Mr Riskingham: I could never deny you anything.

Miss Perilbottom: Can I have a pony?

Mr Riskingham: No.

...the difference between a turtle and a tortoise. (For those who may still be in the dark: the former lives in water the latter on land.)

Got to love David Attenborough.

PS If I had a tortoise I would call him Lenny. (In honour of Leonard Cohen of course.)

Whist still at school doing my A levels I remember looking at various artist for inspiration with my final Art exam. It was then that I first discovered David Hockney's portraits of Christopher Isherwood and his lover. Bold, prismatic, supernally pop, apologetically homoerotic and also unique in their recherche portrayal of masculine beauty they provided all the ping! a girl like me required. As a result I convinced my then boyfriend to pose in the nude for a portrait which I later gave to one of my teachers. But I digress. The reason I relayed the above is because David Hockney - once the high panjandrum of British Pop Art - has now taken up painting Yorkshire pastorals. His latest one, Bigger Trees near Warter, which he has kindly donated to Tate Britain will go on display sometime next year. I have no doubt the work in question will dazzle critics and public alike but personally I'm not convinced. Don't get me wrong the work is nice enough but 'nice' is not a word I would have used for Hockney in the past. I feel a little disappointed with his choice of subject matter but I guess he couldn't go on producing collections called 'Fuck' forever. Still, he didn't have to turn his brush to painting landscapes either.

'Dolly your skin is so perfect it's like you cut up a hundred babies with a chainsaw and stitched their hides together into a skinsuit which you wear everyday.'

Bartikins holds out a Converse box. I roll my eyes and say 'You played this prank on me last April Fools. It ain't gonna work.' He grins at the thought of my face last year when he tricked me with an empty box and gestures for me to take it. 'Oh give it here then,' I scoff and open the box to find a pair of brand new Converse trainers. Zap zing a ling bing bong! I'm happy.

I have a very complicated relationship with mobile phones. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been without a fully-working one for several months to add to this I recently misplaced my sim card and had to ring up Three to get a replacement. They sent one out, albeit unwillingly. The bastard beastly cuntling doesn’t work.
Today I phoned up Three again already annoyed at having to do this. I went through all the usual bullshit, listened intently, burred and hummed and then finally said: ‘Any particular reason why the sim's not working?’ The customer service agent paused, then replied: ‘Yes. There is a technical problem.’, ‘A technical problem?’ I said. ‘Yes, a technical problem.’ He confirmed. ‘What kind of a technical problem?’ I asked. ‘A technical problem.’ He replied. And so for about ten minutes. In the end I lost my patients and said: ‘You better tell me when this mysterious technical problem will be resolved otherwise I'm gonna have your cock smoked like a kipper and fed to stray cats.’ Silence. A minute later, ‘My name is not kipper. My name is Kapoor.’

Priceless.