I am being spammed into the stratosphere.

First up is discounted Viagra. It would appear nothing escapes the January sales.

In at number two are the various ways to enlarge one’s penis. There are no words.

And finally, my personal favourite: the clunky seduction attempts of the latest batch of fresh-off-the-boat Svetlanas. In their discordant, broken English they make a daily bid to lure me into bankruptcy with smutty web chat and promises of girl-on-girl rudity. Devils, get thee gone.

Although my current hit rate might tell you otherwise, I fall firmly into a demographic unburdened by the bedroom dysfunction/dubious proclivities which these prurient messages claim to rectify/satiate.

So why the fuck is my Spam folder such a busy thoroughfare for this dross? Don’t they market research? Or maybe that’s the whole point of spamming; scatter gun it and eventually the laws of probability will out.

I say simply this:

Spammers of Great Britain and beyond: Know your audience.

Sweet Jesus, Blog of Rob. If ever there was a withering and sanctimonious post to take the wind out of your sails, here it is.

According to this happy chap, most of us are going to die of either lung or liver cancer. It just depends on what your poison is. Fags or booze? What, both?! *Jaw clangs to floor* Then you’re doomed! DOOMED, I tell you!!!

Rob, did no one tell you that death is sooooo last year?

And while you’re updating to 2008, cheer the fuck up mate.

Something bad has happened.

I can’t go into details but what I will say is that it was a work-related fuck up of stratospheric proportions, which induced rocketing blood pressure, sweating and jabbering.

My insides look like Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

Holy Christ, I hope it’s a storm in a teacup.

Now it’s the weekend I intend to switch my brain off and drink myself into numb oblivion. Perhaps I’ll stay like that all of next week too, so that any further bad news and resultant panicking will simply drift away on a sea of inebria.

And maybe, I’ll enjoy having a go at seeing if the answer lies at the bottom of multiple bottles of that fruity looking Cab Sauv that’s on offer at the corner shop.

Bottoms up. Here’s to morbidity.

It’s always nice to be able to relate to something. Today’s theory of relativity came in the shape of the latest post of one particular blog I like to visit: I Am Livid. I particularly enjoy this piece of online entertainment because, as anyone who knows me will attest to, I like a bit of a rant myself. Gimme a soap box and I’ll wow the folks at home with vitriol.

Anyway I digress. The author was understandably pissed off that instructions for cooking a jacket potato told him to preheat the oven to a spurious, and seemingly unconvertible, temperature in fahrenheit. Which is for Americans and being as how this is Britian, not much blinkin’ use.

I get what he means. The other weekend, I was cooking flapjacks. I did this once before, but I went freestyle and fucked it right up, so this time I thought I’d follow a proper recipe. So far, so good - until I got to the temperature bit.

“Preheat your oven to gas mark 5.”

Oh good then. So what please, Dear Recipe-Writer, is this in centigrade? Because gas mark 5 isn’t on my cooker. It probably hasn’t been written on one since about 1953. And to add to the confusion, my cooker is powered with gas, not electric. This was starting to make me cross. I just wanted flapjacks. I didn’t want to have to do mathematics, which I am very bad at.

So I’m truly baffled. But I’m also lazy and couldn’t be bothered to look on the internet to start converting gas mark 5 into something I could understand. I just got a bit more cross, had a guess (lick finger, stick in air, wind says go with 150C) and whacked the flapjacks in with a ‘Fuck it and see’ shrug of the shoulders.

Then because I was feeling a bit huffy still, I opened a bottle of wine to cheer myself up, forgot to set the timer and only remembered about the flapjacks two hours later. There’s nothing like decimated oats and raisins to make your Fairy Liquid bottle quiver with anticipation. And Christ on a bike, the smell. It was a cross between biscuity old ladies and burned toast. Thoughts of being a lifelong domestic failure weaved through my mind, but thankfully by this time, I was too sozzled to care.

At least I’ve learned a valuable lesson. In future, leave flapjack production to bakers and mathematicians…

I am confused.

I don’t normally feel like this. I’m more of a black and white person, me. Not for I the tenure of a life spent balancing precariously and more to the point, uncomfortably, on the fence. My bottom simply won’t stand for it, so I leave the perching to the pinko liberals.

However, what brings me to this jumbled juncture is GMTV, or rather the interview conducted last week with Heather Mills on GMTV.

Here’s the thing. I’ve found myself feeling just a eensy weensy bit sorry for her.

*Gasp, shudder*

I know, I know. Fantasist, liar, media-courting whore, etc. Probably all true and I’m sure that after last week’s round of interviews you can add unhinged and self-pitying to that list. But she’s getting a right old drubbing in the tabloids and I really don’t think that’s fair. And with a face like cystitis, I’d rather the papers put someone else on the front pages, than that grizzled old vegan.

The seed of her undoing was to marry Sir Paul McCartney: ex-Beatle, national treasure, filthy rich. Millions adore him and herein lies the rub. I have it on good authority from a source that used to work for EMI back in the day, that Paul McCartney was a total and utter cunt. Now, that’s one person’s opinion, but I’m confident that others within the music industry will say the same.

Think about it. He may have been a Beatle but he is also responsible for Wings, allowing his musically talentless late wife onto the keyboards and percussion, and flicking the peace sign everywhere he goes. If that’s not naff, then I’m the frickin’ tooth fairy.

So it seems to me that Heather and Paul were a pretty evenly matched pairing. (And did anyone else notice how some photo angles showed them with suspiciously similar facial features, a la the doomed Pitt-Aniston pairing?) The only difference is Heather is a slack-jawed banshee and Paul is playing the role of reticent, saddened divorcee. No prizes for guessing who’s going to come off better from that well worn piece of role play.

Despite this, I dislike them both, but harbour a small nugget of compassion for Heather. Talk about conflicted.

Whatever. A more pressing question has just cropped up. If McCartney doesn’t eat meat, but he married an (alleged) porn star, does that mean their marriage is an oxymoron?

Answers on a postcard.

Blinky blimey.

I’m not usually one to go further than armchair contrarianism, but I’ve just been compelled to sign a Downing Street petition to protest against the banning of the Red Arrows at the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics.

And the reason for this? They are apparently ‘too British’. Er, pardon?

The Department of Culture, Media and Sport, in all its infinite wisdom, has deemed the display team ‘too militaristically British’. Apparently they might offend other countries taking part in the Olympics.

What bobbins. You can’t ban the Red Arrows. They’re cool. Like Top Gun. Like Ice Man. Like being someone’s wingman, anytime.

If they’re that odious, we’d better bulldoze Buckingham Palace, have a white out at Westminster and stick a flipping fez on Nelson’s bonce. Although I very much doubt that Health & Safety would allow you to climb up there.

This is fuckwittery of the highest order, descended from Red Ken’s army of simpletons.

And I’m going to stop right there, before I morph into Jeremy Clarkson.