Newspaper headlines that I hope I see in my lifetime but never will

Jeremy Kyle found beaten to death in a Manchester back alley

Bono ADMITS that he is a pretentious, hypocritical, short-arsed twat

RONAN THE BARBARIAN!!! - Down-and-out ex-boyzone star jailed for beating an old lady to death for her pension book

Jeremy Kyle found eviscerated outside a newsagents in Filey

Kim Kardashian EXCLUSIVE: "I have no discernible talent whatsoever"

Planet of the RAPES!! Sex-mad monkeys rule the roost at Whipsnade Safari Park

England Rugby Team "We are a bunch of fat cloggers who enjoy stripping naked and touching each other's tiny cocks"

DAILY MAIL EXCLUSIVE: We hate all brown people, Eastern Europeans and gays and can't be bothered to mask this fact with sloppy journalism anymore

Jeremy Kyle found beaten to death with rubber dildos in a Warrington sex shop

Carol Vorderman: "Why my eyes are no longer on speaking terms"

RONAN THE LIBRARIAN!!! - Ex-boyzone star eking a living in Macclesfield mobile library

John Terry WORLD EXCLUSIVE: "Even my mum thinks I'm a cunt"

"FAT TAX!" - People to be taxed for every additional Kilo they are overweight

KATIE PRICE MISSING - Feared disappeared up own arsehole

Jeremy Kyle accidentally fired into the moon during routine sound check

RONAN THE SEPTUAGENARIAN!!! - Forgotten ex-boyzone star celebrates his 60th birthday at Wimpy in Buckinghamshire

Oh Deer.

I'm one of those people who are as lazy as I can possibly be. If I can't arrive home from work and just mong out on the sofa for at least a good hour then I consider my life too hectic. I could never be one of those people who hotdesk and walk around with their blackberries trying to look important. I love doing nothing. It is the best thing that has ever been invented, even though it is not a thing. Sometimes I just wish I could stay in bed all day doing absolutely nothing worthwhile. It's funny what happens when you get your wish.

As you may know, my pathological hatred of public transport has led me to extreme lengths to avoid it; I bought a car which I don't really need to restore it, then I thought better of it and bought another car which I didn't really need but at least runs and is actually safer than Colonel Gadaffi in a drainage pipe. So now I have 2 cars I don't really need but at least one kind of works so I guess that is ok.

I also decided that cycling to work would be a great idea! So I bought a bike and then it was stolen after 6 weeks. A mere setback! I decided and I went out and bought another bike. I will admit that there are pitfalls to cycling, which include and are surely not limited to the following: Other cyclists, pedestrians, motorists, potholes, nails, rain, wind, snow, humidity, hills and low branches. I can now add one more pitfall to the list, which I like to call megafauna.

For it was megafauna I struck while making my way back from work on that fateful Halloween - a large stag who decided that our fates were to become intertwined by perfectly intersecting my path with his sudden urge to go for a stroll in the road. I was travelling downhill in Richmond Park, which is always a relief after going up lots of hills beforehand. But I was unprepared for how quickly I would run out of momentum as I struck what felt like a huge punchbag made of meat and sailed through the air with all the grace of John Terry doing, well, anything.

Cat-like, I quickly sprung back to my feet to - if need had been - punch the Stag in the face, in case he wanted to fight or do sex on me. Luckily the Stag buggered off pretty sharpish, which was a relief to me as I was feeling even more pathetic and ill-equipped for violence than usual. I ended up having to walk to the nearest hospital in pitch darkness, my stricken bicycle being pushed by even more stricken arms, bleeding profusely from my leg and earning admiring glances from gormless trick-or-treaters who thought I was in costume.

So now I have knackered arms and a bike which has seen better days, with the front wheel looking particularly Dali-esque, but never mind. My injuries meant the rest of the week off of work, which would have been great had I been able to do anything at all. But I couldn't. I had a X-Box sitting there, looking at me accusingly, as I used all my meagre strength to draw the covers up around my face, and tried not to dream of oversized animals acting like improvised speedbumps. "Play me" it begged, suggestively winking and opening its filthy slot to show me Duke Nukem.

I now know that doing nothing is overrated. But, I am back, and reflecting on the inconveniences that not wanting to use public transport have bought to me. And even after all that has happened, I'd still rather get knocked off my bike every other week than spend another second on a train. So I guess I haven't really learnt anything at all. Oh well.

I call it the art of writing without writing

The art of writing is dead. When was the last time you actually wrote something on a piece of paper? For me I only ever write if I am sending a card, and since I hate so many people this is a rare occasion indeed. My handwriting has atrophied so badly that I can now only write in capitals. If I attempt something as sophisticated as joined-up writing it looks like 2 warring factions of spiders have both lost.

If I commit something to writing it actually looks like a secret code. The only trouble is, I often can't decipher it. When I write my signature, it's never the same twice. Thank god for chip and PIN, no more eyebrows raised in my direction when trying to use my card to buy shopping with. My signature also becomes worse, depending on the magnitude of what I am signing. A cheque for 20p will be fairly neat, whereas my mortgage application resembled the output of a heart monitor during a cardiac arrest.

Not to say I was ever good at handwriting though. When I was in school, handwriting was considered extremely important. I'd say more important than something like maths. I'd be told to stop wasting time with silly things like quadratic equations and instead concentrate on my writing. I think the teachers imagined that anyone with handwriting less pretty than the finest calligrapher would be out on their ear at 12, and in the poorhouse for the rest of their pathetic little lives. When I was about 13, a fellow pupil ridiculed my handwriting in front of the whole class, and one of the less-well adjusted nutters in my year leapt to my defence, saying that I was dyslexic and that he would beat people who made fun of me. Because of his psychotic nature, I elected not to correct him.

So for much of my time at the school it was a common belief that I was dyslexic. I was even given special handwriting pens which were basically normal pens with translucent blue rubbery grips. I used to try get high off them because they smelt a bit like marker pen. It was only when my English teacher realised that I had absolutely no trouble whatsoever with reading or using one of the few computers we had that I was rumbled. Unfortunately, If I had played along a bit longer I would have been in line for a free laptop.

That's another thing, I really wanted to put a sad face at the end of that last sentence. I am officially incapable of expressing emotion without smileys (also known as 'Emoticons', if you're a c**t). In the future, if there are still printed novels, they will have to incorporate smileys into their typeface. I can imagine poetry books and trashy romance novels where smileys are more commonplace than words :(

I've always prided myself on being a reasonable speller. However, since writing this blog I've realised that this is not the case. The problem is, that I didn't realise that composing e-mails using Microsoft word automatically corrected things like 'teh' as you went along. This is because I still can't touch type, and me using more than 2 fingers at any one time (matron) can be considered a rare event. So all those years of not looking at the screen has left me blissfully aware of my staggering ineptitude. It's only through writing straight into this blog without any automated correction shenanigans that I've realised quite how retarded I am.

Luckily, I use the following online spellchecker before publishing anything which you can access using the link below. This enables me to omit my myriad typos which otherwise would fall into the hands of the pedants (metaphorically of course). Although a note of caution regarding hyperlinks. If you paste anything into the spellchecker the finished and spellchecked text will be copied back in as plain text. So don't do what yours truly did, and put loads of links into an article before you have spell checked because you'll have to find and re-link everything again. And that would make you a poor speller and stupid.

The link above will take you to the Queen's English spellings, so you won't be offered bastardised 'corrections' like 'color', or 'aluminum'. Americans, if you want to come across a bit more cleverer, just click thru the link above also. One more note on blogs. they're great. No more messy HTML or CSS (unless you are a sadomasochist and really want to), no more having to upload new files to FTP sites for a one-word amendment, and you can write little bits and pieces as and when you can. I wrote a couple of paragraphs of this when I was on the bog. Which is entirely appropriate given the amount of (albeit correctly spelt) crap I write.

Desperate Spinsters

I read women's magazines. They help me poo. At the moment, I can't read these magazines without seeing Jennifer Aniston on the cover. You know the type of  mag I'm referring to; tomes like 'Heat' and 'Now', written in the main by gay men and barren, childless and bitter forty-something women. It is perhaps due to the latter that there is such a fascination with Ms. Aniston at the moment. Here is a woman who for all intents and purposes epitomises bland. She starred in one of the most banal and cliquey sitcoms this world is ever likely to see, which somehow ran for a decade. The only reason she became popular is because of the 'Rachel' haircut she sported for the duration of the show, which was actually designed to hide her vast jaw. She has since distinguished herself in various bland romantic comedies, in which she takes the radical step of playing Rachel all over again, but with a different name. It's hardly Monster's Ball, is it.

So perhaps there was an element of surprise in her marriage to Brad Pitt; the one-time subversive star of several decent indie films, getting hitched to the all-American (once that troublesome Greek nose was removed) and wholesome Jennifer Aniston. She spent a lot of her time whining as the spoilt Rachel from friends, and it soon became evident that she wasn't actually acting per se, just honing an innate talent she probably discovered when moaning at her rich daddy for another dose of rhinoplasty. After a few years, the couple split, fuelled by the rumours that Aniston didn't want to have a baby, and that Pitt had been boning his less boring and more attractive co-star, Angelina Jolie. The divorce was finalised, and Pitt hooked up with Jolie. End of story, you'd think. Two people who were not suited to each other get divorced. It wasn't a bad innings for a Hollywood marriage, after all.

But rather than keeping the last shred of her dignity intact, Jennifer gave interviews to anyone who would listen about what a big meanie Brad Pitt is. I won't directly quote, as I can't be arsed, but suffice to say she bitched about Pitt and Jolie’s liaisons, and how it hurt to see him with Jolie's kids - the very kids (ok well not the exact kids, that would be odd) that Jennifer Aniston refused to have, on the grounds it would sideline her 'career'. How boring. That's the kind of topic you bore your single and bitter thirty-something mates with, not the rest of us. The multi-millionairess continues to regale magazines with stories of her impossibly hard life. If Charles Dickens were alive today, no doubt he'd champion her miserable existence in a collection of novels.

Now the woman with the smallest forehead and biggest chin in showbiz is fighting back, desperately squeezing into any dress recommended for 16 year olds. Pretending to see various eligible bachelors left, right and centre. Hanging of Gerald Butler's forearm like a performing monkey. But I fear she will forever find herself on the shelf because she is obviously a boring hag, which she sees fit to enforce with every subsequent magazine interview. ZZZ.