Jonny Billericay is unwell.

JonnyB’s holiday snaps – #3 in a series of 3.

Day three.

I step in some dog shit.

I think it was Plato who said that humour was in the misfortune of others. Might not have been. I think that’s a pretty narrow definition, and maybe Plato should have elaborated on the nob gag element a bit more, but if we stick with it then suddenly I’m the funniest man alive.

The LTLP certainly thinks so, keen classical scholar that she is. She snorts and hoots with mirth.

I hop around, shouting ‘fuck’ a lot. I don’t know why I hop, as this is unlikely to remove the dog shit from my shoe.

Obviously I have worn the chunky-soled pair, with lots of deep yet narrow declevities.

There is no possibility of compromise between dog owners and people who do not like stepping in dog shit. The government must do something.

Typical Blair. Too busy bothering with airy-fairy metropolitan elite fads like passive smoking to do anything about the real issue of passive dog shit-stepping-in.

Well it is my human right not to be exposed to other people’s stale dog shit. It is disgusting. Many people do not go to parks any more as there is so much dog shit. So they don’t exercise, get fat and end up costing the NHS.

It’s all very well the government saying that it’s the only pleasure the working classes get, taking their dogs out for a nice shit. Typically patronising New Labour.

Well it’ll never happen. And if you want to know why you just have to look at the millions the Treasury rakes in from VAT on dog food.

Nice little earner there, Gordon.

So here are two solutions.

Firstly, provide concerned citizens with portable electric DNA testers, fitted with a prongy probe. (This would have to be disposable). These would be connected via satellite to a central database of doggy DNA.

If a match were found between some dog shit and a registered dog, the database would then send a signal to an electrical collar fitted around the dog’s neck. Or, even better, the owner’s neck. Three strikes and you’re out.

But my second point is more fundamental. Given the massive advances in genetic technology, I fail to see why we continue to breed dogs with bowels.

Scientists, eh?

Wasters.

JonnyB’s holiday snaps – #2 in a series of 3.

Day two.

For reasons of convenience, we remained at the hotel for dinner. Thus contravening the number one rule of fine dining – never, ever, ever eat in an establishment with the word ‘Hotel’ in its title.

And so we found ourselves perched awkwardly on a sofa at the edge of the dining area, tepid G&Ts in our hands.

The waitress was, I guess, the owner’s daughter. Mid-teens. Cheerfully informal, likeable, a bit scatty, probably wouldn’t last long with Gordon Ramsay.

“Would you like some wine with your dinner?”

We would, indeed, like some wine with our dinner.

“What would you like?”

I was a bit nonplussed. “What have you got?”

This was a tricky one. She desperately agonised for a few seconds. Waves of deep thought permeated across her confused face, as if I had offered her five grand and backstage passes for Busted in return for anal.

“Well... do you prefer red, or white?”

Ah. A binary choice. Probably white, we agreed. She brightened. “Oh good, we’ve got some Jacob’s Creek.”

I smiled and glanced across the room. Wine by the bottle was clearly an unnecessary extravagance to most of the diners, half of whom looked as if they’d be needing their food mashing up before service.

Wine by the glass is not my bag.

I don’t order my dinner by the forkful, I don’t order my wine by the glass.

Elgar celloed enthusiastically across the room.

And yes, ‘fruit juice’ was one of the options for a starter. It really was.

I’d love to continue being oh-so-superior-this-is-desperately-provincial-compared-to-Norfolk. I get so little opportunity. But you see...

The food was fucking excellent. Unbelievably so. Beautifully seasoned, well presented, prepared with fresh ingredients. Which wiped the smile off my smug face.

I ploughed my way through the cheeseboard, before we tripped off upstairs to watch the football.

Man, I am such a hot date.

JonnyB’s holiday snaps – #1 in a series of 3.

Day one.

Holidays mean freedom. Freedom of spirit. Meeting new people.

Encounters.

She spoke softly, with a Derbyshire lilt. She was nervous. I went into charm and reassurance mode. She relaxed.

Scribbling her name and phone number onto the only piece of paper either of us had. I read it again and smiled, folded it carefully, slipped it into my back pocket.

“I’ve never done this before,” she said.

Our eyes didn’t meet. We both knew that this probably wasn’t true.

I glanced down at the wreckage of my front bumper.

“I’m sure the insurance will be fine,” I said, kindly.

The LTLP rolled her eyes.

The friend who got me invited to the book launch/spray painted model fest is a relatively new acquaintance. I’ve only known him a few months, but in that one action he’s leapt way up in my estimation. In fact, one or two other, more established friends should start watching their backs, because I’ve looked at the Opta Index stats, and quite frankly you’re falling behind in the category of inviting me to see women wearing only spray paint.

It’s like a new boy has moved in down the street and you suddenly find out that he’s got a Scalextric and a train set and Subbuteo and loads of Action Man stuff. And perhaps an older sister who’ll show you her bits for some sherbert.

As potential new best friend and I approached the prestigious West End venue, I noticed a strange sight in the street outside. A huge crowd of paparazzi were frantically snapping away at a naked woman lying in the street covered in tyre tracks. I was just wondering whether this was some kind of avant-garde Diana memorial when my friend coolly introduced me to Colin, the author of "A Bus Could Run You Over". The naked woman was page 3 lovely Anna Taverner (it took me long enough to visit the 7280 sites devoted to her, let alone link to them, so you’ll just have to type her name into Google yourselves) and the tyre tracks were, you guessed it, sprayed on.

That would be a great job – thinking of ways to link the launch of any product with a naked woman.

And just for Jezebel – I looked specially and her, erm, front garden was covered in a tiny thong. OK, so maybe this means that technically she wasn’t quite naked, but I’m not going to split hairs (though the thong looked like it was). It’s just the equivalent of finding out that the Scalextric is rally cars, not Formula 1. It’s still a Scalextric. I was still happy as the only previous launches I’d been to of anything had been for children’s television, so instead of naked women you get a bloke in a bear suit on Equity minimum. (I do hope that the agency never gets these bookings muddled up.)

And the celebrities in the club? Well, to be honest, I’m not great at recognising them. David Blunkett would have spotted more. Apparently there were some more page 3 lovelies there, but I seem to have been wasting my life reading The Guardian. Though perhaps all the famous people left after witnessing my special "Hey Ya" dance – once described as "a helicopter in distress".

It was good to be there with my friend, but, frankly, it was just like being in a normal club. Perhaps I should have tipped the toilet attendant to give me some cocaine. Or perhaps they needed an over-sized cartoon character to liven up proceedings. Who knows?

It’s certainly been a strange week. I was all set to write about going to buy some staples (there was a hilarious and long-winded "wrong size" issue), when suddenly I’m thrust into an alien world of women dressed only in spray paint. The question is, do I ditch my old friends and lifestyle in favour of glamour models and showbiz parties? Do I buy the Guardian or the Sun this morning? Perhaps the first thing I see when I open my curtains will make the decision for me.

A squirrel. I see a squirrel out of my window and my heart fills with joy. No one can see a squirrel and not be cheered. I know then that my life revolves around the mundane. The excitement of a pithily-worded letter of complaint to the council. The joy of taking your stapler with you to the stationer's to get the correct sized staples. The deep satisfaction of doing the Guardian crossword surely beats any short-lived thrill of seeing breasts on page 3.

Though if anyone sees a picture of Anna and the tyre tracks I’d appreciate a look.


(That's all folks - I'm handing back to JonnyB now. Thanks for all your comments.)

Well, in a not entirely unexpected turn of events, the "spray paint"s have it. I didn’t even need Jeb Bush to fix it for me, though he was on comment standby with some fake names that he got from www.mypornname.com and the Florida electoral roll. Which are perhaps one and the same thing.

So, I find myself forced to go and rub shoulders with celebrities and see women wearing nothing but spray paint. The lengths I go to to find interesting things to blog about. I hope that JonnyB appreciates my efforts, but I’m slightly worried that I may be raising the stakes for him content-wise, forcing him into an ever more thrilling world of naked supermodels and designer drugs that you, his audience, will have a taste for hearing about by the time he comes back.

It’s a bit like looking after someone’s dog and feeding it expensive dog food. Then when its owner comes back, it won’t touch the cheap stuff any more.

I’m not quite sure what I will say if I find myself in conversation with a woman wearing only spray paint though.

"Are you wearing an undercoat?"

"Is it really that cold in here?"

"Whoops, I appear to have spilt white spirit all over you."

More tomorrow. It’s been emulsion-al...