Britain...

...hasn't got talent.

Sorry.

The dangers of taking a photo of yourself in a hat

So we've all been there. You turn up at a meeting and no one is there. Furiously you call the chair of that meeting asking why they have cancelled it without telling you. They snigger and point out that you have the wrong day and you are given a dunce hat to wear by colleagues.

Entering into the spirit of this, you take a picture of yourself in the hat and send it to a friend.

The friend uploads it to Flickr, and tells everyone they know.

You mither to the creators of the hat that a person can't take a photo of themselves in a hat anymore without it being uploaded to the internet. Your colleague and hat-fashioner laughs for a moment before uploading the picture to a number of stock image libraries and tagging it "Blonde dunce".

Yes - this has happened to all of us, but is a serious reminder of what can happen. Just ask that Star wars kid

Aside from that, good news to anyone who is blood group A and has recently had a massive haemorrhage. You may get some of my blood!

I spent Monday evening bleeding into a plastic bag for the good of mankind, and have the following comments:

1) A lot of Wrong-Uns give blood. I am glad there is a collection of my blood because I don't want any of their weird person blood.

2) Ideally I want to make sure my blood is reserved for me for when I am practicing surgery and trying to improve myself. However I will settle for certain people being prevented from having my blood. Notably ex boyfriends and the neighbours who kept me up all night listening to Grease. Ideally the ex/neighbours will be filmed bleeding to death while doctors dance around waving packs of my blood before uploading the lot to youtube.

3) Not all Blood Donor centres are created equal. In Dulwich you get wagon wheels and kit kats whereas in Dorking you get Tuc biscuits and fruit.

4)I'm sure I had more comments than that.

Accidentally overlooked?

Hello biscuit lovers. I read today that a Rangers footballer injured himself this week, inspecting an egg he had just poached in the microwave. He had to call his parents to take him to the hospital to tend to his scalded cheek. I hope his parents told him to stop using the microwave for eggs, poaching really deserves vinegary water on the hob.

The story ended with the news that the accident data on egg related incidents stopped in 2002. At first I thought that the government had just given up on the type of no hopers who dislocate a thumb popping a scotch egg in their mouths. But some research showed that the government has just stopped collecting data on accidents at home, full stop. I guess they just don't care about us anymore.

I can, however, tell you that back in 2002, 226 people were injured in incidents involving artificial limbs.

1,189 people got in an injury pickle with a coat hanger.

And I can reveal that 82 poor souls suffered a superficial injury to an unknown body part. ("sort of ouch"..."where does it hurt?"..."I don't know")

How many of these poor, slightly injured in an unspecified area types are walking slightly wounded and uncared for today?

Sort it out government towers. Get that moat cleaning money back and get back in the accident data collecting saddle.

But be careful, or you could come a cropper like 656 others did with saddles in 2002.

Play nicely folks.

Fancy a slice?

Outside the Coop near my house is a lovely sign that proudly promotes three of their new hot dishes, now available in store.

Let's have a look at them...

1. Sausage roll - yeah, I get that, pastry round a banger, ok nice.

2. Vegetable pasty - ok with that as a concept too. Veg, encased in pastry, job is a good un

3. Hot slice - a hot slice of what exactly? This is worse than the ambiguous meat curry you come across on those cheap wipe clean take away menus. I thought hot slice was what men referred to their girlfriends as with their mates after a few gallons of Stella.

If anyone has tried a hot slice I'd love to hear from you. I think you're brave.

Bloating

The world seems to want to tell me how bloated they are this week. What is this mythical condition known as bloating. I've never had bloating. And at least one of the people who claimed to be bloated was very definitely just fat. There is nothing wrong with carrying a few extra pounds but please don't tell me that you aren't fat, it is all air.

Apparently the cause of this mystery condition is bread. I have been eating bread all my life, little knowing that I was at terrible risk of becoming bloated.

Things that make me bloated:

Pastry
Pork pies
Lard
Sausages
Wine
Lager
Curry
Chocolate

Oh and KFC makes me retain oxygen.

Bloating my ass.

Money to burn?

For reasons too dull to list, I am awaiting a hospital referral to my local cardiology department. And the nice people there sent me a letter yesterday...to say I should get a letter in the next fortnight with an appointment. Why not save the stamp and just send me my appointment? I mean, I'm kind of ok with the whole concept of waiting in general, I'm orderly in bus queues and I don't expect a letter 2 weeks before my birthday saying yoo hoo, look out for a card from me soon!

And, to pad out the postage even further, they also enclosed a leaflet on giving up smoking for me. Now, I am pretty darn sure my NHS records state I am a non-smoker - and in fact, baring a drunken drag in 2005, have been all my life.

However, I got so cross at the waste of funding I started puffing furiously on a pipe to quell my rage. The leaflet has been useless in helping me kick my new addiction, but perhaps it'll give the heart people something extra to look out for.

Gok Wan's Fashion Fix...

... had me screaming at the telly last night. In fact Gok's Fashion Fix left me requiring a heroin fix.

Who is this man? What rock did he crawl out from under? When is he crawling back and why on earth has he taken it upon himself to take responisbility for the self esteem of woman kind? Has there been some petition or pressure group that I have missed? And surely, if we badly needed a man to cheer us all up, it wouldn't be one who had willfully rejected women as a lifestyle choice. It certainly wouldn't be this little twat who refers to a lady's bosoms as "bangers".

Gok, take your "whanger" and shove it up your "crapper". If I catch you on my telly again I'm putting my foot through it, and guess who will be getting the bill.

In this episode, unbearable Gok was styling the equally unbearable Cilla Black who apparently "lives in jeans" when she is "Not on camera". All the time then Cilla?

She also proclaimed that she would "rather diet than wear a size 14".

Read my lips, Cilla:

And

The

Rest