• It's absolutely brilliant fun to throw grenades of burning paper into a lavatory cubicle whilst a friend is doing his business. Whilst Chris audibly struggled with the process of dropping a bowel bomb, I threw a burning roll of toilet paper through the door, scorching the hair on his leg. I was highly amused, he wasn't.
• Apocalypse Now is still my favourite war movie of all time. Film4 was showing it tonight, and watching an hour or so reminded me of it's sheer power. I've never experienced anything remotely like war, but I imagine it contains the type of total madness so brilliantly encapsulated in Francis Ford Coppola's flick. The scene where the crew of the boat gun down an innocent Vietnamese crew after searching their vessel gets me every time- notably Martin Sheen's performance and his stoic delivery of dialogue before executing a dying woman in cold blood just to preserve the efficiency of his mission.
• I hate to watch my friends cry. I'm bloody useless when it comes to being compassionate - I'm the arsehole making stupid jokes in a pitiful attempt to inject a little levity into things. Liv had a bit of a cry today, she was (again) singled out for blame by her superiors, not for actual performance by all accounts, more a question of chauvinism popping its ugly head up. She's a great girl who doesn't deserve that kind of shit, and I wish I could of done a better job of consoling her. Luckily there were more qualified members of staff around to aid her, leaving me to resort to my usual buffoon tactics. With regard to the cause of her anguish; well, as I like to say of people who annoy me: "Fuck 'em, and everyone who looks like 'em".

That was the days main events in all their dubious glory. I know it's not exactly the most fascinating or enlightening of reads, but fuck it; I am tried...

In all the melee and mess of Paddy's day and its related celebrations, there is one exhibition that you should defo take time from your shamrock-wearing schedule to check out.

Every weekend this month, Gallery Number One on Castle Street, D2, will be showcasing the work of Belgian-born New York-based pop artist Daniel Dens. To sweeten the deal, they're throwing some cool choons from resident DJ Alex Donald and even a free Innocent smoothie!

The Sophia Loren silkscreen pictured here is in the gallery's window and has been drawing quite a few punters in. As beautiful as it is, I don't think I have the €1,200 asking price.

Also on show will be 70s Rock 'n' Roll photographer Mick Rock's collection of limited edition pics of David Bowie, Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed and Debbie Harry, as well as work by Irish-born artist Ciaran Tully who now lives in New York.

You can see some pics from their first smoothie Saturday on their Flickr page.

I really love when art galleries do stuff like this. They are very eager to show that art is something to be enjoyed and appreciated, not just purchased; so don't be afraid to call in, even if, like me, you're completely broke!

As ever, dear reader, another disturbed night last night.  No vomit, I am happy to report.  But Tallulah woke several times with; a) a sore nose, b) a sore nose and a nightmare and c) a nightmare without a sore nose but lots of wailing.  She may possibly have been having a nightmare about having a sore nose.  By this stage I didn't care.  I was very unfeeling about it I'm afraid.  I said that I didn't care if she was having a nightmare and that if she didn't get into bed and stay there until the alarm went off I would give her something to have a nightmare about.  In retrospect I feel that this was both brutal and unfair.  At the time it seemed eminently reasonable and did stop me from battering her to death with a spade.  As I didn't get enough sleep to have any dreams, nightmare or otherwise, this probably contributed to my tension and aggressive behaviour.  If you're reading this in twenty years time Tallulah, I'm sorry.

All this aggravation woke poor Tilly up who was shattered and went off to school this morning looking like a little grey ghost child.  In between Tallulah waking up, Oscar kept waking up and screaming because his mouth hurt, and he also seems to be having his fair share of nightmares.  I wonder if he's dreaming that he's turning into an orangutang, or a fruit bat?  I think we were probably woken up six times between about 1.00 a.m. and 7.30 a.m. this morning.  Consequently I am even more brain dead than yesterday.  I just thank my lucky stars that I didn't have to go to the solicitors this morning.

We were spectacularly late for school this morning.  Tallulah sat in a tired daze trying to work out how to put her pants on for twenty five minutes, and then had a complete tizzy because she lost her school cardigan.  I was so fed up I couldn't be bothered to look for it and sent her to school in a pink one instead.  The kids think that the world order has finally turned on its head and that cows will drop out of the sky etc.  It's like a Shakespearean play when the king dies.  Mysterious portents of doom.

Tilly did better on the getting dressed front, but then took the hump because I had failed to get crusty bread for breakfast and there was only sliced.  I might add that there was also Rachel's Organic Vanilla yogurt, which is her favourite, and Innocent Breakfast smoothie, but apparently these things were rubbish.  She ate them grudgingly with a lot of sighing and some droopy slurping.  I just keep on punishing them.

Oscar woke as he went to sleep, screaming and miserable.  He had filled his nappy with noxious pooh, which had leaked out everywhere, but as he was wearing a winter sleep suit I didn't know this until I had picked him up.  Consequently we were both covered in pooh and had to have a radical wash and wardrobe rethink before breakfast.  He moaned about having grapes for breakfast because he really wanted pineapple but I was too late to cut one for him, so he threw grapes at me in protest and chucked his juice onto the floor, looking at me with the devil's glint in his eye and shouting 'OH DEEEE AAAHHH!' at the top of his voice whilst banging his bowl on the table.

Whilst all this was happening I was trying to neck down several pints of coffee and a bit of toast and sort myself out because I had an urgent appointment at the hairdressers this morning and I wanted to nit comb my hair before I went, as I have a mortal fear of getting to the salon only to be turned away for being diseased, usually while a group of mums from school look on disapprovingly.

It was quite hard to do this with all the mayhem and I got a little agitated.  The girls, in between being wildly annoying decided to help.  Unfortunately this is one of the worst things children can do for you as a parent while you're trying to juggle seventeen strands of conflicting information at once and all you really need is a bit of peace and quiet.  I tried to be grateful and rational, and the first time Tilly asked me if I wanted any help I was very polite and said: 'No thanks.  Just get yourself ready for school and that would be wonderful.'  The next time she asked me, I counted to ten and just said: 'Just get ready for school.'  The third time I was less polite.  By this time they had decided to stop asking me and just randomly do things instead, which is why Tilly started to unpack the dishwasher in the middle of everything.  She still hadn't brushed her hair, brushed her teeth or found her book bag at this stage, so I was somewhat riled.  It's so difficult when something like this happens.  I feel like a murderer when I shout at them for being helpful, but if only they'd do what they're told and not try to build hostess trollies out of jam and string or polish the fire irons, life would be so much easier.  At this point they just hated my guts and got on with a spate of concentrated sulking for a few minutes.  I didn't mind this too much because at least it was quiet.

I then had to write a letter to the school about Tilly's absence from school yesterday and the fact that her name is changing.  I know I should have done it last night, but I was too tired then.  Why I thought I might  be any less tired this morning is anyone's guess.  So I wrote the letters.  Job done.  We were just ready to leave when Tilly told me that she has an urgent letter for me in her book bag.  Now you may recall that we are going away on holiday and that I have written a letter to the school to inform them of this fact.  I asked Tilly if she had any letters for me on the day she returned, but no.  Then suddenly it miraculously appeared between now and then, just as we were about to step out the door.

I should have left it, but as we were already late and I was fed up, I read it.  It was from the head teacher to say that because Tilly's absences are higher than she would like, and the fact that we already went away in September she cannot authorise our holiday in April.  I wrote a letter back saying that I fully understood her commitment to statistics, but that the holiday was booked and paid for and that Tilly was coming with us.  I await her next missive with trepidation.

We finally got out the door at ten to nine.  I got to the top of the drive and realised I'd left Oscar's shoes in the house, and nursery won't let him play if he doesn't have his shoes.  I rushed back in, forgot I'd put the burglar alarm on and was head first in the shoe cupboard when it went off.  It took me several minutes of cursing to extract myself from the shoe cupboard and turn the alarm off.  I rejoined the children at the top of the drive with shoes intact.  It had now started to rain and we were all fed up.

Half way down the road I realised that I had forgotten Oscar's bag, which is crucial because it has clean clothes, nappies and milk in it.  We turned around and went back.  I did remember this time to turn the alarm off before I started the hunt for the bag.  By this time I was wet, cold and very fed up, and the children were bored to tears by my total failure to get a life and become a functioning human being.

I managed to drop them off in all the right places and had a chat with Tallulah's teacher about what happens when you are refused permission to go on holiday.  She said that I would have to take it as 'unauthorised' holiday and that it would go on the childrens' records.  I said I thought I could live with that, and that it was good to practice a bit of illegality at my age, as it helped me to feel young.  She asked what I would do if a police car turned up at the house (presumably she's joking.  What the hell.  The prisons are all full).  I said: 'They'll never take me alive.  I ain't doin' no bird!' at which point she looked thoroughly disturbed and I left.

So now I'm on the black list at school for being a trouble making unco-operative parent.  As if they haven't got enough on their hands with the invisible ink vandal and co-ordinated weeing.  I bet they hate me.  Probably not as much as I hate them, it has to be said.  I wouldn't mind if this had anything to do with their ability as students, but it hasn't.  What it has got to do with is government statistics and how they look on the league tables for absences from school.  If I thought taking my kids out of school for a month would give them the intellectual ability of a brassica I wouldn't do it, but I'm sure they're coping fine with school and will do fine with doing distance learning for a month, so they're just going to have to deal with it.

In the meantime I reached the hairdressers and they were still shut.  I had ten minutes to wait in the rain, so I went for a walk, which was nice.  Jason then rang me to tell me that the house we had picked in Canada, despite showing that it was vacant for the month we wanted it, actually wasn't.  This was a bit of a blow, as this is the third house we've picked this week which this has happened with.  He was quite annoyed and I was just thinking: 'That's about par for the course today.'  As revenge for taking the kids out of school we will probably end up having to sleep in a shoe box, if we ever get any more sleep that is.

My haircut went well, and I am now slightly more human looking, which pleased me.  Although on the way home the torrential rain put paid to the half an hour of hair straightening I'd paid for as a finishing touch.  When I got back I realised I had forgotten to put the bins out, as they've randomly changed our collection day from Friday to Thursday and I still can't get my head round it.  This means that we will be having a lovely family trip to the tip this weekend. Still, I suppose I should be grateful that it is so cold and not the stinky heights of summer or the rubbish would be able to take itself what with all the explosive nappies we've had recently.

Since then I have managed to fill my passport form out wrongly (luckily I got three in case of mistakes) and have failed to go to sleep.  I have started to make notes about my next assignment for art history, but hit a bit of a problem due to the fact that the painting I have to write an essay about (Afrodizzia (2) by Chris Ofili), is so large that in order to shrink it down to get a copy in the resource book for study, a lot of the very pertinent, smaller features are lost to the naked eye.  I cannot see them properly, even borrowing the kids magnifying glasses (the explorer phase), and so I am now panicking that I won't have anything useful to say because I can't see it.  I have tried the web and their images are even smaller and piddlier than the one I have.  I have thrown the paperwork back in its bag and am now in a profound sulk about the state of the world in general.

I think I have to focus on what to be grateful for.  I shall make a list:

1. The kids are at school.
2. Oscar is in nursery longer than I anticipated.
3. I got my hair cut.
4. I finally filled out my passport form in some vague semblance of rightness.
5. I have eaten a lot of biscuits.

Small things but mine own.  I must cling to them as I have to pick the kids up soon and take them for haircuts, which means more trailing about in the rain and wind, and Oscar will be miserable because he won't have had a proper nap at nursery.  I am going to go and eat another biscuit to cheer myself up.

Before I go I must mention that I have been looking at my blog stats recently and it seems that the most hits I get are when I mention things like boobs and nudism.  Lots of people search on nudism, and the day I wrote about nude skiing I got my highest number of hits ever.  I also get quite a lot of people looking to find out if Celine Dion is dead.  The nude thing is quite recent, but the enquiries as to the mortality of Celine Dion are steady.  Sometimes it's not just Celine, sometimes it's whether her mother or husband are dead as well.  Cheery eh?  I don't know whether this is genuine grief stricken enquiry or wishful thinking from the legions of people who think she is a warbling hell beast.  Now I fall into the thinking she is a warbling hell beast camp as I'm sure you already know.  Having said that,  I would be quite sad to think that the only way to get her to stop singing was to massacre her and her entire family, and I certainly wouldn't wish it upon her.  So just for the record, as of today, I would like to state categorically that to my knowledge, Celine and her family are all in the best of health and her heart will indeed go on, whether we like it or not.

This has led me to the conclusion that if I were to write a book about Celine Dion and her entire family converting to nudism due to the fact that they all had very pert boobs, but in which they suffer the terrible indignity of dying horribly in a freak skiing accident I could retire and build my own version of Tracey Island.  This reminds me of something the venerable Alan Coren once said, which was that books about golfing, cats and Nazis were always very popular in the best seller lists.  He consequently went on to write a book about Nazi Cats Golfing and made a fortune.  I feel that this kind of approach is indeed the way forward.

My tea - biscotti and panettini (light italian cake-bread with chocolate raisins)  Low fat, light, yet full of sugar. Perfect.

Emma with buttered croissant and hot chocolate (and my edible delights still unwrapped). Leah with two of her five a day in the form of an innocent smoothie. She also had a huge chocolate cupcake which she couldn't finish.

A gentle stroll through Leamington Spa looking at the pretty Christmas lights (we like to walk in single file).

Window shopping (Mr Claus and friends, in The Doll House Shop window) and Emma and my big sister obviously enjoyed a sneaky game of hide and seek without me!

Usually, I get certain degree of satisfaction when I’ve dropped one; I enjoy the really big loud waiting-room clearers that smell more musty than deadly, in fact, thinking about them now this morning, I feel almost filled up with nostalgia, or noxiousalgia if you will.

Once again I was woken up in the middle of the bloody night by cramps, though this time I didn’t need to get up and empty my back, this cramp was cleared with a succession of controlled bursts of wind. I took my time as I didn’t want to follow through, lying on my side they hissed slowly out… steady, steady… another, yes…Oooh, that one had a bit of a tail, caught it in time, relax, not that much, concentrate…JESUS CHRIST!

The smell that hit me was enough to make me gag, and for someone who has spent a good few years as a nurse in a care home that’s really saying something. Enjoy the smell of ones farts? I’d rather be tied up by the cast of Last of The Summer Wine and be given bukkake with Nora Batty diddling herself off with my tool.

I was forced out of my bed, not just to open the window but to continue my work on the appropriate seat. I sounded like a squadron of Lancaster bombers and can confirm that that I woke Cunt up. So some good came out of it at least.

Last night I’d treated myself gently, I stayed off the pop, ate fresh vegetables and salmon and drank a whole litre of Innocent cherry and strawberry smoothie. By the time I went to bed to read my stomach was feeling all right, I was confident that I done enough to cure my ailing insides. But clearly I’d not.

After the 4am scramble I managed to get to sleep but as soon as I woke this morning, I was back on the 6’s and 7’s. By now there was no need for gasses to propel my effluvia, vast jets of liquid acid drained from my being like a fire hose as I sat dispassionately on the throne waiting for it to pass.

When I arrived into work even my boss noticed that my usual spring in my gait and pallor was one of that of a man who was suffering from an upset of the stomach. He took pity on my and gave me a supply of Gaviscon cool to assist my passage through the day, or should that be to assist my passage, period.

My stomach has swelled up a la African infant with malnutrition and the though of farting has become a distant dream, a fantasy of the well and healthy. I’d give my eye teeth to let rip without worry that it wouldn’t end in the sour apple quickstep to my black bitch and home to change my pants.

I urge you all to fart one out for me, and think how lucky you are.

You're lucky to hear this too.