You have to admit, it’s rare to see such a succulent, provocative pose in a family newspaper. All over the country, right now, very small numbers of people are swooning face first into their petits pains au chocolat. Anyway, my story about going to Shitterton is in The Independent today, along with a list of rude placenames that someone else compiled but are probably a bit more digestible. If you buy the paper, you’ll be able to see the unintentional juxtaposition of a picture of a signpost with “Twatt” written on it pointing directly at Alex James’s column at the side of the page.

Still not feeling that great. I made the right decision to bow out of a karaoke shindig tonight – not least because karaoke is probably one of the least hygenic rituals you can perform with other adults in a public place that won’t get you arrested. Spend two and a half minutes shooting infected spittle into a microphone while attempting to sing The Court Of King Caractacus (I’ve just noticed that the chap who did that animation thought that “harem” was “hare”. Idiot) before passing it on to someone else who’ll spend four minutes lovingly caressing the mike with their lips while pushing out an excruciating version of Phyllis Nelson’s “Move Closer”, like a rich brown turd.

I dunno, it’s all plops around here today, isn’t it.