It is my first weekend in my new home. Bored with the wallpaper, I walk into the night and enter the local pub. I ask the landlord if this is the pub where the quiz night is being held.

"Who wants to know?" he says.

I am wrestling with my conscience.

He's a biggun.

I have brunch with Alan Yentob.

I am a postman. I have a special delivery for Mr Evans. I walk up his driveway. I knock on his door. There is no answer. The bastard never answers straight away. I waste so much of my time at his house, knock knock knocking on Evans' door.

I am in a cafe with my betrothed.

We order, "Two BLTs and hold the mayo!"

"Until when?" asks the waitress.

My cat hates the word "professional".

Tired of trawling through War and Peace, I try the new novel by Lester Read.

I enter the Miss Faversham Beauty Contest.

I am crowned Miss Haversham.

The car is full of England fans and flags. The sign on the back windscreen says "BABY ON BOARD".

The baby is on the roof.

I am heading to the town centre. Two teenage girls are heading towards me. As they walk past me, one says to the other...

"He ain't that bad."

It's a lovely day.

I decide to take my medication alfresco.

I've got an ear for the ladies.

I am in the Hot Club of Paris.

Jesus, it's hot. Don't they have any air conditioning? The sweat's flying off Grappelli's fiddle, showering the whole front row. The air's thick with Gauloise smoke and body odour. Christ, it's unpleasant. I'd willingly throw up if I could get any air into my lungs.

There is a new search engine - Googoo.

So simple, a baby can use it.

I break down on the roundabout in Basingstoke. There is a man there in flagrante with a car exhaust.

He asks me whether I'm dogging.

I tell him he's barking up the wrong tree.

I take my dog to a drive-in poop 'n' scoop.

I am at a Rotary Club meeting.

We just keep going round in circles.

I am in the basement of a public house, a room in which informal poetry readings are held.

Tonight is special as there is rumoured to be an appearance by poet/singer, Morrissey. We wait in eager anticipation of seeing and hearing the great man reading out lines from his classic songs.

There is a commotion in a room to my right: the pub's kitchen. We hear what sounds like the quacking of a duck. It is a duck and it waddles under the swing doors, swiftly followed by Morrissey, chin jutting in anger, holding a meat cleaver above his head, and screaming at the top of his voice, "THEY ALWAYS LET ME DOWN!"

This horrible scene is cut short by a hefty bouncer's knee connecting with the duck hater's groin. The cleaver drops from the singer's hand and misses the terrified duck by a mere three inches.

As Morrissey is bundled into the kitchen, the MC climbs onstage and says, "Sorry folks, I'm afraid tonight's gig is cancelled."

We all boo like cows with bunged up noses, but the MC calms us down with the following words:

"But a little treat for you next week. Keep this under your hats, but next Saturday the one and only Ted Nugent will be reading Under Milk Wood."

We whoop and whoop and whoop.

I am at a psychic fair. I fall off the merry-go-round at high speed. A man picks me up and says, "I could see that happening."

I photocopy my home town.

I am in two minds whether or not to shred it.

I am in my Easter Bonnet.

A woman mistakes me for her baby. She straps me in the back of her SUV and roars off at high speed.

I go to a Boot Fair.

I buy one, put it on, and hop home.

I open my wardrobe door. Standing before me, in shirt, pants, and socks, my trousers in his hand, is Brian Rix.

He smiles at me.

"I've found them!" he says.

I am on a paintball stag weekend. The tutor lines us up and asks us, "Any paint virgins here?"
I put my hand up and the bastard shoots me four square in the bollocks.

I buy a clockwork piggy bank. I wind him up and watch him run around the room. I wind him up so much that he gets the arsehole and runs away with all my money.

I am invited into the crazy world of Arthur Brown.

"Would you like tea or coffee?" he asks me.

T Rextasy: The UK's No 1 Live Tribute Band (as voted on BBC1's Battle Of The Fantasy Bands)


I am at a Glam Rock Tribute Nite at Crayford Town Hall. The bands are all reasonably local as they have to get up for work in the morning.
The line-up is as follows:-

1. The Bromleyan Roxy Music (all except the drummer are ex-Bromley Contingent)
2. The Dartfordian Sweet (whose lead singer's real name is Brian Conley - I'm not kidding)
3. The Crayfordian Slade (ex-Oasis tribute band Sally Can't Wait)
4. Eltham John (originally from Leek, Staffordshire - moved to Eltham in 1992 to further his career)

I am watching Tomorrow's World at the exact moment when Slade turn from being a skinhead band into a glam rock band. The band are lined up in silhouette, and Raymond Baxter asks if we can identify Noddy Holder.

He is quite clearly to the left of Dave Hill.

I am watching a game of 5 a side bollocks.

One of the bollocks gets sent for an early bath for ungentlemanly conduct.

Mrs Worthington puts her daughter on the stage.

I have Bette Davis' eyes.

I swap them for Ben Turpin's eyes and £3.64.

I am participating in a game of Celebrity Poker. I don't know who half the celebrities are.

I lay a pair of Anne Robinsons, not realising I have a Hollyoaks Royal Flush.

I am hothousing my 4 year old for Junior Mastermind.

And while he's there he can fucking water the plants.

I am a sensitive singer-songwriter.

My piano brings me out in a rash.

I am on the Tears For Fears bus. The conductor puts on a cassette of a bootleg Tears For Fears concert, live from Dudley JB's. The boys come on stage accompanied by Holst's The Planets. Roland steps up to the microphone and says, "Hello, Dudley!"

They start to play and the whole bus sings along.

I am walking along, minding my own business, when a large skinhead approaches me and asks me where I got my Little Brown Bag.

"Sanny Claus gave it me," I say.

"Can Sanny Claus get me one?" he replies.

My acupuncturist sticks needles in my eyeballs as he says they lie on the Greenwich Meridian.

I am a rich, famous poet and author. I am extremely drunk and I can't find my way home.

I've lost my mews.

I walk into my office first thing in the morning. The IT man is lying dead on the floor.

I answer an advert for 'Live In Head' at a private school in the country for gifted children.

I get the job and spend my working hours locked in my office, daydreaming. The children teach themselves.

I go to a Police Auction of unclaimed goods. I buy a dot matrix printer for 7p. It doesn't work.

Infamy.

I am given a copy of the new River Cafe Cookbook. It has three chapters:-

Minnow

Stickleback

Tiddler

I am rowing a couple of chums up the Thames to Richmond.

We get wolf-whistled by the River Police.

Everything in the Holy Bible becomes true. Cats do not exist.

The meece inherit the earth.*

*Thanks to Betty for this one.

Carla Lane's new sitcom is about a family of Liverpudlian French bulldogs, The Gerrards. Jean-Pierre, here, is to open a vegan restaurant in Walton.

I am 75. I go for a roll up* with 3 men and 2 women. The women are married to 2 of the men. The other man's wife is too ill to play. I'm taking her place as I owe her husband a favour. Last week he gave me the kiss of life.

* bowls vernacular

A pair of long johns in her left hand, my grandmother is freebasing cocaine off her ironing board.

Prime Minister Gordon Brown proposes to the House that to set an example to the nation, Members' genitalia should be enclosed in Union Jack underwear.

I answer the phone. It is a woman from another department.
"Are you sitting on a cheque from Mrs Cramp-Iron?" she asks.
"We don't sit on cheques in the Accounts Department," I say. "Any cheques we can't allocate we send to your department."
"You've sat on cheques in the past," she says. "Can you go and check?"
Angrily, I put the phone down. I stand up. I feel something on the seat of my trousers. I pull it off.

It is a cheque from Mrs Cramp-Iron.

I read my four year old a story at bedtime...

The Kurt Cobain Diaries.

I join an evening class which combines gentle stretching exercises and traditional Peruvian music...

Ponchos Pilates.

As part of my new year health campaign, I spend a few days in spa city Detoxeter.

I receive a post-houmous knighthood for services to dips.

My resolutions for the new year are to give up the booze and to master the art of fucking calligraphy.

My doctor is called to my bed. I have diptheria. He tells my mother to give me a hot potato compress and to make sure I have plenty of boiled sweets to suck.

This is the first time I have been here since I was 3 years old. I am revisiting the stately home in which I was born, and Lord Quarkington is very kindly giving me a guided tour. He unlocks and opens the door to a larder just off the kitchen. He turns on the light and concusses a rat with his walking stick.

"Do you remember this room?" he asks.

I shake my head. He drops his stick, cups his hand to his mouth, and clutches my head to his breast. He whispers, "This is the room in which I first met your parents."

Cold spittle runs into my ear canal.

My chestnuts are roasting by an open fire.

The world is saved by Aryan flu.

James Blunt opens a turkey farm.

As he cuts the tape, he sees a vision of loveliness.

Lassie traces his family tree.

He pisses on it.

I am 10. Together with my classmates, I am appearing in the end of term Christmas show. We are performing a medley of songs from musicals. At the tops of our voices we sing, "Jesus Christ, Superstar, wears frilly knickers and a training bra."

The parents and teachers enjoy the song immensely. They're not listening to the words. They just think we look and sound cute.

I'm walking in the air.

I have a starring role in the new King Kong.

I play Fey Ray.

My trousers are on the M25.

I'm an orange-arsed fly.
I'm rushing around like a blue-arsed fly.

I am a Shakespearian actor. The Director says he thought my Bottom was superb.
"But I was playing The Dane," I say.
"That was great, too," he says.

I am taking a ewe on a slowboat to China.

I am Jacques Oeuf, a hard-boiled private detective.

I am hired to rescue a small girl who is being held for ransom at a large country house.

My local has 24 hour opening. Each night, I set the alarm for 3 am. I get up and walk to the pub. I order my usual pint of ale, no more, no less. It is very quiet, just me and a few other sensible drinkers like me.

We all leave at 5 am to go home for a low fat breakfast, then off to work at 7. I work through till 1 pm, have one pint of ale with my low fat salad lunch. I get back to the office at 2 and work till 6.

After a low fat 7 pm dinner, I am in bed by 9 - looking forward each night to my 3 am alarm call.

My boss gives me something important to think about, something that is very important to the business. He advises me to go home and sleep on it.

The next day I am woken by a phone call. It is 11 am. My boss asks me why I am not at work as he wants to discuss the important issue. I say I am still sleeping on it, and if I don't come up with anything today I will sleep on it tomorrow too.

I get pissed with Prince Charles. I call him my best mate. He says we're Celtic brothers and reaches for his blade so we can exchange our blood.

My office chair is knackered. The salesman brings me a new chair to try out. I sit down and he straps me in...

An experienced freemason, this is my year to be in the chair....

I don't want to go in the chair. The chair's too big for me. I'm not man enough to go in the chair. Please don't let them put me in the chair. Mummy!

Jamie Oliver tells me to eat my greens.

I am in a prison cell with Casper the Friendly Ghost.
He says, "How about you and me - dirty protest?"

My blog has pictures.

I discover that due to a double booking, the Veteran Bloggers' Meet at the Royal British Legion, King's Lynn Branch on Sunday 13th November is to be postponed.


Suggestions for a new day and venue are welcome.

All British bloggers under the age of 30 are to do National Service.

Those between the ages of 30 and 40 are to receive psychotherapy.

Those over 40 are to be shot.

To save my poor legs, my best friend stands outside my front door to greet the little trick or treaters.

Robert Elms is barred from London.

I spend 45 minutes reading blogs I like and I can't think of a single comment.

I am in the audience of The Good Old Days. I am dressed up to the nines and I itch like buggery. My trousers itch, my vest itches, my underpants itch, my collar itches, my false moustache itches. My braces are chafing my nipples. The woman on my left smells strongly of gin and laughs in a high pitched screech at the least fucking thing. The man on my right reeks of Hi Karate aftershave and every so often turns towards me to ask me if the person on stage is Sheila Steiffel. The camera keeps zooming into me and I pretend to laugh or sing. When I smile my fucking moustache goes in my eyes and stings like fuck. I'm desperate for a piss but I can't move because the whole row would have to stand up and the audience at home would think the audience in the theatre were leaving. I itch I itch I fucking itch and there's still an hour to go.

Good Old Days? Don't give me the fucking Good Old Days.

The woman at the call centre puts me through to a different extension. The phone is picked up and I hear what sounds like a howling pack of wolves.

A gruff voice answers, "You've come through to a different hunt team."

I am put on hold. The music on the telephone is an excerpt from Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

The lights go out.

I dial the speaking clock.

He says tetchily, "There's a time and a place for this, Geoff."

I interview Hans Link, author of Hans Link's Blog, for an article in the November 2005 edition of Geoff''s Blog People...

Me: Herr Link...

Hans: Call me Hans.

Me: Hans...It's been well documented that you have the most links in the blogging world.

Hans: Mutual links.

Me: Mutual?

Hans: Everybody I link to also links to me.

Me: How many links do you have?

Hans: Three thousand, five hundred and seventy-one.

Me: That's a lot of links.

Hans: There are a lot of good blogs out there.

Me: How do you find the time to read them all?

Hans: Some days I don't read more than say, fifteen hundred. But I make up for it the next day.

Me: You must have your favourites?

Hans: Now that would be telling. Blogging can get a bit cliquey, don't you think? I just love reading blogs. And I love writing my own blog.

Me: Your site averages over six thousand hits a day.

Hans: Yes.

Me: What does that do for your ego?

Hans: It's nice, Geoff. But it would be nicer if it did something for my bank balance.

Me: You're joking, of course.

Hans: Of course I'm joking. I do this because I like meeting new people. Sharing views.

Me: But not face to face?

Hans: You mean a blog meet?...We'd have to hire the Albert Hall. No, Geoff, I'm happy to keep all my net buddies as cyber correspondents.

Me: They say you're the king of the LOL. You give a LOL to every blogger whose site you like.

Hans: There's a lot to LOL about.

Me: You find three and a half thousand blogs funny?

Hans: Why not? That's still a miniscule percentage of bloggers who are out there.

Me: I used to think LOL meant "Lots of love".

Hans: And you thought all these guys were coming onto you?

Me: I've only had one LOL.

Hans: Only one?

Me: Just the one.

Hans: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! LOL :-D

I've got blogger's nipple. And I can't leave it alone.

I join the freemasons.
My mum packs my sandwiches and tells me not to take it all too seriously.

I'm 24, look like Mickey Rooney, and have seven children.

My jacuzzi is full to the brim with grinning Osmonds in 1950's swimwear.

I enter the offices of the Kent Nudist Association. The receptionist, as naked as the day that he was born, is on the phone. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand.
"Bare with me," he says.

I am in Berlin, desperately looking for the zeitgeist.
I ask a beautiful woman, who gives me directions.
I end up in "Blind Alle".

West Ham beat Chelsea 81-1.
The Chelsea team is made up of four cartoon animals, three 3 year old children, Lampard, Cole, Terry, and Mickey Droy.
The Hammers include two 3 year olds in their team, and in goal is 56 year old Peter Shilton who plays out of his skin.

I have won a free mystery film star face reconstruction. My life is about to change.
As I am about to go under, the anaesthetist whispers in my ear:
"You know this is a Mickey Mouse operation?"

I am watching Lemmy play Space Invaders.
He shoots the aliens with pus from his boils.

I am taking a bath with Yoko Ono.
She refuses to give me the soap unless I join her in song.

I am on the Magic Bus.
David Nixon is driving.
Tommy Cooper is taking the fares.

Red and yellow and pink and green
Orange and purple and blue
I can sing a rainbow
Sing a rainbow
Sing a rainbow too

I'm bored. I start another blog.

Grant Lubbock, formerly of grizzled Americana band The Novotels, is due to appear at the Powys Americana Festival. Grant is unhappy as Texas have been booked to headline.

'The poster just looks dumb. "Powys...Texas" They're not even American. They're from England.'

The organisers relent. Grant is given the headline spot...

'Grant Lubbock...Texas'.

I tell my mother about my blog. She says: 'Why would you want to iron your dirty laundry in public?'

Michael Owen is unveiled as a Newcastle United player in front of 15,000 fans.

INTERVIEWER: So, Michael. How does it feel to be a Newcastle player?

MICHAEL: Great.

CROWD: OWEN! OWEN! OWEN!

INTERVIEWER: How difficult was it to make this decision? With fans like these?

MICHAEL: Newcastle is a club with a proud history and fantastic, passionate fans.

CROWD: OWEN! OWEN! OWEN!

INTERVIEWER: So you didn't need convincing?

CROWD: OWEN! OWEN! OWEN!

MICHAEL: Does that give you your answer?

INTERVIEWER: Who was it that swayed it for you? Your old mate Alan Shearer?

CROWD: SHEARER! SHEARER! SHEARER!

MICHAEL: It was a team effort. The chairman, Graeme Souness....

CROWD: SOUNESS! SOUNESS! SOUNESS!

MICHAEL: And of course, Alan.

CROWD: SHEARER! SHEARER! SHEARER!

INTERVIEWER: Newcastle is a sleeping giant, isn't it?

MICHAEL: That's exactly why I'm here. It's why Alan came here ten years ago. It's why Kevin Keegan came here in the eighties.

CROWD: KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!

I am in Eastbourne's red light district. An old woman steps out of the shadows and asks me if I want some of granny's fudge.

I join Kids Reunited, a website devoted to bringing together ex-punks. I was never a punk but who's to know?

It's 1978 and it's cold and late and dark. Top of the charts today is Candy's Room by Bruce Springsteen. In Candy's room, there are pictures of her heroes on the wall. But to get to Candy's room, you've gotta walk the darkness of Candy's hall.
The walls of my room are covered in painted anaglypta wallpaper. To get to my room you turn on the landing light and walk four short steps past my parents' room and my sister's room. They're all asleep now. Be careful not to make a sound. There's no need to knock.

I am at the Top Gear party. We chaps get together in a circle, throw our car keys in the middle of the room, blindfold the chap to our left, and take it in turns to pick up a key.
I get to drive Jeremy's car! I'm so happy I could cry.

Explaining his amazing turnaround after twenty consistent years, Kenneth Clarke says: 'I was wrong, daddio. Jazz is shit. Rock is the shit, man. When's the new Guns 'n' Roses album out?'

On the eve of his 'Rome Around The World' tour, I ask Pope Benedict XVI if he's going to perform any new material.
'Well you know I'd like to, Geoff. I still feel like I've got a lot to offer. But the fans just want the old stuff. And they're the ones who pay my wages, they call the tune as such. I just wanna spread love, let love rule as Lenny Kravitz sang. Christ, I'd love to do that one live.'

It is 1975. The temperature outside is 53 farenheit. Today's number one is Glass of Champagne by Sailor. Let's get together, the two of us over a glass of champagne. You don't mind sharing, do you?

Brian Blessed loads his rifle with oranges and aims it at me and my sister.
He bellows: 'GET IT INTO THEIR HEADS!', and squeezes the trigger.

I spend my holiday in a caravan and eat oysters for breakfast. My neighbour shits in a bucket outside my window.

I step out in front of a bus and wake up in a private ward next to Madonna.
'Did your horse throw you, too?' she asks.

I am bouncing in a mediaeval bouncee castille with princes Charles, Andrew, and Edward. We can't stop laughing as something has tickeld our fancee.

I am playing chess with Axl Rose. He won't let go of his knight. I tell him to grow up.

Rolf Harris asks me if I can swim. I say I've got a perforated eardrum. He says he's got three fucking legs but it never stopped him.

Tony Blair's holiday is spent teaching a few of us lucky people rock guitar. I'm slowly getting there but I've come to somewhat of an impasse.

TONY: To do a bar chord, Geoff, you've gotta have a really strong forefinger, yeah?...You've got lovely hands, surgeon's hands. I'm just not sure you're cut out to play rock guitar.

ME: Is there any way of strengthening it?...My forefinger.

TONY: Before going to bed each night, stick it up your arse for half an hour.

ME: And that works?

TONY: It gives the finger some independence. It's not relying on the other fingers to do any work.

ME: You've got a really strong finger, Tony.

TONY: Listen to this...

Tony launches into Bryan Adams' '18 Till I Die'. The bar chords are immaculate.

Michael Howard tells me I have an irritibill bowill.

My doctor tells me I have an irritable bowel.
'DO YOU HAVE TO STATE THE BLOODY OBVIOUS?' says my bowel.

I have plastic surgery. I have the face of Brad Pitt and the body of William Pitt.

I am at the doctor's.
DOCTOR: Your ego is enormous but you are as shy as a little mouse.
ME: Can you give me anything?
DOCTOR: How about some cheese?

I am at a Smiths Disco. I am standing on my own.

I am reading the line-up for my local council's summer festival:-

3 p.m. The Dave Badger Set - 1960's jazz rockers. We welcome back Dave to the Festival after a minor operation forced the Set to cancel last year. He is pleased to report that he is now tickety-boo and looking forward to getting the party started.

4 p.m. Heaven Scent - Local Christian girl-band formed of the three Jones sisters. Their grandmother Angela is a former councillor.

4.30 p.m. Hot Bollocks - Blues-rock combo and veterans of the 1970's pub scene. The Bollocks' bass player Nigel Burnage recently celebrated his 35th wedding anniverary by taking his wife Mandy to see Cream at the Royal Albert Hall.

6 p.m. Michelle McManus - Fresh from 2004, Pop Idol winner Michelle sings songs from
her forthcoming album 'Forces Sweetheart', featuring songs celebrating the Second World War.

6.45 p.m. Grant Madden - Phil Collins tribute Grant and his dwarf monkey drummer, Sticks. Grant and Sticks have been together since 1987 and are regular shoppers in the town centre.

ENJOY YOURSELVES EVERYONE, AND PLEASE LEAVE QUIETLY.

Tom Cruise is working at my local baker's.
'And what can I get you, sir?' he asks.
'Fruitcake' I say.

My sitcom family is at breakfast. On the wall next to the fridge there is a small blackboard. It's mum's board of remembrance, things she needs to get. Today she chalks up 'tights, olives, feta cheese, Vaseline'.

I have 7 teenage Darth Vaders in floods of tears.

It's my son's birthday and I order a Star Wars bouncy castle. The truck arrives mid-morning. The delivery man says he's got bad news and good news. The bad news is that all Star Wars castles are out on loan. The good news is that I've been upgraded to a Harry Potter one for no extra charge.

My parrot calls me a pretty boy all day until the 9 o'clock watershed. From then on he tells me to go fuck myself.

I am in a group of 6 commuters. Each day we have a Sudoku race. The first to finish shouts 'Sudoku!' in Japanese. I win, but shout in Geordie. I am banished to another carriage.

I am watching University Challenge: The Professionals. It is Cockneys versus Hit Men.

Jamie Oliver makes us a ham sandwich. It's 4 inches thick and I have to eat each part of the sandwich separately. Jamie has no such problem.

I am at a secret London gig by Grant Lubbock, formerly of grizzled Americana band The Novotels. He walks onstage at 9.30 p.m., just him and an acoustic guitar and says, 'I got here on the Northern Line.' This gets a communal laugh and a round of spontaneous applause. He then launches into a diatribe about George Bush and his English puppy Blair, followed by a montage of Woody Guthrie songs. The evening flies by as we are held rapt by a master songsmith at the peak of his powers. Novotels classics are mixed with covers of songs from the fifties to the noughties, including an hilarious piss-take of James Blunt's 'You're Beautiful'. He finishes off with a few songs from his forthcoming solo album 'Porch Songs', and off we go boldly into the London night, uplifted and full of hope. On the way home I realise it's the first time I've seen Grant sober.

Tony Blair hosts Play School
TONY: And today, children, we look through the stained glass window.
CHILDREN: We can't see through it!
TONY: You just have to look a little harder, boys and girls.
CHILDREN: We can't!
TONY: There's no such word as 'can't'. Look. Our friend George can see through it.
CHILDREN: That's not George. That's Bungle!

Blair and Bush are taking singing lessons from their mentor.
BLAIR/BUSH: Onward, Christian soldiers, ma...arching to war.
JESUS: Marching as to war.
BLAIR/BUSH: Onward, Christian soldiers, marching on to war.
JESUS: As to war.
BLAIR/BUSH: Onward, Christian soldiers, marching off to war.
JESUS: You don't get it, do you?

I am on the tube. 27 new romantics get on at Leicester Square station. 'Ah, the Blitz spirit,' I think. Then on get the Kemp brothers dressed as the Krays and I feel safe as a chick in a cotton wool bed.

Chelsea FC are in the Cup Final. The team record ABBA's 'Money Money Money' as their song. Lampard and Terry sing their hearts out as the girls. Abramovich and Mourinho are the shady boys at the back, half hidden by their instruments.

Ted Heath is lifted to heaven on a mourning cloud.

An old, terrifying witch asks me to write her biography. She wants to leave no stone from her wicked life unturned. 'Warts and all,' she demands.

In Trafalgar Square to remember last week's atrocities, I hear the words 'Ladies and Gentlemen, Richard and Judy'.
JUDY: Driving through London this afternoon, we couldn't help but be moved by the sheer spirit and stoicism of the people of this great city. Although we only moved here ten years ago, we feel our roots are now inextricably part of this great, great melting pot. London, our London, is the most wonderful, rich...
RICHARD: And poor.
JUDY: And poor. Not forgetting the poor.
RICHARD: Multicultural.
JUDY: Marvellously inclusive and cultural.
RICHARD: Anti racist.
JUDY: And I'd like to read a poem by a famous but little known Irish poet. A poem which sums up exactly what we're all feeling here today.
RICHARD: This is very sad.

I am in Hardy's Wessex. I am a rogue and a scoundrel but I can't afford a horse. I thrash through the countryside on my brother's back, looking for young women to spoil. I spot one and, tally ho! off we go! She pelts us with rotten fruit.

I am at the seaside and I join a crowd watching a brass band. I am the only one in the audience without white hair. I turn to a woman next to me and ask the name of the current song.
WOMAN: I think he said 'Old Greys' Cocks'.
ME: Oh. Of course. It's Coldplay's 'Clocks'.
WOMAN: Whatever it's called, it's not getting me excited.

At the very end of his groundbreaking series 'Geldof in Africa', Sir Bob sums it all up:
'So this has been my Africa. The most beautiful, terrible, heartwarming, desperate, rich, poor, blisteringly bright, terrifyingly dark, magical, practical, funny, sad, life-affirming, depressing, forward-looking, backward-looking, most incredible yet credible continent on earth. I love this place. Yet I hate it.

I am worried. I go to see my doctor.
ME: Doctor, I keep being told I'm a stoic.
DOCTOR: Who in the name of God told you that?
ME: Politicians, Tony Parsons.
DOCTOR: I've known you for what, 35 years?
ME: 35 years, 3 months.
DOCTOR: And as far as I can remember, you've always been a big baby.

I am in the 100 metres final in the 2012 Olympics in London, my home city. It's pissing down but the crowd are in good spirits. They cheer my name as it's announced. I settle into the blocks. A man in a bowler hat shouts, 'Ready!'

I exist on Fair Trade bananas, chocolate, coffee, and sugar. I've got the runs, have constant gastro-oesophageal reflux, and I can't sleep. But I feel great!

I think I'm James Dean for a day.

I stand by helpless as the rich feed the poor.

Geldof, Sting, Bono, and Bill Gates form a barbershop quartet. They sing 'How much is that doggy in the window?'

I am punting my boss on the River Cam. He asks me if I can punt any faster as he's got a thirst on.

I am sweating like Tony Blair at a heavy rock disco. Maria Sharapova sprays anti-perspirant on my armpits. I can't stop sweating and she gets frustrated. She sprays, she screams. She sprays, she grunts. She sprays and screams until the whole can is emptied. I sting like wildfire.

My dog is too proud to beg.

I am off trekking in Nepal for a year. I buy all my gear from Millets. I tell the assistant to check out my travel blog. She says she will if she can find the time. I give her my card and head to ASDA for supplies.

Sipping champagne, watching the tv coverage of Glastonbury with my friend Crazy Frog, watching all those nice kids getting wet and muddy, my amphibian comrade turns to me and says, 'I've had a lifetime of that shit, Geoff. I just want the good things in life, d'you know what I mean?' We drink a toast to youth.

Climbing up on Henman Hill, I can see the city lights. Wind is blowing, time stands still. Backhand lob out of the night.

In the airport lounge, two young girls are playing near my feet. One kicks the other in the shin. The injured girl cries to her mother and points at me.

I am at a nice, quiet restaurant, ready to order. To my left, an obese man, slightly younger than me, is sweating his way through a meaty main course. Suddenly he shouts at the top of his voice, 'Oh my God, Jesus Christ, I'm coming!' I order: 'I'll have what he's having.'

Lounging by the hotel pool, engrossed in the latest Grisham, I am approached by a skinny man of advanced age in a pair of skimpy briefs. He positions his face six inches from mine and whispers, 'Stop looking at my wife or I'll bash the living daylights out of you.' I look over the pool to see a woman waving at me.

I am on Celebrity Love Island. Abi Titmuss, Rebecca Loos, Beppe from Eastenders, John McCririck and Bez each take a fifth of my body and sensually massage me with embalming fluid.

My tv comedy script has been given the once over. According to the tea boy, 'Iain really likes your stuff. He says there's some really good ideas, great raw material, ideal for improv.' I've spent the last ten years perfecting the bloody thing. I don't need to be told it's not funny.

Sir Alf Ramsey sends me on in the 89th minute to 'run down the clock'. I have one leg.

I am at a live performance by The Novotels, a grizzled Americana band from Boston. Lead singer Grant Lubbock makes an announcement that this is the band's last gig as he's about to go solo. I can see tears in the eyes of the drummer, Mort 'Whisky' Ackman. The band launch into a mournful version of KC and the Sunshine Band's 'Please Don't Go'. It brings the house down.

Bob Geldof crucifies himself in order to raise money for the Water Rats.

I am on Celebrity Love Island. Abi Titmuss, Rebecca Loos, Beppe from Eastenders and John McCririck each take a quarter of my body and sensually massage me with sensual oils. I come out in an unsightly rash and am rushed to hospital. I am treated by Dr Fox, who smothers me with a revolting white cream. I am bandaged from head to foot and shipped back to Britain.

Marvin Gaye tells me he's 'hot like an oven'. I turn the central heating down.

In my new job, every Tuesday I get up at 2.30 a.m. to be on the golf course at 6. My boss is a 'morning person' who likes to 'pow wow' when things are quiet. I am creating a good impression until I hit a ball out of a bunker straight into the back of his head. My boss dies immediately and I am unemployed.

I am at the breakfast table with my sitcom family. Dad's such a wally, always putting his foot in it. And Mum, she holds the family together with her common sense. And my little sister Sam's dreamily in love with her new boyfriend Adam, who wears his hood at all times and I've never seen his ears. And then there's my older brother Craig. He's got his penis on his plate, pretending it's a sausage. He asks us if any of us want it as he's full to the brim.

I have to sing 'Hi Ho Silver Lining' in front of the Queen. She has a face like thunder and I forget the words.

I am in Grange Hill as the new PE teacher. I am caught smoking pot with the caretaker by a vigilante group of kids.

Jeanette Krankie asks me if I want to see her 'boobies'.

I listen to nothing but Jeff Buckley and compose songs in my bedroom for 40 tearful days. I take my songs to an audition. I become the singer in Travis tribute band, 'Travisty'.

35 frogs cut my lawn with tiny lawnmowers. I reward them with a barbeque of flies and a glass of wine.

My doctor tells me I have a 'finely turned stomach'.

I have a phantom child who keeps me awake at night and is eating me out of house and home.

I have stars on my glasses and glitter on my cheeks. I have platform shoes and a flying v guitar. And hundreds of teenage girls screaming at me...to get off.

I am a clown and so is my wife. Before we go to work I say 'I love you, funny face'.

I am wearing an ipod shuffle which randomly plays 10 u2 songs. Every so often I hear Bono's Christmas message in which he thanks me for buying his album and wishes me a happy Christmas.

I pull on a nostril bogey. I pull and pull. It is never ending. I tie one end to a car bumper. The driver drives off and takes the M1 to Leeds. There he sees a specialist who unties my bogey from the bumper. 200 miles of bogey hits me full in the face.

I am flying a model aeroplane. I am 2 inches tall.

I am the only non-chav in my family. I am sent to my room.

I am in the Hard Nut Cafe. Blood streams from a gash above my nose.

I an 76, and a Hitler Youth, a fan of recently reformed blues rock combo Hess Hitler Von Ribbentrop. We are at the Royal Albert Hall to see their long awaited comeback gig. We are restless as they are keeping us waiting. Apparently Hitler cannot locate his left testicle and won't go onstage without it.

My doctor tells me I have the knees of a four year old. I skip most of the way home before spraining my ankle.

Bridget Jones enters my bedroom wearing just a pair of big, smelly knickers.

I ruffle a small child's curly ginger hair and get a handful of red ants.

I am sitting under an apple tree, eating a pear. An apple falls on my head and lands in my lap. A worm sticks its head out of the apple and sings, 'Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.'

My shed is bisexual.

I speak nothing but fluent French. My family and friends do not understand me. My workmates do not understand me. I am ostracised and spend a miserable existence alone in my bedroom. I watch The Magic Roundabout 24 hours a day.

I shoot Sting with a water pistol.

My voice is a barely audible squeak. I go to the zoo and speak to the elephant. He shits himself.

Sir Alf Ramsey tells me to get on there and murder them. He hands me a bottle of arsenic.

Coronation Street extras become central to the plot. Regular cast members become extras. The new stars spend all day in the Rovers getting extremely drunk.

Blair, Howard, and Kennedy have a limbo competition. Blair gets down the lowest and wins a coconut.

The new Pope tells me, 'Now I'm going to live a little.'

I have to re-wire the house. I unscrew an electrical socket and pull out the old wire with a pair of pliers. I keep pulling till the wire fills the room.

I marry my beautiful Thai bride. Her father is a ladyboy. So is mine.

I have to eat myself. I don't know where to start.

Michael Howard leads his team of matrons to fight the MRSA bugs on the beaches of Kent and Sussex. The matrons smother the bugs between their large matronly breasts. The bugs surrender and swim back across the Channel.

A dog sneezes in my face. It tastes of caramel.

Michael Howard is thinking what I'm thinking. I try to scream but nothing comes out.

Laurel and Hardy arrive at my office. They are here to repair the air conditioning. They do a very professional job, but when I switch on my unit everything turns monochrome.

My watch has stopped at 9.43am. It is about midday. I am asked the time by nine different people. I tell each one I don't know. They surround me in a circle of hate.

Shopping in an out of town precinct, I come across the following:-
'Natural Toe Store. New, Secondhand and Vintage Toes For Sale. All Natural Ingredients.'

I am smoking a pipe. The smoke hits the ceiling and makes it invisible. There is a body upstairs. It is the Pope lying in state. He asks me, 'Have you got a light, boy?'

The local Conservative candidate introduces himself to me. We get on like a house on fire. We slap each other's backs. I get hiccups which won't go away. He calls for an ambulance on his mobile phone.

I am at the altar, waiting for my wife to be, Camilla Parker Bowles. I am holding a rabbit's foot in my trouser pocket.

A police car overtakes me and I am motioned to stop. A policeman walks to my window and asks me the way to Amarillo.

I am on an ice rink, skating with Robin Cousins' cousin Robin. I can't bear his weight and we crash through the ice.

I wake to find the pope urinating into a pot in the corner of my room. He tells me not to worry as he'll be gone soon.

I join Marc Bolan in the back of his mini for our annual tree slalom race. This year we're being driven by Sonny Bono.

I am driving along a beautiful coastline. Ahead of me, a coach has broken down. Seven old men are mooning out of the windows.

I am on the moon with Jonathan King. He jumps and floats 6 feet above the moon's surface. He takes my hand and leads me into outer space. I notice Harry Potter swinging on a star.

Tony Blair welcomes me into his bedroom, hands me a guitar and takes one himself. I sit at the foot of the bed, he at the head. Together we sing 'The Red Flag'. Cherie comes in with some custard creams. She dances the dance of the seven veils.

I see Sting in a barley field eating garibaldis with the oldest woman I've ever seen. He tells me he's been at it non-stop for fifty years and he doesn't know how to stop anymore.

I take old Ben to the vet's. He just lays there as good as gold. And then he's gone.
I can't stop crying. Vet says, 'He's at peace now'. Holding me to his breasts he says, ' It's the ones that are left behind'.