November 6th

While signing autographs yesterday, Nick Park squirted ink all over a little girl’s toy Gromit. It’s a real stain on his character.

 

When I staggered out of the club all I could think about was bum, legs and fanny. I was off my tits.

 

The only thing I do on the farm these days is help goats give birth. Just kidding.

 

Our cats are terrified of the fireworks. Pussies.

 

When Jean Luc-Godard tried to convey a sense of outdoors in Alphaville, he threw Caution to the wind.

 

I can’t understand why the lovely Silver Birch in our garden never got married. It’s a Miss tree.

 

I spent ages looking for my television channel changing device. It was in a remote location. (For @Tom_saxton who has lost his TV remote.)

 

I just knocked a tube of toothpaste of the bathroom shelf. I’m Crest fallen.

 

It’s tough being a nursery rhyme star. Look at Humpty Dumpty – he’s been a crackhead for years.

 

Off to Newmarket for the butterfly races. I might have a little flutter.

 

Financial circumstances have forced me to take on a second job as a gravedigger. Not for long – just till I get out of this hole.

 

I met a bloke last night who claimed to be a moon flea. What a lunar tick.

 

I did reasonably well in the ‘Advanced Hunting Winged Insects’ exam. I got a bee.

 

I’ve just heard the brilliant new Matmos album that’s made up of sounds from insects’ nasal passages. It really is the bee sneeze.

 

We were going to have a nice bit of rocket with our Bonfire Night dinner. But it went off.

 

If he were alive today I’d think twice about telling Guy Fawkes how much I admired him. I wouldn’t want to blow smoke up his arse.

 

My son just ran in the garden to get a closer look at the fireworks we bought him. You should have seen his little face light up.

 

I was going to tell my son off for standing too close to a firework while lighting it. But he’s got a very short fuse.

 

I just got a bit part in ‘The Little Jack Horner Story’. It’s a plum job.

 

I really fancied seeing ‘Dr Foster: The Musical’. But the reviews were very middling.

 

As it’s November 5th I thought it’d be ok to let one off in the office this morning. Apparently not.

 

I’ve got a cash-in-hand job driving people around the massive Star Wars exhibition at Earls Court. I’m a taxi Vader.

 

I’ve just paid a fortune to have a tube of toothpaste framed and mounted above the fireplace. Well, it is our family Crest.

 

My wife just told me, in ancient Sanskrit, that it’s two minutes to eight. She’s always giving me a hard time.

 

Unbelievably, my wife decided to go as Blackwell to the ‘Tinned Foodstuff Fancy Dress Party’. That made me Crosse.

 

I’ve just convinced my MP to push for improvements to hotel reception areas in Norfolk. I’m a lobbyist you see.

 

My wife got dust all over my new jumper. I blew my top.

 

After I dropped my manuscript in that sponge cake mix no-one will ever believe that I wrote a novel. But the proof is in the pudding.

 

My friend Ian was arrested in New York for stealing cartoons of animals in funny & surreal situations. He got done for Larsony.

 

I’ve just made a lovely sponge cake using fabric conditioner. It’s Comfort food.

 

My friend Ian drowned in a huge vat of Christmas cake mix. He was dragged under by the currants.

 

Just had rough sex in the House of Commons dining room with the ex-Poet Laureate. I tabled a Motion.

 

I spent three hours at the Post Office collecting a package from Jester & Harlequin Supplies Inc. It was a fool’s errand.