Yes, I know it’s only February, but nobody’s going to be able to top the latest IAMS cat food advert, in which the model delivers the fantastic strapline: “I can’t get up without my furry alarm clock!”

Breaking news - IAMS are apparently considering launching a range of products for bearded clams.

Cracking stuff today from cultural ambassador Jade Goody - on a “surprise visit” to India (the “surprise” being spoilt somewhat by Jade mouthing off about it to the papers and the telly), the 27-stone minx belched “I’m trying to put this Big Brother stuff behind me”.

Right, Jade… so your clever plan to “put it behind you” is to make a big thing of going to the country whose billion inhabitants you’ve just pissed off? Unbelievable. Perhaps Josef Mengele, rather than hiding in Argentina after WW2, should likewise have gone to Israel to “put that Nazi stuff behind him”.

She later barfs “I am here on a strictly private visit” - directly into Sky’s cameras with millions watching… and then - “I could have had my entire trip paid for and the people travelling with me could have been paid for but I didn’t want that. I am paying for the trip and all the expenses myself. I don’t want to be seen to be making money out of what happened.” Wow. Paying for her own travel like the rest of the world has to - Jade’s role model status will surely soon be restored. Hurrah!

There’s a little less lurve in the world this morning after my girlfriend and I split up over the weekend. Her name, for those who don’t know, was (and probably still is, unless she’s in the process of changing it to avoid future contact with me) Dee; hence the post title*.

It’s undoubtedly for the best; whilst everything was still very nice, we’d been distinctly passion-lite for the last month or two. At a relationship stage when couples ought to be devising endlessly ingenious ways of remaining physically attached for as long as humanly possible, we usually seemed more concerned with offering to do the washing-up. I’m quite glad that she mustered the gumption to end it; I probably wouldn’t have done so for fear of hurting her feelings.

In any case, there was always three of us in the relationship (and I don’t mean that I was seeing a woman who looks like a cow behind Dee’s back) - I’m married, first and foremost, to the blogosphere, and to you, gentle reader.

So I’m back on the market; lock up your daughters! (That is, if your daughters are the types who would come all the way to Folkestone in order to attempt to seduce a reclusive 30-something, and you’d rather they didn’t.)

(* - alternative titles could have been “Seedy Single” given the state of my house at the moment. Maybe even “12-inch single”, for the benefit of my next girlfriend. Or maybe not…)

Belching fake-bosom-sporting Geordie fatman Paul Gascoigne has reportedly been training with the SAS in order to get in shape for his film debut. The film is set to be called “Final Run” - something which Gascoigne himself embarked on a full three years before calling time on his football career.

“Howay the lads, man, I’m always trying different things, Fog-On-The-Tyne, Ant-And-Dec, like. It didn’t do Vinnie Jones any harm!” Gascoigne why-ayed in his strange Welsh / Pakistani hybrid accent.

Gascoigne is reportedly keen to emulate Jones’s success in “Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels”, and is said to have put forward alternative titles for his new film venture, including “Tabloid Lies, Cup Ties and too many Pies” and “A Skinful of Beers, Plenty of Tears and a Shit Pop Career”.

Slow news week, so a gratuitous drawn-from-old-material triple look-alike for your delectation. I bet you “canard”-ly wait…

Jug-tastic hubcap-robbing “serious actress” Jennifer Ellison:

Keith from the Sugababes:

… and Orville the Duck.

Ahhh, female celebrities. Fragrant, lovely cousin of the male, and usually quite a bit more bonkers*.

But since the release of the (apparently execrable) “Hannibal Rising“, the question on literally everybody’s lips is this - which one would you eat, and how? With Britney shaving bits of herself off for public consumption, Jade barbecueing herself on a slow-roasting media grill and Nigella drowning in goose fat, the choice has never been so scrumptions.

Further nominations welcome as always.

(* - The “bonkers” allegation obviously doesn’t apply to women as a whole. Honest. No, I mean it. Really.)

As news of the train blast in India was coming through, Five Live’s 12.30 news report confidently stated that “both countries’ leaders stress that the incident won’t derail the peace process”.

Needless to say, in subsequent bulletins, “derail” was changed to “harm”…

As many of my readers will know, I suffer from mild and very occasional epilepsy. Luckily, this was only diagnosed in my later teenage years, so I was never subjected to any “you’re a mentalist”-style playground taunts - as I surely would have been had the illness manifested itself any earlier. So I’ve never felt that there was any stigma in being epileptic, although many sufferers do.

It’s a problem which has always been kept reasonably well controlled through medication throughout my life, but of course I’m always interested when someone suggests a new / improved treatment - and yesterday my GP did exactly that. It’s a variation of my current anticonvulsant which releases itself more gradually into the bloodstream. Its name?

Tegretol Retard.

Cheers, guys.

Stephen “No, it’s a snooker cue in my pocket” Hendry…

… and skinny high-pitched Britney-botherer Justin “Trousersnake” Timberlake.

By the way, did y’all realise that “Britney Spears” is an anagram of “Presbyterian”?

A reasonably amusing Brit Awards last night, the first one to be broadcast live since the infamous 1989 Mick Fleetwood / Sam Fox debacle. Russell Brand represented a safer choice as presenter, flouncing around, cracking dubious jokes in his “gor blimey, I’m Frank Spencer” voice and smiling through gritted teeth every time Amy Winehouse was mentioned.

Highlight of the night? The fact that Lily Allen won nothing, obviously. Lowlight? Sadly, it was Oasis; they looked more like a bunch of dirty old men in macs than the parka-sporting scallies of old, and Liam’s voice was shockingly bad. In “Cigarettes and Alcohol”, he sang the chorus (”you gotta make it happen”) as if in some whiney Camden stylee imitation of erstwhile nemesis Damon Albarn. Thereafter, his brother covered him on the high notes…