Number 27: Scarydog whacking off in his basket.
The manky little spunker. There I was, turning the sausages over under the grill at teatime last night, when I caught a rhythmic movement of white fur out of the corner of my eye. And there he was, the filthy little puppy, going hammer and tongs with his favourite red blanket, with a look of steely determination on his face, clearly in the vinegar strokes. Put me right off my toad in the hole, I can tell you for naught. Quite literally consigned to the doghouse while I donned my largest gauntlets to clear up the mess with a catering size box of Kleenex.
Paw Shandy. Bad Dog.