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 if, just the once, one of the artists fell arse over tit? Or just slipped? It would make me laugh anyway.

Except if it was one of the wheelchair basketball players of course.