On leaving your gag book lying about at home for a week

On leaving your gag book lying about at home for a week

Like Bob Monkhouse, I do not go anywhere without my gag book.

Unlike poor, dead Bob Monkhouse I am NOT DEAD.

I have a large, green, spiral-bound notebook - £1.99 from purveyors of quality High Street tat Wilkinsons – in which I jot down all my best jokes, blog ideas, and instructions on how to do my job without getting sacked.

On the front cover, in large reassuring letters in chisel-tip black marker is the single word "EXCELLENT", lest there be any doubt as to who the book belongs.

I will, on a whim, and usually at three o'clock in the morning shout out "Oooh!" and start scribbling some half-baked idea onto the page, hoping that it might turn into something more useful at a later date.

Picked at random from the current volume:

- "Flensing. Perhaps the best word ever."

- Original draft of Hitler Therapy, a short skit that is still evolving to this day

- "Thou art only suppos'd to blow ye ruddye doors offe" – W. Shakespeare's Italian Jobbe

- Original script for the subsequently banned Bummy Rabbit Adventures

- My priceless collection of Buzzword Bingo calls ("You're not going to have a Big Bang theory overnight")

So, it came as a bit of a shock to the system that I left my Big Green Gag Book (Volume Four) at home last week.

On the sofa.

Of course, the dire warnings on the first page ("Beware of the Leopard") were ignored, and the entire contents of my mind were leafed through by intellects greater than mine.

So, enquires Mrs Duck as I arrive home on Friday evening "Since when was crapping the bed during sex funny?"

"Errr..."

"And when did you crap the bed during sex? Exactly?"

I check my diary. May 27th 2005.

"And another thing..."

Oh, God.

"Vibrating cock rings?"

I had to ask: "Yes or no?"