So we're watching some documentary about Peter Andre and
Oh shut up, listen...
So I am going to the gym this morning and I'm just leaving Finchley Road tube station and this woman standing outside the entrance says to me, "Jesus loves you..."
And I look at her and I'm like, 'no you silly bitch - Jesus is in love with Madonna at the moment. And besides, I didn't know he wasn't into blokes.'
I must have said something completely fucking alien to her because she just stood there with her eyes swivelling.
But like I really want to know that Madonna's fella fancies me? Just keep it to yourself will you dear...
This 'sharing' culture really annoys me. Like on Facebook people post stuff like "Johnny Arsewipe has just been to dinner at the Ivy."
What? You went to the Ivy because you couldn't be bothered to reheat the Sainsbury's instant mash potato pie that you seem to always scoff on, you fat twat?!
I'm thinkin maybe I should share a little more. Maybe I should stand outside Finchley Road tube station and stop punters and say "did you know that sometimes I'm a little partial to cock, actually."
"And is this your son Daniel? Hello Daniel, did you know that I love nothing more on a Thursday night than to go to bed with my hair all matted with spunk?"
You know, if we're going to start sharing all our fucking dirty habits then we might as well haul it all out the fucking cupboard.
But that's a lie though. I'm not partial to having the whipped cream near me. I mean I don't know, go and flick it on our Sally's curtains but don't bring it round here.
While I mention it, please will you spare a thought for our Sally at the moment. She's going through a rough patch.
And I don't mean that like she had a Brazilian a few weeks ago and is itching something chronic.
No, our Sally and her boyfriend have hit the skids a bit. She thinks he's a wimp.
And it turns out he's on anti-depressants too, I'm not joking. Apparently when men are on anti-depressants their er, range of fire, if you will - isn't what it should be.
Our Sally says that on Wednesday night he finally apologised and explained why, just when they were about to light the fuse to the fireworks, he went limp like a souffle in a cupboard.
And she says it's all the more depressing because he's equipped with an Exocet although at the moment it's performing like a Smith and Wesson firing blanks at the school swimming gala.
So anyway, I dodged Jesus's friend and made it to the bloody gym at around lunchtime which is a bit of a silly time to go because it's me and my heaving bench-presses and some woman lying on the ground strengthening her pelvic floor.
And our Chris wasn't even there to offer a quick spot. Or a squat.
It's Thursday evening and there's one day of the week left. Stop reading this and go to bed because that's what I am going to do.
It's nearly midnight which means that I am about to turn into a fucking pumpkin and since Peter Peter the Pumpkin Eater isn't around tonight, I might as well have a quiet one in.
And Liam sends his love.
Now fuck off.