Oh yes. It's me. And I'm writing a diary entry with no porpoise. No purpose either.

Oh! Hello!

Uh oh...oh God oh God. My brother-in-law is coming to visit tonight. Yep, Ed. Alex's brother. I once told Alex that I quite fancied a ride of his brother and haven't heard the end of it from him. AND I recently had a very explicit and downright dirrty* sex dream about Ed... Ok ok, there's no way that Ed knows I once said I fancied a ride. There's certainly no way that he knows that I had a sex-dream about him (and luckily Alex doesn't know either). But still.

*Today I will mostly be Christina Aguilera.** Where's my slutpants, bitch?

**Tomorrow I shall mostly be a Pussycat Doll. Dontcha wish your girlfriend was a skank like me?

Ah shite. Up until a few seconds ago I've had Kaiser Chiefs driving me mental and predicting a riot in my brain...all of a sudden I'm wishing my girlfriend was more like a pussycat doll. I've only gone and done it now, Hank. Buggery bollocks and things of that nature.

WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THE DRUNKEN SAILOR?

God knows. Why don't we leave the drunken sailor to his own devices, he's a big boy, he can look after himself. He needs to learn to deal with the consequences of his drinking. I think the more pertinent question is 'what shall we do with Moggy?' Moggy - someone Lou and I used to know properly a while back, who turned into a victim of the Bridget Jones generation*** and decided to put a lot of effort into growing up...deciding, in the process, that Lou and I were simply not mature enough to be her kind of people. But anyway. Moggy saw that I had updated my friends reunited profile...and texted me to congratulate me on my pregnancy and to suggest meeting to 'catch up'...asking if I'd "heard from Lou lately"... Oh dear. Oh dearie dearie me. I'm not even sure she's worth inviting to the pub with me and Lou...what would have been a lovely, friendly, fun-filled drink (not a drink filled with fun...manfun, if the barstaff are feeling frisky) would become something akin to an interview...with Lou and I having to give far too much background information for everything we wanted to say. And having to reign in the running gags, for it is rude to use running gags in the presence of people who don't understand them. She texted me yesterday and I still haven't responded. Oh dearie me.

***Bridget Jones Generation: girls who either read or saw Bridget Jones and thought that all 'grown-ups' drink lots of wine, have "I've got a potato in my mouth" accents and frequently have posh dinner parties for all of their friends. 'Grown-ups' have good jobs, frequently get drunk and are obsessed with clothes and calorie counting. Louisa and I are not the Bridget Jones version of grown-ups. We giggle about silly things, wear whatever we feel like wearing (not stuck up its own arse "I'm grown-up" crap) and generally have fun. We know that we are 23 and not 17, and therefore we do not need to prove how very grown-up we are...we just get on with life and have a laugh while we're at it. I had a severe culling of Bridget Jones women from my life, for they are completely irritating. Why did I not cull Moggy? God knows...but now might be the time. Cull her and incinerate her remains.

Oh wow. Go to ebay and do a search on BLING. It's absolutely bloody fantastic, and if anybody fancies buying me a gift I'd quite like this.*

*sarcasm.

I've just been told off for being confusing and odd. And I was only trying to explain to Alex why Jonathan Ross is like a ball of energy (similar to the ones on the npower advert) whilst Chris Tarrant is not. I feel that this is perfectly reasonable and sensible. Do you know why I feel like this? Because it is.

Right, well, I'm not actually writing about anything, so I shall bugger off like the bugger I am. Oh yes indeed.