the age of 25 turn into muffins?"

"I did." said Tommy. "but when the Mafia call later tonight, tell Gerry not to worry, they only ever hurt their own."

"I think Gerry's right," I said, as I filled a blow pipe with poisoned darts and took potshots out of the window. Jim Rodgers gave a scream of, "Nigh-Nigh-NIGH!" as a dart hit him in the rear. Three of Baggott's best, that's policeman to you and me, rushed up and began to throw dice to see who would suck the poison out. They need not have bothered. Gary Lineker ran up and applied his lips to Jim's rear. Gary Lineker is SO sickening and nice. He's always sucking up to someone.

But back to the story. "Yes Tommy," I said. "Italian girls do turn into muffins after the age of 25 and I know-WHY!"

"And WHY exactly is that?" said Tommy, coming in right on cue.

"SALAMI!" I yelled. "When Italian girls get married, they have a bambino and then they get stuck into the vino and salami, which brings on acute-muffiness."

"There must be something we can DO!" yelled Tommy.

"There IS!" I yelled.

"What is IT!" yelled Tommy.

"We must," I yelled. "We must, hide the-SALAMI!"

Tommy looked at me puzzled and said, "Is that not an analogy for........

"DON'T GO THERE!" I screamed. "Don't you dare go there. Do you want Gerry to lose his job? Have you learned nothing after the Jonathon Ross and Russel Brand affair?"

"Crumbs," muttered Tommy.

"Crumbs indeed, my fine feathered friend," I said, as I kicked the be-jesus out of the zinc alloy coal bucket with my bare feet. I do that sometimes to relieve stress!

All this and more have I seen from Lynda Byron's refurbished hen house. You should see it. It's state of the art, concealed lighting, lovely inlaid wooden floor, central heating, soothing piped music, a 48 inch plasma TV, private cubicles where the hens can change into their white terry towel dressing gowns and Rodney the rooster has a reclining chair, complete with tray for his spectacles and briar pipe!

Gerry, what chook wouldn't want to live in a house like-THAT????