Sex text with Becks celebrity Rebecca Loos' pleasuring of a pig in reality tv show 'The Farm' was not a breach of taste and decency, according to tv watchdog Ofcom. Apparently, masturbation of this kind regularly occurs on UK farms, as a prelude to artificial insemination of course.

Whilst investigating the seedy underbelly of celebrity life, I had the opportunity to talk to the pig at the centre of the furore. When I asked him what he thought of the media coverage of the event, he said:

'They called it pleasure. How do they know? The cack-handed cow had no idea. I just went through the motions like with all the rest. Rebecca Loos? Who's she? Give me Pinky and Perky any day (especially Perky). Ok, they may be getting on a bit but you can't beat experience. And no cameras next time!'

I shook his trotter and wished him all the best for the 'next time'. I came away thinking if this is reality, you can stick it.

A week after Prince William said he wanted to do his bit for his country (risking the possibility of throwing away a good education), his mother reappears from beyond the grave in a video which reveals more about her sex life with Charles.

Why oh why oh why can't we just remember her as a wonderful pioneering campaigner against prejudice and dangerous use of landmines and forget all this dysfunctional family stuff?

The graffiti on the back of the seat in front of me on the 06.55 to Charing Cross seemed to my tired eyes to read 'I love u so much from my ill heart'.

A beautiful, tragic thought from a man who has worked and played hard for forty years and whose internal organs are now experiencing the subsequent rewards?

No, on second glance, the 'i' in 'ill' was just about an 'a'.

A dyslexic, soppy teenage girl, then.

Having heard the Band Aid 20 single for the second time last night (in ASDA, followed by the earliest 'Silent Night' I have ever experienced), it still hasn't begun to sink in that there are people starving in the world. Maybe I need Dido, Keane et al to really pummel the message home, get a bit raw and overemotional.

Maybe we ought to let the hungry know it's Christmastime by sending them videos of ads asking us to spend millions on our rich relatives, and on enough food and drink to burst our ever expanding guts.

'There's a world outside your window. And it's a world of dread and fear.'

Yes. Yes. The world of dread and fear is Christmas itself and I can't bloody avoid it.

Ozzy Osbourne of tax exile family The Osbournes, is once again 'lucky to be alive' after he tackled a burglar at his Chalfont St Peter home. Although he had the masked raider in a headlock, the thief got away with almost two million pounds worth of Osbourne family jewellery.

Ozzy was quoted as saying 'it's not the money, it's the memories'. I was always under the impression that the one thing they can't take away from you are your memories. Maybe a part of Ozzy's brain is stored inside a very expensive watch.

The press conference later starred wife Sharon who seemed to be saying it was the money after all and that they had worked damned hard for their material goods, pulling themselves up from poverty in Brixton and Birmingham and that they had every right to spend their hard earned money on whatever they thought would be a good investment for their children.

Another child-man who will presumably never have to work is also in the news today. Otis (mmm yummy) Ferry's home has been raided by police and his guns and computer have been confiscated. Apparently, he has forseen a situation in which the countryside minister may well be assassinated if hunting with dogs is outlawed, although young Otis would not condone such an act, being a peace-loving guy.

Like his namesake, Master of Foxhounds Otis could soon be spending his time sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away.

Maybe he should take up fishing.

Even more monkey noises, this time Barcelona v Real Madrid.

It's time for the non racists at the grounds to stand up and be counted and make monkey noises at all the players, black and white, white louder than black.

This is the twenty-first century! Admit Darwin was right! Pick fleas from your partners' bodies! Altogether now, 'Do Do Do the funky gibbon!'

If only pre-war Germany had had The Goodies.

Ironic rockers and peoples' band, The Darkness were the subject of last night's South Bank Show, an arts programme for virtually nobody.

Listening to the discussion about their brutally raw song about the ravages of heroin, I was shocked to discover the hold that that drug has on the youth of Lowestoft, and indeed all over the country. Even Lord Bragg knew all about it.

I must get out more.

Spain v England, football friendly, Madrid. England's black players are greeted by a chorus of monkey noises every time they touch the ball.

It was all around the ground, not just a few right wing nutters, it was smartly dressed women and children too, office workers and generally nice looking people.

But one thing they all had in common was that none of them were English, as we all know we've wiped racism from our multi-ethnic island where people of all ancestries are treated the same and we all use the word 'us' where some of us would once have used 'them'.

No smoking in restaurants and pubs that prepare meals!

And smoking barred from the bar areas of all pubs!

Is this the nanny state going too far or not far enough?

I'm not sure, but the touching image of a hand holding a lit cigarette, dropping coins into a Cancer Research jar resting on the bar of a public house will soon be merely a cherished memory.

News that obesity among kids has rocketed over the past fifteen years and the government are going to do something about it, i.e. ban fast food ads before the watershed.

This is a brilliant idea, as now decision making over what a child eats and drinks will be firmly back in the hands of their fit, healthy, nutritionally aware parents who naturally exist on diets devised by Dr Gillian McKeith.

Children will no longer get away with emotional blackmail, and we will see a future supernation of glowing faces, toned limbs and perfectly beating hearts.

The UK Music Hall of Fame grand finale on Channel 4 last night contained the usual ego wank and blatant self-promotion of the rich and famous, exemplified by Island Records/U2 who happen to have a new album out next week.

But the most subtle piece of product placement was Richard Branson eulogising Elvis 'The King' Presley followed by Virgin label band The Thrills making a cacophonous mess of 'Viva Las Legas', delighting their fellow Irish ironist, Bono of U2.

Today's news that Branson wants a piece of the government's great casino giveaway brings a warm, toothy smile to my lips.

John Peel's funeral (same day as Arafat's).

Musicians, deejays and public alike converge on Bury St Edmonds to pay their respects. Those that cannot fit into the cathedral stand outside in the rain.

There is a spontaneous burst of applause as the coffin leaves the church to the strains of The Undertones' 'Teenage Kicks', a song incessantly quoted as Peel's favourite song ever, not just the past quarter century.

The song is a paen to a young man's solitary enjoyment of sexual release: 'And it's the best I've ever had'. Or will ever have. Trust me.

The song's lyrics were not discussed on the BBC Six o'clock News.

I see Bryan's son and heir, Otis 'should have taken the' Ferry is second most eligible man in Britain behind Hugh 'Blinkie' Grant.

But this is the Tatler speaking. There are probably better off, better looking badger baiters around but this is England and the fox killer gets the vote.

We are encouraged to observe the two minutes' silence and it starts right now.

Not sure what I'm supposed to think of, not being religious. Haven't got a god to pray to and can't imagine spirits of dead soldiers.

Think of my grandad, gassed in the Great War, survived, smoked a pipe and died of lung cancer at a ripe old age. He was lucky, but not as lucky as me. Lucky old me didn't even have a draft to avoid.

Think of my old English teacher giving a breathless, luvvy performance of Wilfred Owen's 'Dulce Et Decorum Est' ..... 'Gas! GAS! QUICKBOYS! An ecstasy of fumbling...', and I control a snigger.

Don't think I'll ever grow up.

I see the level crossing suicide murderer did it 'all because of a gay tiff' according to the Daily Star. They've found out he wasn't a complete loner after all, not the only gay in the village, but he had a lover and killed himself and six other people because of a typically flouncy gay overreaction to a matter of the heart.

God bless the Daily Star and all its readers.