It is with a heavy heart that I put finger to keyboard. You see I have lost my mind and I am not sure where.

Last night I put my hand down the back of the sofa to see if it had rolled there. Perhaps while I napped or masturbated to pornography. Alas my search only yielded the remains of a biscuit, some pennies and the charisma of Gordon Brown which momentarily adhered to my hand before combusting and singeing my waxed moustache.

Later I checked the fridge, which is often the depositary of lost or sundry items. There I discovered a small laughing whim and some sausages but no sign of my absent mind. In fact I may have lost more, as my combombulation disappeared leaving me discombobulated and sore.

Afterwards I imagined a world where men could read sighs and write on fancies. However I was jolted from my reverie by the arrival of a letter through my door hole. It was an invitation to the annual levitation feast; however I was feeling too heavy to attend so burned it on a pyre with some Y-fronts purchased in anger from a girl.

Still my mind eluded me, I could occasionally smell it. Lingering behind the smell of the whim but not distinct enough to make me see it. At that moment I doubted my own existence so telephoned my tailor and asked him "Dear tailor, do I exist?"

"That depends on the cut of your suit" he replied.

"My suit is coarse tweed but finely cut"

"Then you must exist, as only a man who exists can have a fine cut. A myth would be wearing course cut trousers but no jacket."

"Thank you" I said to the tailor and I placed the telephone back into its wooden box and nailed the lid shut.

Without thinking I snatched up my revolver and rushed into the drawing room where I fired it repeatedly at the mantelpiece, hoping to lure my mind down the chimney. Sadly, I only dislodged my late father's self worth which had become embedded in some soot.

Now I appeal to you. If you see my mind please lift it gently with sugar tongues before wrapping it in newspaper and sending it to my home where I will reward you with some shrieks.

Devoid of any ideas for this month’s front page piece I decided to take a trip to my local supermarket. It was one of those ghastly places advertised by various comedy performers who pretend that they give a shitty wank about the drones that plump up the loaves.

On entering the store I became instantly aware that the appropriate attire for shopping was a polyester tracksuit and baseball cap.  This made me uneasy, as in my shirt and jacket I looked like Oscar Wilde cruising a Methodist Chapel for a boy and a bottle of gin, overdressed and in the wrong place.

After acclimatising myself to the chavness of the environs I made my way to the booze section in order that I might buy a decent scotch.  My usual tipple in that regard is a ten year old Macallan. However the supermarket seemed unable to stretch to anything better than Bells. This as any scotch drinker will attest, is rather like drinking the piss of a diabetic. Not that I’ve ever drunk the piss of a diabetic.  But I did once go out with a chap who wanted to micturate on me while singing the Welsh national anthem. Not surprisingly I declined his kind offer of a direct assault on my person and compromised by allowing him to wiz in my lavatory while singing The Fields of Athenry.

However I digress.

Having given up on the booze section I decided to head over to the green produce to squeeze a few vegetables. Sadly this was made intolerable by the presence of an income support of ghastly women with prams and tattoos who insisted on blocking the aisles and shrieking. There’s nothing guaranteed more to spoil a chap’s aubergine tweaking than Chantal-Kylie being dragged by the arm over the tangerines and spanked above the strawberries.

Feeling somewhat bewildered I settled on the purchase of  a DVD about Camel Baiting in Liberia and a copy of Jordan’s new novel about a glamour model who becomes Prime Minister. With my purchases in my basket I headed for the checkouts. This is where the worst happened.  Every checkout was occupied by big fat people unloading vast amounts of Sunny Delight and much breaded offal.  I have never seen such amounts of rubbish; don’t these people know why they are such fat fucks?  Surely they must look at their smegma covered bodies and the content of their immense shopping trolleys and make the connection!

In conclusion

Whatever you do, never go to a cheap supermarket, it’s full of fat vermin.

What? You wanted a less bigoted opinion did you? Well I’m sorry but I still have the smell of cheesy fat people in my nostrils and all I can see with my eyes closed are their grinning bad teeth…sob…it was so horrible…

Having won the Greatest Living Britain competition.  Her Majesty the Queen has decided to cash in on her celebrity and allowed Brainjam to follow her on a typical night out.

The evening was arranged by Lord Clifford of Bollocks and began marvellously with HM and Prince Phillip downing a pint of cider at The Ivy with a slap up meal cooked by Gordon Ramsay.

Then we hit the west end of London starting with tequila slammers at Ronnie’s Bar where the proprietor was seen slapping a barmaid. At this point H.M.Q asked directions to the cigarette machine and made her way the end of the room where she purchased twenty Marlborough Lites. I was surprised by the way she achieved this as she didn’t seem to put any money in the slot but simply rubbed her face on the machine.

After a dozen or so slammers, Prince Phillip’s mobile phone beeped. It was a text from Prince Michael of Kent who was in 57 asking if we wanted to meet up. The prince then stood and said “Drink up Liz, Mike wants us to meet up in 57.” Her Majesty turned regally to PP and said “Who’s the fucking queen here!”  Before laughing and unsteadily rising to her feet.

When we reached 57 Prince Phillip gave the traditional royal greeting of “Hello Mick you old cunt” and embraced Prince Michael warmly. He then asked him what he was drinking and P.M said he’d like a vodi-redbull. At this point The Queen fell over laughing before vomiting on the page who was holding her Bacardi Breezer.

After a good few hours hard drinking and discussion about who was the biggest twat in Big Brother. The Queen got to her feet with difficulty and shouted “Let's go fucking clubbing.” A cheer rose from the entire royal party and we headed out into the night.

We soon reached Stringfellow’s nightclub where we had some trouble with a bouncer who refused to grant access to The Queen due to her advanced state of intoxication. However the evening was saved by a close protection officer who shot the bouncer in the face and dragged his twitching corpse out of the royal path.

Before long the most of the royal party were throwing shapes on the dance floor. However Prince Phillip had found his own diversion and was enjoying a lap dance. When the girl got carried away and removed her knickers the prince was heard to declare “You’ve gone all slitty!” Before burying his face between her breasts.

However all good things must come to an end and the club began to empty. At this point Prince Phillip escorted the Queen into an alley behind the club and with the aid of three servants hoisted up her majesty and proceeded to give her a royal shagging.

At this point our reporter made his excuses and left.