Fish giblets are making the creases in my socks appear randomly in the newspaper headlines. I’ve tried shining a flashlight on the base of my skull but it never seems to help.

I’m pretty sure the problem lies in the way the sausage meat is ground into the gravel using a wrench instead of the regulation grease nipple.

Traditions are all well and good but if you fail to adhere to the radio telephony protocols you’re bound to end up on the wrong train.

Any road up, it’s never a truly random event when you’ve got cheerleaders bouncing around the streets on hippity-hops shouting at the elderly residents who are happily skinny dipping in the local brewery.

Some people reckon this blog is written by a machine, but I can assure you it’s written by an idiot.