I'm still not quite sure how I came to be involved, but tomorrow I shall be taking part in a fancy-dress one mile run for Sports Relief. A mile! There's no such distance! This could be the end of me, the world oblivious to my fate, face down and decomposing in a ditch in Reading, as this site updates itself for months on auto-pilot thanks to the miracles of the magic web-donkey.
As I have no idea what fancy dress to wear - my plan of going as a lightly-oiled Kirstie Allsopp being stolen by other, less imaginative collegues, I shall be forced to take part dressed as a fat slob from Weymouth. Or war criminal Radovan Karadzic, if I can get the wig.
To the Thursday vote-o! Descriptions may not be 100 per cent accurate:
Trench Warfare : "But Dave! He's French!"
Leaflets : The day Idi Amin stole my mojo
Glider : It was a braw bricht moonlicht nicht. Whatever that was.
Filthy Dave : A salutory lesson why you should never believe everything Thora Hird says
Wrong Funeral : "You mean Dame Edna Everidge is really a man? Does the Queen know?"
Paint : "I'm sorry Miss Parton, you're going to have to do that again. I'm not wearing my glasses"
Science Club : Our mission to get the word "Felch" on the Shipping Forecast
And the reason for this madness? The discovery that the man entirely responsible for my writing style has a website. If anyone remembers Teletext's Digitiser pages, this is your man. He also made Dirty Den say "cunt" an hour before the watershed, which makes him a hero in anybody's book. Except Mary Whitehouse, if she wasn't already dead.
Um... where were we? Ah yes - vote-o!