About Corns

Sunday: Romance is dead. Mr Brooker and myself snuggled up on the sofa watching our favourite televison drama 'Celebrity's Dancing Up Their Own Iceholes', when Charlton turned to me and said in his special bedroom voice,

"Would you like to go to Paris, my darling?" I jumped up, squealed and nearly tripped over my bosoms "Ooh, yes please!!" Then he said "Right, you go put the kettle on luv, and I'll log onto Google Map"

Monday: I read that Sue Boyle has a stalker. I've got a fat arse, a moustache and I belt out show tunes down the Labour club every Thursday night.. why can't I have a stalker?

Tuesday: Sipping a cup of Chai Latte, watching Dench fiddling with Winston's boys - I told him those trousers would interfere with his truss, but would he listen?

Wednesday: Note to Twitter fans: Lara Stone is the future Mrs David Walliams, not me. I like my men thinner, hairier, talented & preferably without one squinty eye on my best frocks.

Thursday: Feeling arty. Decided to do my own version of Tracey Emin's 'Everyone-I-Have-Ever-Slept-With' tent. As we speak, I'm searching eBay for a reasonably priced marquee.

Friday: Met Xena (former warrior princess) in fat Doug's corner shop - Ooh bugger me, she has put on weight! When she bent down to pick up a box of firelighters..from behind she looked like a rusty anderson shelter

Saturday: Does Saturday night get any better? A big bag of winegums, the best of Conway Twitty on the record player - while Winston chews my corns. Bliss

About The Advertisment

Flicking through Lady Magazine I chanced upon this advertisement with accompanying photograph

Very hands on, mature male, seeking long term position in upmarket household. Daily Graces, Accounts Payable, Internet Research, Pool and Weaponry Care. Serve/Bartend, Auto/Tank Repair. Oversee and chastise trades people and other staff. Used to wearing many hats. Can do attitude. Non-Smoker.

I'm saying nothing except: my lake, my rowing boat, my Stella McCartney Yoga Knit Shorts...my son-of-a-bitch butler!

About The Bum-sleigh

Amateur Bob-sleighers Lady Lara Croft and her butler Winston Smith finished a 'cracking' third in a championship race – despite Lady Croft being left 'red-cheeked' after her outfit split seconds before the start...

Asked about the ‘wardrobe malfunction’ Lady Croft said "All this talk about my arse - there was no arse! I was merely modelling a pair of flesh-colored bob panties as designed by my good friend Venus Williams...now sod off and leave my Khyber alone"

About What's Up, Winston?

Shock of my life! I came home to find Winston buck naked, on all fours with a carrot stuck up his arse.

"Good god, man! - What's to do?" I asked,

"I'm afraid I have been rather foolish, milady" he said,

"Damn right you have! That's the last bit of fresh veg in the house until Tesco deliver tomorrow..Never mind, eh..Wash it off and give it to Mirren, she'll not notice..she's worked with Bob Hoskins"

Then I told him to put his laminated picture of The Duke of Gloucester to one side while I went to fetch a pair of pliers and my Polaroid.

About The Stig

The Stun: SOME say HE was engineered by robots, others that HE'S an alien from the Planet Speedy G. But they're all wrong -because THE STUN knows the real identity of The Stig.

We've finally run to ground Jeremy Clarkson's anonymous Top Gear hero .

And we can tell you SHE'S single, lives quietly in a comfortable £13million mansion in Surrey.

We can also report that when she's not tearing around the shows famous Gambon corner at breakneck speed in her white suit and black-visored helmet, the GAME GIRL likes whizzing around in a Bugatti Veyron wearing nothing but a dab of Dettol and a Rolex!

And her NAME is . . .

OK, Jerry, don't pee your y-fronts and keep your wig on . . . we have no intention of wrecking the great mystery for Top Gear's millions of fans. All we'll reveal is her eyes behind the trademark white helmet and a few other clues.

The true identity of the superdriver who tests new models and coaches stars in the Reasonably Priced Car feature, has always been kept a closely-guarded BBC secret. "Who is the Stig?" is one of the most popular questions on search engines.

But last week we found a senior BBC satchel mouth who confirmed: "Yes **** ***** IS the Stig but don't tell anyone I've told you"

Some say the Stig drinks petrol and uses a V8 engine to power his Philishave, but we've discovered her favourite drink is Boddington's and she favours a full Brazilian!

In her early 40s, she earns around £15 million a year but combines her hectic life-style with her Top Gear job - showing presenters Jerry, Jimmy and Little Dick how it should be done - with some stunt and test driving, whilst also groping various male celebs during coaching sessions which she calls a 'pixel of the job' And that's as much as we dare tell you.

Meanwhile the Beeb are determined the Stig keeps HER visor firmly down.

"This is the best-kept secret in motor racing and we want to keep it that way," said our source. "No one will ever officially confirm HER identity."

About Tea And Scones

Yesterday, I met Anne Widdecumbe in Tesco for tea and cakes. We had a lovely girl chat about the problems one faces as single women, specifically masturbation

As a good catholic woman, she told me that having a hand in your own affairs was heavily frowned upon by the Pope - although in Vatican circles he is known as 'Joystick Joe' for reasons she wasn't prepared to go into, but intimated that she had it on good authority, that his personal laundry service was over-run at times - especially following a recital by The Singing Nuns of the Congregation of Mary the Immaculate Queen, famous for their imaginative interpretation of O Bone Jesu.

But with a mouthful of muffin and a good lashing of Captain Scot tea, she agreed that a woman does have her urges and her faith hadn't stopped her from periodically giving herself a 'damned good seeing to', with a vibrating novelty toothbrush in the shape of Michael Howard, saying in whispered tones, "There's definitely something of him, in me, in the night"

She also confided, that when she was a young convent girl, one night the mother superior had marched into the dormitory unannounced, shouting 'Candles out...' causing her to tumble out of her bunk bed in a state of frustrated disarray, while still managing to hang onto her copy of Horse Breeders magazine...

Then we refreshed our teapots, ordered a couple of cream horns and stared out of the window.