TV adverts can be entertaining. They can be funny or sad. Even clever and ingenious. Ridiculous even.

But some adverts are infuriating. Especially the ones that are issued by government departments about how we should live our lives.

The latest one is a man dressed as a plucked turkey attacking another man in his living room. They’re both seen rolling around the floor. It’s a sketch that Matt and David would be proud of. The message?

‘Make sure you defrost your turkey properly this Christmas’

It even goes on to say why this is necessary. Apparently we can get very ill if we don’t defrost it before cooking and eating it.

Maybe it’s an attempt by the government to reduce NHS queues. They’re banning smoking – wait and see, frozen turkeys will be banned next. And if you have roast turkey on Christmas Day and you become ill, you won’t be able to insist on NHS treatment if you didn’t defrost it properly.

A Nanny is a good person. She looks after your interests and does what’s best for you.

But my Nan never wiped my arse.

Ironic isn’t it? The Kyoto agreement is just signed and a huge explosion takes place in the Middle of England billowing billions of tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.

One would have thought that with all the hot air politicians speak the ozone layer is extinct anyway.

I believe the Earth will recover – it always does. If we disrepect it, it will get rid of us and cleanse itself like a dog scratching fleas away.

You know what will happen next though – the fire is so big that we’ll run out of clean water.

My wife loves Jamie Oliver. After all he’s single handedly changed the future for school dinner menus for the better.

She also loves animals. Especially little lambs. She is a vegetarian and will eat no meat (except fish – but that’s another story). You know about the guinea pigs, rabbits, cats and dogs that we have.

So just imagine her horror when we were watching ‘Jamie’s Great Escape’ on Channel 4 and there he was stabbing a lamb in the neck with the sharpest knife imaginable.

I love cooking. Guess what I’m doing for Sunday Lunch next week?

In court the other day, I was trying to explain to a father that there was nothing that the court could do to help. The Child Support Agency were applying for a liability order in respect of about £5000 arrears of payments for his three boys. I advised that the court did not have power to alter the assessment or the amount calculated by the CSA. To cut a long story short, the only way he could avoid liability was by proving that he wasn’t the father (which was something he didn’t want to do).

Nevertheless, I let him have his say. He explained that he been paying previously through the CSA but had learnt that the money he had been paying was being used by his ex-wife to pay her ever increasing credit card debts. The boys were not seeing any of it.

He decided, therefore, to buy his boys clothes, shoes, CDs, books and other stuff. That way he could be sure that they would benefit. Paying out for these items meant that he couldn’t make payments to the CSA and he fell into arrears. That’s when he was summoned to court.

The court had no choice but to make a liability order. To rub salt into the wound, he was told that if he didn’t pay he could go to prison or be disqualified from driving.

Wife and kids eh? Who’d have ‘em?

‘This is where the big knobs hang out.’

It’s just bravado. Or nerves. Something to say and break the ice.

You see, among us men there is a fear that engulfs us when we approach a urinal for a wee. It’s founded on two main questions – ‘Will I be able to piss when stood between two other blokes that I don’t know?’ and ‘What if my cock is smaller than theirs?’ Call it stage fright.

Women don’t have to go through the same ignominy. In fact, it’s ironic. Women like to go to the toilet in groups (well, at least a pair) and when they get there they have their own private cubicle to piss in! There are men who count people in and out of the bogs so they know they’ll be the only one in there. Sometimes they take a risk and hope the one available cubicle is free – inevitably to find that someone is taking a dump or drugs in there.

Even when we’ve finished the fear factor remains. No matter how adept you are at squeezing every little drop out, there’s always one drop left that causes a wet patch in your groin area. And of course this only happens when you’re wearing light coloured jeans or trousers. I suspect women don’t have this problem – it may feel the same but at least it can’t be seen by all and sundry.

And I haven’t even mentioned splashback yet.

‘Ok darling. I’ll lock up and be straight up.’ ‘OK.’

So the night time ritual begins.

Washing up done (mostly).

Garage checked. Guinea pigs and rabbits secure.

All outside doors checked, double locked, bolted and checked again. Same with the windows.

All plugs and appliances switched off.

Dogs and cats accounted for.

Kids’ clothes ready for school the next day.

Lights switched off downstairs. Quick glance back as I ascend the stairs. Check each of the kids to make sure they’re safe and sound.

Upstairs lights off. Pull back the duvet to get into bed………………….

‘You couldn’t get us a glass of water could you?’

I bet we all do it. Whether it’s sat at a bus stop or waiting in a queue. We all love to watch the world go by. Looking at different people and what they’re up to. Looking out of the window when we’re travelling. I suppose that’s why the window seat is the most popular in planes.

I always try to get a seat by the window when I’m in a café or restaurant. OK, people can see me I suppose but it’s a great way to spend time.

I went to an Italian restaurant with my wife and children the other day. We walked in and it was empty – the waiter greeted us but my wife and children decided they all needed the toilet. I was left to choose a table.

Naturally, I chose one by the window, sat down and started to watch. I saw women struggling with shopping, couples walking hand in hand, red buses, cyclists, people laughing, people hurrying, people strolling. All in their own little world.

Then I heard a rumbling sound to my left. Well, it was more a rattling sound. Maybe it was a trundling sound. I wondered what it could be. It actually sounded quite ominous.

I sat up in my seat expecting something to happen. Some sort of collision or crash. But the sound went on for a few seconds and was becoming louder and louder. Then, suddenly, a boy on a skateboard came into view. His arms were flailing as he was trying to keep balance and his face contorted in horror. He was being chased closely by two other boys who had similar horrified expressions – no doubt trying to stop him.

Then, just as suddenly, he disappeared from view and the trundling noise faded away to nothing.

I wonder if he’s still got the skateboard.

I dealt with a case recently in which a 13 year old boy was being prosecuted for racially aggravated threatening behaviour against a Chinese man and his wife. The boy didn’t turn up so the trial proceeded in his absence.

The Chinese man gave his evidence through an interpreter.

‘He called me a fucking Chinese chinky,’ said the witness.

‘Tell the court about the incident when you were in your car,’ enquired the prosecutor.

The Chinese man stepped out of the witness box so he could be seen, took a deep breath and said, ‘He came running up to the car and shouted ‘fucking Chinese chinky! Wanker!’’ He emphasised the last word by screwing up his face and making masturbatory gestures towards the magistrates to make sure they understood what he was saying.

Needless to say the 13 year old boy was convicted and a warrant issued for his arrest.

Another day in the Criminal Justice System. But I don’t let it bother me. That night, at home, I was sat in front of the TV, feet up, drinking wine and laughing out loud to Little Britain.

I don’t usually comment on news (except on my blog ‘A spokesman said….’ at www.headlinenews.blog.co.uk but that’s reserved for humour and this isn’t funny) but I feel I just have to say something about the idiotic and crass decision of George Bush to conduct an enquiry into his own failings in dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

In fact, I don’t even have to comment it’s so ridiculous.

I suppose this means that Saddam Hussein and Slobodan Milosevic will be able to conduct their own trials.

Before I met my wife, I played the National Lottery only occasionally. I picked random numbers every week so I wasn’t fussed if I forgot to do it. My wife, on the other hand, did the same numbers every week.

When we met, we continued more or less along the same vein. She’d do her numbers religiously and I’d do it if I fancied it.

Then we had children. To celebrate our first born we did a line of numbers that were our daughter’s birthday, weight and time of birth. Obviously we had to carry that on every week. Then we had another daughter – we had to do the same for her. And we couldn’t be any different for our third daughter.

It’s not just Saturdays though. We have to make sure we do it for Wednesdays too. I’m now quite a creature of habit – on my way home on Friday nights I stop and ‘get the lottery’. I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t get the numbers and they came up.

Except last night I forgot. We had friends round. I was more concerned that they had enough food and drink. And the lottery machine was out of order – I made a mental note to do it first thing this morning.

Except I forgot. And didn’t remember until 7pm tonight. Ten years ago, when numbers didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have bothered. But instead I found myself in a mad rush to the Co-Op. Which had a long queue. And my lottery slip was wrinkled.

But I did it just in time. Handed over my £6 and got my ticket.

Guess what? I didn’t win.

There is a warning sign for the slide in a Country Park Adventure Playground that reads something like,

‘PLEASE DO NOT WEAR WELLINGTON BOOTS WHEN USING THE SLIDE’

There are no other signs, just that one. I tried to imagine why this particular sign was, in fact, necessary. After all, there are far more items of attire that are not exactly conducive to using slides – leather trousers for example.

My kids wouldn’t wear wellies on a slide anyway. No more than they would wear a false moustache or those funny glasses with spring loaded eyes.

But you’d never see a sign stating ‘PLEASE DO NOT WEAR FALSE MOUSTACHES OR SPRING LOADED EYES WHEN USING THE SLIDE’.

The news that a guinea pig farm is being closed down because of ‘extremists’ reminded me of a harrowing guinea pig incident that happened here not so long ago. I’m not going to get into the rights and wrongs of guinea pig farming but as some of you may already may know my life is either about my wife and our three daughters or their animals. Which include about 20 guinea pigs (all well looked after before anyone is tempted to throw paint over my car). They get all the fruit and vegetables that would have been thrown away (into the compost bin of course). They’re lovingly cared for by my children.

But sometimes they die.

I was working at home on a particularly hot day. My wife had taken some of the guinea pigs out of their luxurious Wendy House (yes, they have their own fully adapted Wendy House, waterproofed, the lot – even Sky TV) into the run to enjoy the day.

I was in the kitchen when a neighbour called out, ‘Mark, are they supposed to be doing that?’

I looked out the window and could just about make out 3 guinea pigs flat on their backs. I rushed out and soon realised that they were suffering from heat exhaustion. The piece of board over the run had slipped off so there was no shade for them to hide. I picked them up one by one and carefully placed them back into the shaded cage. I squirted water into their mouths in the hope that this would revive them.

But it wasn’t to be and I had to explain everything to my wife when she got home.

It was my fault of course. I had drowned them.

If something is worth doing it’s worth doing yourself. My requests to my children to keep their rooms tidy just seem to fall on deaf ears. It’s not that that I necessarily like things to be ultra tidy, it’s just that if things are put away it makes them easier to find and less prone to breakage (ok, I accept it sounds anal).

So I hit on an idea. I had a day off last week. I dropped one daughter, H, at dance lessons and I had P and R at home. After dropping H off I went to Wilkinsons and bought a dozen or so of those storage boxes. P and R were quite happy on the computer so, room by room, I picked up toys, pens, books and put them in the boxes. They all stacked nicely in the corner. Sweeping the floor was a pleasure!

With my new found zeal, I continued to clear up the house. My wife was at work so it’d be a nice surprise for her. As I was clearing up it occurred to me how many boxes we have or rely on in everyday life.

Old newspapers went in the green boxes outside, glass and bottles in the black one (always overflowing for some reason) and plastic bottles in the brown one. We even have a little square box in the kitchen for green waste for the compost bin.

My children’s guinea pigs and rabbits live in boxes.

Sometimes I take my lunch to work in a sandwich box

Our TVs are boxed shaped. So are our cars. Our houses too.

Hell. Some of us even get buried in a box.

Phew. At last. She’s back and I’ve missed her like crazy. I’ve been in a daze for weeks – we lost all contact and I only got little snippets from her. But it’s alright – it looks as though she’ll be as exciting as ever.

Exciting……exhilarating…..unpredictable…..annoying……but beautiful nevertheless.

I’ve even bought a new shirt. I want to look my best after all. We’ll see each other on Saturdays and Sundays and maybe some nights during the week. And we’ll be as intimate as usual. As close as we’ve always been. She loves to entertain me after all – there she is, in front of me, while I’m sitting on the sofa all aroused.

Yes – football is back!

I’m a happy man.

When we go away on holiday most of us come back with white bits. Sunbathing is relaxing, especially on a beach with the sound of the sea. A few hours in the sun and we have a nice colour – except for the white bits of course.

Unfortunately, being fair of skin, I have to be extra careful. I’ve learnt my lesson – I’ve had a sore back and sore shoulders in the past. Even a sore nose. Nowadays, I’m more sensible.

Sensible but not as careful as I should have been. I’ve recently got back from holiday with my family and I’m in agony. The kids wanted to go to the beach and play in the sea. We took a picnic, a Frisbee, beach towels, buckets and spades and, of course, loads of Factor 35.

With sun beating down we all creamed up. I was extra cautious because I had a good book to read and wanted to just lounge about. I knew I was susceptible to burning so I slopped on loads of lotion. I didn’t care that I looked like Mr Whippy had just fallen into his ice cream vat. I covered every inch of my body. Even in between my toes. Or so I thought.

I feel asleep with the book open across my face. I wasn’t particularly worried about dozing off because I knew I had taken precaution.

What I didn’t bank on was my baggy swimming trunks flapping open around my groin for most of the two hours I was asleep.

Dental Dog Wipes. Yes - they actually exist. Apparently they 'clean teeth, gums and freshen breath.'

Not to mention 'fight plaque'.

And they're easy to use....depending on the size of the dog and its teeth.

But the trouble is our dogs fucking hate them.

They'd rather chew on a stick.

Our next door neighbours are Asian. We get on fine. The husband, Tubbs, supports West Ham and likes a beer. We’ve had a round of golf or two.

My family love the smells of Indian cooking wafting over the fence and delight even more in the taste when we're given a dish or two.

But we haven’t spoken since the 7th July so we’re thinking of inviting them over for a meal. No big coats, rucksacks or shoes allowed though.

They will also be subject to frisking before they come in.

Other than that I’m sure it will be a great evening.

I dealt with a case the other day in which the 15 year old defendant was accused of assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty.

The allegation arose from an incident where the defendant had been seen to go to the front of the dinner queue at school. The police officer in question asked him to leave and when he refused took hold of his arm to escort him away. The young man took exception and a scuffle broke out which ended up with both of them on the floor.

The boy was arrested, interviewed and charged with an offence of assault to which he pleaded not guilty. At the trial, evidence was heard from the police officer, two dinner ladies and a teacher.

Setting aside the question of why a police officer is required on school premises, most of the examination of the witnesses centred around how the dinner queue system worked at that particular school. The dinner ladies were used, in effect, as a filter so when a space became clear at the food counter a pupil would be let through.

The teacher gave evidence for the prosecution.

‘How often do you go to the canteen for your lunch?’

‘Nearly every day.’

‘And do you queue up?’

‘No, if I’m honest I go straight to the front of the queue.’

How did we survive without them before? We managed didn’t we?

Having said that, the mobile phone has saved my life on several occasions. There’s been a many a time when I’ve been in the supermarket and the shelves are empty of dimpled toilet roll. A simple phone call and all is well…. ‘Ok babe I’ll get the lilac aloe vera four ply.’

Before mobiles, I would have taken a risk and got the cheapest bum scratching crisp packety type toilet roll and got an earful when I got home. And all I was trying to do was economise.

But life without a mobile phone now would be unthinkable. Specific laws have even been made. It is actually illegal to be driving a car whilst using a mobile phone with your hand. Don’t worry though because you can still eat a packet of crisps, comb your hair, pick your nose and put your make up on whilst you’re driving.

Ironic, then, that I nearly ran over some twat who walked straight out into the middle of the road whilst talking on the phone.

I nearly choked on my Cornish Pasty.

Saying whether a glass is half full or half empty depends on your point of view. Whether you’re pessimistic or optimistic. I guess I’m a ‘half full’ kind of person.

But is it the same as being half finished?

I’m crap at DIY. But I keep going until the job’s done.

I hate ironing but I’ll carry on until the pile has gone.

Washing up does my head in but I’ll make sure it’s finished.

I wouldn’t dream of driving half way to work and then just stopping.

So why isn’t my wife the same? Is it a male/female thing? The hoover remains plugged in and left where it was last used. The milk is still on the kitchen side just above the fridge. The pile of wet washing has somehow got stranded on its way to the tumble drier.

There’s loads I could say about this but I’ll finish off some other time.

It was dark and everyone was asleep. Or so I thought. I could hear a female voice. An adult female voice – and it sounded quite excited, quite urgent. ‘Get them off!’ she implored. ‘Get them off now!’

Then I recognised it. It was Akela, the leader of our cub scout group. Surely she wasn’t in a tent with the venture scout leader?

I moved to the front of my tent and peered out. I couldn’t see much but I could make out a lot of movement and activity and excited whispers. It was all strangely erotic. I lay back in my sleeping bag and imagined what they were up to………..

Next morning, at breakfast in the canteen, I watched Akela and the venture scout leader very closely. They seemed cool towards each other as though the night before never happened.

She came and sat at our table. ‘Sleep well last night?’ she asked us. Muffled confirmations.

‘Well, turn off your torches and lights early tonight. There are loads of moths around.’

I’m 6’ 4” so I guess it is a bit hard to explain. But I hate spiders. It’s not just spiders it’s any creep crawly thing that scurries and scuttles across the floor.

In a house full of women, you’d think it’d be me to hunt down and get rid of the spider. Once, when I was sat on the toilet reading the newspaper, I saw a spider run across the floor in front of me. ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ I shouted. I felt particularly vulnerable with my trousers round my ankles. I jumped up off the toilet, unlocked the door and managed to get out. My movement was restricted by my trousers, of course, and I could only take small shuffling, steps (my wife loves to recount the story and particularly emphasises the circular mark left on my arse by the toilet seat). It was ironic in a way – in a bid to get away from the six legged creature I was now scurrying and scuttling across the floor.

I put my fear down to my mother. As a child I didn’t care much for spiders anyway. But there was no need for my Mum to drop the green stem part of a tomato on my chest whilst I was lounging on the floor watching TV and shout ‘Mark! Spider!’

There was a documentary on the TV the other day. I can’t remember which channel (it must have been a terrestrial channel though because I was watching it in the kitchen on the portable).

It involved a family from London living with a tribal family in Africa. Eating their food. Living their way of life.

One of the young boys in the tribe was excited that it was the day he would be initiated into adulthood. It was a thing he could proud of. A thing that would make him stand tall. A bit like passing your driving test.

Except it involved having his bottom teeth knocked out by a chisel by the elder from the tribe. Good, healthy teeth. No anaesthetic. No dental nurse to hold your hand. There was blood everywhere. But he grinned all day long.

Imagine if we’d heard that’s what the Afghans or Iraqis did to their children. We’d send the Army in.

Oh, we already have.

Being the father of three daughters, I’ve resigned myself to a lifetime of dolls, make-up, the colour pink, high heels, earrings and bangles. I could go on ad infinitum.

I love them all dearly (my daughters that is). But, and don’t get me wrong, it’s difficult to have a kick about or an impromptu cricket match or do other ‘boy’ things. I don’t want sympathy, just another male to bond with.

But I’m happy now. I have a spring in my step. I’m beating my chest! I heard the other day that the reason some men have daughters as opposed to sons is because they’re too macho. Yes that’s right. Positively Neanderthal! Apparently it’s nature’s way of balancing things out in order to prevent a society of cavemen.

Hang on, what does that make my Dad? I’d better ask my brothers.

I must admit I caught the bug. I’d heard about it and for a bit of a laugh tried to see if it would work with my greenhouse.

So I signed up, took a picture and, hey presto, my greenhouse was up for sale on Ebay. I was actually more interested in getting rid of the thing than making money from it. I had good intentions to have trailing tomatoes and a little cottage industry going but……bollocks, I’m not even 40 yet. And besides, the extra room in the garden would be better for the kids.

So every day I logged on watching for a bite. I’d put it on for 99p with a stipulation that the buyer must dismantle it and take it away. No interest for days. Nada. Zilch.

Then in the final few hours a frenzy of activity! £7-49 it went for! The following week the purchaser came round, dismantled it and took it away. On his way out he gave me £7-50! Marvellous! A bottle of good wine and the greenhouse was gone.

What else could I sell? Nothing is safe now. Even the kids’ toys. And my wife asked me about a dish that we’d last used years ago that was at the back of cupboard. She wanted it to put salad in.

I confessed I’d sold it on Ebay for 99p.

I remember years ago kicking a football up against a parked car like it was a goal. The owner came out and shouted, ‘Oi! You’d better leg it because I’ve called the police!’ Ball under arm, I scarpered home, scared out of my wits. I daren’t tell my Mum, of course.

It took me years to work out that he couldn’t have actually called the police. Why would he call the police and then tell me to run?

Thirty years on, I found myself doing the same thing. I drove past a couple of youths who were damaging a bollard. On my way back, they were still there. I wound down my window and shouted, ‘Oi! You’d better leg it because I’ve called the police!’

It didn’t have the same effect though. They gave me the middle finger and told me to ‘Fuck off’.

Which I did.

My only comment is this.

Do the people of Africa know what we're doing today?

Probably not because we didn't invite them.

You know those dancers and artists that appear as an introduction to a programme on the BBC? There’s the voiceover,‘……And now, a little bit later than expected, it’s……’ and so on while we’re watching ballroom dancers, tapdancers, stompers, skateboarders and trapeze artists all moving to the same tune and in time. I suppose it’s part of TV life now (a bit like the revolving world they used to have on the BBC).

Well, wouldn’t it be great i