I have a friend who lives in a small community in Yorkshire. One day he and his family were expecting a visit from the local vicar.

His child had put her hamster in one of those Perspex balls so it could run around the living room. The doorbell went and in came the happy-go-lucky vicar full of the joys of life.

He walked into the living room and with a spring in his step - thwack! – kicked the Perspex ball across the living room floor towards the sofa. ‘Haven’t lost my touch then!’ he said.

My friend, his wife and their child could only look on in horror.

Whilst they were all sat down on the sofa drinking tea and eating biscuits you could just see, out the corner of your eyes, the Perspex ball sneaking out the room to safety.

We’re off to the Isle of Arran soon for our annual holiday. We go there every year. The first time I went with my wife we were a pair of ‘dinkies’ – dual income, no kids.

We now have 3 kids. Must be something in the water I suppose but we’ve only missed one year since 1995. Life just slows down there. No traffic lights. No roundabouts. The stresses and strains seem to evaporate.

But not, it seems for everyone on the island. Every year we have to buy a ‘Stone Man’ – which are pebbles collected from the beach at Lochranza and painted in various colours and patterns. He does sheep and pigs too. He works from his cottage which is a long way up a very steep hillside track that you’re not allowed to drive up. It’s a pleasant enough walk and the views over the bay are spectacular. It’s very close to heaven.

When we arrived, he was in his workshop as usual, back turned to us working away whilst the kids perused the Stonemen on display. Without looking round he knew who we were too.

After a while, I asked him whether I could commission a Stoneman in a particular football strip and perhaps pick it up next year when we return.

‘I’m not sure I can fit it in because I’m extremely busy’. Maybe he needs a holiday.

I reckon some children are possessed. It’s not always apparent or easy to detect. Sometimes it manifests itself when a child erupts into some inexplicable rage throwing herself or himself around on the floor.

But it comes out in other ways.

Take a look at the picture – my daughter R made it at her birthday party. It’s like something out of The Exorcist. And where did the ginger pubic hair come from? Frightened me to death first time I saw it. I’m sure it looks at me every time I walk past it.

I’m keeping a close eye on R.

The cry would spread like wildfire and before you knew it there were two teams assembled ready for war. Two lines of kids holding a score or more of crab apples in their pulled out t-shirts (in those days t-shirts never re-gained their shape and were always twice as baggy after a crab apple fight).

As soon as the first one was thrown it was mayhem! Little bullet-like apples flying through the air. If one connected, it stung like hell. If a mouldy one connected, it felt as though someone had thrown dog-shit at you (although the aroma was perhaps a little more bearable).

Are crab apple trees extinct now? I can’t remember the last time I saw one. Perhaps my adult eyes have lost their sharpness. I would love to stumble across a crab apple fight in progress. Might even join in. Kids today don’t know what they’re missing – all they do is fire things at each other on the computer screen.

But nothing beats the feeling of a direct hit like seeing your crab apple splatter against the back of the head of your rival.

It has to rate as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I had taken two of my daughters swimming as usual on a Saturday morning. H was 4 and R was 3. We were in a cubicle in the male changing room. I dried them and put them both in towelling dressing gowns and sat them on the bench in front of me. I gave them both a packet of Quavers to eat while I myself got dressed.

I was stood naked in front of them, towelling myself down quite vigorously.

R, bless her, suddenly piped up ‘Daddy, what’s your willy doing?’.

So Mr Blair finally has the answer to anti-social behaviour does he? Ban hooded tops! Brilliant. I feel much safer now. The justification is that CCTV can’t pick up faces if they’re pulled up and it’s difficult to identify separate individuals.

Picture this.What if it’s pissing down with rain and I decide to pull my hood up (I’m talking about my fold away, compact cagoule of course)? I can see it now – 2 police cars screeching to halt beside me and bundling me into the back of a police car to be whisked off to the station. The ironic thing is the policemen themselves will probably be wearing helmets on their heads.

Why stop at hooded tops? What about flatcaps and baseball caps? Sunglasses? People with open umbrellas?

I’d understand if we had a Fashion Police Force. We could do with one I suppose. Might stop all those ‘chavalanches’ we see in Town Centres on Friday and Saturday nights.

I've managed to cut and paste a piece of gobbledegook computer language so that I can have a banner with a Union Jack advertising Britblog (www.britblog.com).

Fuck knows if it will work.

For such a small country – and I mean the United Kingdom – we have such a vast array of accents. From Birmingham to Bristol, Glasgow to Greenwich and Manchester to Liverpool (which is only 30 miles). I think it’s a great thing. Vive la difference and all that.

But my favourite is the North East accent. Being an ignorant southerner, I find it difficult to detect the differences between a Newcastle, Sunderland and Middlesborough accent but I still love the lilting, jerky accent. Why aye, mon.

And I like the female version especially. I was on the phone the other day talking to a woman from the North East. I could hear her but I couldn’t hear what she was telling me, if you see what I mean. I was so wrapped up in her accent. I asked her to say ‘Kawasaki’ for me – and then ‘Kodak Colour Gold’. And she obliged. Oooooh. I put up with the quizzical looks from my wife.

I was banking at the time. I said banking. You know, telephone banking

Our neighbours were relieved when we moved in. There’s 5 of us in all and our lifestyle is pretty chaotic with lots of to-ing and fro-ing; you know, swimming, dancing, Brownies, horseriding, gym club, etc etc (note the distinct lack of male activities). You can imagine how noisy it is too.

Yes, I did say our neighbours were relieved. Relieved because they don’t have to worry about keeping up with us. Don’t get me wrong, I mow the back lawn once in a while and pick up the dogshit (actually I pick up the dogshit first having learnt the hard way). If I’m in the mood. I’ll even trim the hedges and pull out some weeds. Our recycling bins are full to the brim and stacked haphazardly – I’m sure the rest of my road put their wine bottles in our box too. The front porch door is starting to warp too. Paint is peeling off the outside light. I’ll get round to it some day.

Then they’ll all be out doing the same I bet.

They’re all the rage these reality TV programmes. Have been for years now.

The latest ones are about unruly kids and how to control them. Some woman – some super woman – is sent into the home to sort it out. You’re fitted with an earpiece and, as you’re trying to deal with the little brat who has just emptied the contents of the fridge over the kitchen floor, you’re being told to take a step back and count to ten and not to react.

Wouldn’t it be great if Super Woman said instead ‘ Give the little bastard a Chinese burn. That’ll teach him.’?

I suppose we’ve all wanted to do it at some time or other. Run away that is. Escape from whatever it is you want to get away from.

I remember as kid being told off for not doing my homework (something which I realise now is not actually a wicked and evil thing to do).

All of a sudden I couldn’t take any more. That was it. I had made my mind up and I was going to run away. I decided to wait until my Mum, Dad and brother had gone to bed.

I crept downstairs trying to avoid our dog, Pepper, whose tail was beating against the radiator in the hallway – it sounded like a demented Big Ben indicating it was 34 o’clock. I managed to get out of the front door and walk down our road.

I was shitting myself I must say. It was dark and spooky but I carried on. Until I got to the main road. To my surprise it was very busy – just like during the daytime when I crossed it with my Mum on my way to school.

I could hear her voice in my head. ‘This road is a very busy road…..not surprising so many people get run over’. Just as that thought came into my head a big lorry sped past, blowing wind and fumes into my face.

I stood there on the edge of the road – transfixed and scared, like a rabbit in headlights.

‘What are you doing out here at this time?’ said my next door neighbour, out of nowhere.

‘Running away from home’ I said.

‘You haven’t got very far have you?’ he said.

‘Well, my mum says I’m not allowed to cross the road’

My homework improved after that.

I’m a lawyer by profession and spend nearly every day in court. All life is there – drama, sadness, theatre, happiness and humour. You should go one day. It’s free to get in. It’s great entertainment, especially if you’re the nosey type.

If you do you might witness something like this – it was a trial of a man accused of threatening behaviour. A very young WPC was called to give evidence about what happened. She walked into the courtroom rosie-cheeked and clearly nervous. It was probably her first time giving evidence – which is a very daunting experience.

She started off well enough, although she had to be told to speak up once or twice. She was referring to her pocket book and came to the important part of the case.

‘The defendant called me a silly effer, y’worships’

‘Pardon?’ said the chairman of the bench. All three magistrates were straining to hear.

‘The defendant called me a silly effer, y’worships’

‘Look, speak up dear, you can tell the court the actual words he used’ invited the not unsympathetic magistrate.

The WPC took a deep breath and said in a loud and clear voice ‘The defendant called me a silly worship, y’fuckers’.

Remember vinyl records? Maybe I’m showing my age but I miss them. Really miss them. There was something intimate about owning a vinyl record – especially an LP or 12”. I remember buying plastic covers for mine too.

I’d buy the latest record and rush home to play it on my stereo. It was like a ritual. Get in, go to my room, turn on the stereo (as if I was warming it up). I’d sit on the bed and remove the record from the Our Price bag and examine carefully the cover of the record. Every detail.

Then I’d insert my hand inside and pull it out. In most cases there was another, usually white dust cover, to protect the record. But, and what a treat it was, there were times when it was equally as artistic and sometimes even included the lyrics.

Then the act itself. There was a knack to sliding out the record so that all you touched was the centre label, careful not to get any finger marks on the vinyl.

Carefully balancing it, you’d flop it over the spindle and, tongue out in concentration, gently put the stylus on the edge of the record. The gentle crackling noise introduced the record and then it was time to lay back on the bed and examine the record cover all over again, and maybe even sing along.

Is Shakin’ Stevens still around?

As you can see the name of my Blog relates to wine. Roughly translated, it means ‘In wine, there is truth’ or ‘ In wine, truth is told’.

Wine has that quality. A few glasses and everything becomes clear. Great ideas and moments of inspiration. A sense of well-being.

Why then isn’t it the same with beer? And by beer I mean lager or real ale. I prefer real ale, being a subscribed member of Camra, but can partake of a few lagers on a hot summer’s day.

Beer just makes me want to burp or fart. I feel bloated after two or three pints. The only food it goes with is a kebab or a red hot curry. If you’re in a pub, it inevitably ends up in a competition for who can drink the most.

And it makes you do stupid things. ‘You’re my best mate you are’ or ‘I’ve always fancied you’ or ‘Fancy a shag?’. You know, the beer goggle moment.

And the next day you suffer. Not only with a headache but also with the runs.

Guess what I’ve had tonight.

I love my wine.

I just wanted to warn all other bloggers out there. Writer’s block can strike at any

One of our dogs is a Yorkshire Terrier. In fact, he’s been with my wife longer than I have but that’s another story.

The thing is, whenever I take him for a walk over the park, he always ends up scrapping with dogs that are bigger than him (which isn’t hard, I know). I call it Little Dog Syndrome.

But, in fact, it’s me that suffers from LDS. Let’s face it, a Yorkshire Terrier is hardly a man’s dog is it? It’s not as though I have to struggle to pull him back on the lead or bring him to heel (when I did this for the very first time, I overdid it and he was flipped into the air, somersaulting, before landing next to me).

When I first met my wife and it was just me, her and the little ratdog I would only ever take him for a walk after dark in case I came across anyone I knew. Actually, there was one occasion when I saw a neighbour and, automatically and without thinking, I picked him up and shoved him under my coat. Goodness knows what the neighbour thought – strange sounds and movements coming from under my jacket.

But I cope with it now – I’m getting older and have children. I always have to take one of them with me because, you see, that way, if I do see someone I know I can say it’s their dog.

I was in the kitchen watching TV with my wife the other day when a news item came on showing the Swiss Re Building – you know, the one that’s colloquially known as The Gherkin.

‘Oh look, there’s The Porcupine,’ she said.

‘The Porcupine?’ I replied.

‘Yes, that building – it’s called The Porcupine’.

‘It’s actually known as The Gherkin,’ I informed her. ‘Because of its shape’.

‘Oh, I must be getting it mixed up with that building in Glasgow,’ she replied.

‘Which one is that darling?’ I asked

‘The Armadillo.’