I live my life by a simple rule: my Dad can fix everything. This is the Rule of Dad. He can just do stuff. It comes with the territory and I shall live all my days believing it, because it is truth.

This same truth was born out over a teary phone call this morning to my fix-all, know-all Dad.

I shall not bore you with details, but let’s just say Ladyshambles was at the end of her tether, feeling ill and despite all efforts, was failing miserably at being stoic and positive. So I phoned my Dad.

Cut to half an hour later and the tears are dried and I’m just about back on track, albeit a bit wobbly and perhaps still in need of some stabilisers. (This is where my lovely Mum comes in, who is going to phone later to seal the deal.)

So to my Dad: Considering how little tether I have had of late, you have done a truly miraculous job with picking me up, dusting me down and sending me once more on my way. I s’pose your job never really changed in that respect, did it? I’m just a bit taller than you now.

Thank you. I love you loads.

PS If you find a way to bottle this Dad stuff and sell it, then I want a cut. Capisce?

PPS Mum - you’re equally ace and I love you loads too. Talk to you later.

Today I was walking down Broadwick Street, after a lunchtime spent sipping gin with the manager of the Old Compton bizarre booze emporium, when who should I sashay past?

Only Alan Carr and his hirsute partner in hilarity, Justin Lee Collins.

I feel glittery as a result. And not a little bit more funny, too.

All you trend-setter types simply must check out BITE.

It’s the all-singing, all-dancing, internet-only show from Channel 4. It showcases the cream of the crop for music, trends, fashion and generally cool stuff to get your teeth into.

And the best bit is my mate Laura is in it. How fucking good is that? Back in the day we did voice overs together. Look how far she’s come… sniff.

You can also see her doing her music thang here.

Casio keyboard-tastic.

Look! This is where babies come from!

(Not belly buttons or storks, as previously suggested. Like, duh.)

Afternoon Team,

I promised I would write about the boxing match I went to, so here it is.

Firstly, I should tell you that I have finally found a sport I can get into. This surprises me because:

1) This is not a sport that girls are traditionally expected to enjoy.

2) I’ve never been bothered about watching it on the telly.

3) Despite my initial bravado and insistence we buy ringside seats, I was a little worried that watching two blokes beating seven shades of shit out of each other in close-up, would be simply too detailed to be classed as entertainment.

How wrong I was.

I found it an utterly mesmerizing evening. This is a visceral, athletic and focused sport. The boxers themselves are in peak condition, fearless and unfailingly sportsmanlike. The atmosphere at York Hall in Bethnal Green was one of good spirits and camaraderie between friends and strangers alike. You might all be there to watch a bloody great bout of fisticuffs, but that’s where the fighting stays: in the ring.

The main event was Tony Oakey versus Peter Haymer. Oakey sailed home with a knock-out punch in the ninth round to defend his British light-heavyweight title. He was quite something to watch - grinding his opponent down with a quiet confidence until he went down like a sack of spuds. He even gave a cheeky smile when Haymer held him on a few occasions.

I tell you something else too. On television a three minute bout seems to whizz by, but when you’re watching it live it feels like forever. Hell’s teeth, it’s compelling stuff.

Most amusing moment goes to one of the Round Card Girls. Wearing nothing but a slither of black lycra and so much mascara she could barely keep her eyes open, she strutted round the ring holding her round card upside down. Bless. Only one job to do and she fudged it royally. Still, judging by the cacophony of appreciative din emanating from the largely male audience, no one gave a crap. Round six or nine? Whatever. Show us your tits, darlin!

All in all, it was a night of first class entertainment and I can’t wait to go again. It certainly shows Premiership footballers up to be the whinging, grossly overpaid and badly behaved fools I’ve long suspected many of them are. They could learn some valuable lessons on how to be a gentleman from the boxing fraternity.

I’ve promised The German we’ll go together soon. He’s of the mind that my solo attendance at a boxing match is akin to him going to see ‘Dirty Dancing - The Musical’ on a lads’ night out.

Not that I can envisage this becoming a reality. No one puts Baby in the red corner, etc.

You can read Mr Blogjam’s account of our Friday night boxing outing here. Lovely.

Later this year, The German and I are going to move to a bigger and better flat.

And we are going to buy a bloody great big sofa from those fine purveyors of places to rest your weary bottom: DFS. I am so excited, it’s unnatural.

As the saying goes, you can take the girl out of Kent, but you can’t take the Kent out the girl.

(To prove this theory I am wearing my hair in a high ponytail and I’ve got my second to largest pair of hoop earrings in. And before you say anything, I said Kent, not Croydon.)

I can’t help myself.

I’m in the house all by myself.

There’s no one here to stop me.

Jeremy Kyle is on the telly. And I love it.

Nothing beats a bunch of pikeys having a scrap on the box of a morning.

Gypo-tastic.

You see that blank bit of wall staring reproachfully at you right now? Yes, don’t squirm. That one. The bit above the sofa. The vast expanse of Dulux job-lot that you’ve been meaning to stick a mirror on ‘to open the space out’ but never quite found the time. Well, ditch the crap mirror idea, because the alternative I have for you is far more inventive than anything Ikea has to offer you.

Make like a culture vulture and head down to the laDanza Studio on London’s Holloway Road for the latest Wallspace exhibition. Such a spectacle of photographic and avant garde genius this enclave of northern Londinium has rarely seen.

Feast your eyes on the work of Charlotte Campbell and Denise Hickey - photographer and artist respectively. Drink in the fruits of their labour; savour it; gargle it; floss with it; allow crumbs of it to catch in your beard to nibble on later. Tear off a hunka chunka of medium rare postmodern perspective. Chew that creative cud, art gluttons. (Toothpicks not provided.)

And once you’ve ruminated and you’re satisfied you’re satiated, you can whip out your cheque book and make one of those fine works your own.

Your wall will thank you.

Exhibition running Jan 12th - 28th @ laDanza, 89 Holloway Road, N7 8LT. All enquiries to wallspace@hotmail.co.uk or 020 7700 3770.

Now pause for one moment, ye merry Englanders, and feast your eyes on this. ‘Tis Jonathan Rhys Meyers, all garbed up as King Henry VIII. (I know the hat is frou frou frippery, but try to see past it. The effort is clearly worth it.)

Who’s been watching The Tudors on BBC Two? It’s on at 9pm on a Friday, which is usually when I’m sliding gently along the edge of the bar I’ve been propping up after a long week at the coal face. However, I have managed to catch a few episodes and I’m really rather impressed.

I always liked the Tudors best when I did history at school. They weren’t afraid to chop off a few heads, or strap the dissidents up to a big bit of wood and have a play with the matches. And they weren’t prudey either, something the programme makers have taken every opportunity to remind us of.

They’re all at it. Especially that Henry. I wonder he ever got any time for ruling his subjects when he was continually sneaking off to dip his royal quill in the courtly ink. But I can’t fault the producers, or indeed Mr Rhys Meyers, for portraying delicate matters of state and wanton solicitude with equal vigour.

However, I do rather question the historical accuracy of this exciting series. Let’s be clear - those Tudors were grubby of mind and flesh. They preferred to douse themselves in perfume than halt the olfactory hum with a good old fashioned bath. I honestly do not believe they would have spent their time bone-jumping quite as much as BBC Two would have us believe.

But then again, I don’t suppose they looked like Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Heresy? Treason? Guilty as charged if it gave me the opportunity to burn at his stake.

Boom tish.

This weekend, I went to a fancy dress party.

This weekend, I fell in love with the fro.

Donning a fro wig is like slathering your personage with an extra dollop of personality. First rule of thumb: the bigger the better (so long as you can still hold your head up). Then team your head furniture with very BIG earrings, very bright lipstick and a gold playsuit. Talk in a New York accent and shimmy round the place (preferably on roller skates) and you’ll be lost to the force of the fro for good.

Best of all, you can say ‘Boom Chicca Wah Wah’ convincingly. Now that’s worth not being able to get through a door because your head’s so big. There’s only one downside that I can see: will the hair ever really be big enough?

Shit, I think I’m turning fro-rexic…