Now that Zoe's fighting dirty, I have extended the hand of friendship and have allowed her to choose tomorrow's Scary Story, without even asking for a picture of her arse, hardly at all.
However, because she posted THAT picture, which cannot be forgiven, I have knocked out one of my own. Alternatives: click-me-do and click-ston.
Good grief, I was sitting on the bog having a well-earned dump this morning when I noticed, to my horror, that I suffer from dandruff on my ballsack.
Is this normal, or have I got leprosy of the bollocks? More to the point is there a Head and Shoulders product I can use by way of a cure? Meat and Two Veg, perhaps.
If Princess Diana was alive today, I'd be nothing but a photo opportunity for her, I can tell you for nothing. I'd be lying, semi-conscious in my hospital bed, laid low by my flaky pods, defenceless against her scheming ways. She'd swan in, lay her healing hands on me while the photographer from Hello! snapped away, and fuck off to some island somewhere to grease up her latest millionaire playboy.
These days, what can I expect? Sophie Wessex, that's what, or a joyless hand shandy from Camilla Parker-Bowles. Or worse, Princess Anne and a truckload of Rottweilers. The world laughs at my misfortune.
Anybody else suffer from an embarrassing medical complaint that's good for a laugh?