It has now been a week since Elly went to the US for the IVF and contrary to the predictions of just about everyone that knows me, I haven’t starved to death.

In the last weeks I have received multiple dire warnings from various people (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!!) about poor dietary standards, the dangers of junk food and how E numbers will make me grow an extra arm that sticks out of my left ear.

Yet I’m still here!! There any many old people who will rattle on for hours about how they attribute a long life to eating carrots, licking toads or drinking a bottle of scotch a day but I’ve found a much better way of dealing with the ever present problem of what, and how, to cook.

Work.

Yes folks, by the time you slide a couple of hours of graft into the evening’s proceedings it’s too late to eat so it’s easier not to bother. It’s all a bit strange really, I feed the cats (at least twice) but forget to feed myself.

Basically, I blame genetics. I have a gene that renders me incapable of using the cooker. This is exacerbated by the fact that the cooker hates me – for instance, the boil-in-the-bag pizza says “bung in oven for 20 mins at 200 degrees” but what it doesn’t say is, if it’s Crussell’s cooker only do it for 7.34 mins otherwise it’ll look like something that’s been napalmed to death.

This is due in no small part to the fact we have a “turbo” oven. Now, I always associated the word turbo with speed rather then degrees of incineration so it’s a bit mystifying, also the lack of any network connection, keyboard or monitor adds new layers of complexity.

Worse still, the kitchen appliances are ganging up against me, in recent times the cooker has had a word with the toaster which now only toasts one side of the bread. In the night, the appliances whisper to one another … but they don’t think I can hear them …

However, the other night I had Spaghetti Bolognese which impressed Elly, till I let slip that it was out of a tin – some people are never satisified…

Ladies and gentlemen, just in case you hadn’t noticed, Britain is in a state of financial crisis. Stores are closing daily, workers are being made redundant by the thousand and the pound is at it’s lowest level against the dollar for years…

It’s time for action, for a firm hand and for a man to burst in and save the day.

That man, is ME!

In an effort to stimulate the economy I have officially opened the doors to the Royal Bank of Crussell(tm). So come on in and send me your money today and let’s get the country working!!

Do you want rates of interest that are 5% above the base limit for super-bank, inter-racial lending, or a mortgage with repayment rates that are index linked to the base rate of the current rate of 25% of the Gross Domestic Product of Zimbabwe? Then look no further – we supply mortgages to gullible fools everywhere!

If you’re a small business, then you’re in luck too! We lend money to anyone, especially if they’re fraudsters, half-arses, losers, chancers or even the Prime Minister (though the chances are he doesn’t need a loan, he just pisses away everyone else’s cash).

Our staff will be the best paid in the world, garnering annual bonuses of up a trillion pounds each (based loosely on lack of performance).

And on the off chance the whole thing goes belly-up through excessive greed, short-sightedness and/or carelessness, we’re also covered too – you get your money back (well … most of it) then automatically surrender it to bail me out, and while you suffer for years to come,  with increased taxes, lowered interest rates and a house that’s worth 70% less then you paid for it, I’ll be sitting on my fat arse in the Caribbean, smoking huge cigars, drinking fine wines and congratulating Gordon Brown on a job badly done. Didn’t he used to be in charge of the country’s money, or something?

So don’t delay! Join the Royal Bank of Crussell(tm) today, and help me the merchant banker* I’ve always been!!!

Just call 0800-piss-your-cash-away and our hopelessly incompetent call centre staff will take those troublesome pounds away from you and put it in the pockets of people who can really waste it!

My little boy was born two years ago today. At 11.09am in Frimley Park hospital, Matthew Christopher Stuart Russell was stillborn. It should have been the greatest day of our lives, instead it left a small empty space in our hearts.

He was about 12 inches tall and weighed just under a pound, he had blonde hair, tiny little fingers and my nose, he was all but perfect and his only mistake was to be born too early.

My memory can be flaky at the best of times, sometimes I forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence or get to the supermarket and buy something I don’t need but I remember the day my son was born with incredible clarity. Every, single second of it.

My strongest memory was of lying in a special room in the delivery suite with Elly, our little man in the middle swaddled in a tiny hand-knitted blanket. It was so very quiet, like someone had stopped time. Everything was still, the world consisted of our tiny little family, even though he had already gone.

These days, when I need somewhere to escape to, it’s my special place, the most perfect moment of my life – odd really, given the circumstances, I guess you had to be there to understand.

After two years, I still think about him every day and wonder what he’d have been doing on his birthday, what he’d be saying and which toys would have put a smile on his face.

The world continues to turn and life moves on, but  at 11.09am I’ll find a way to stop time again, if only for the briefest of moments.

The good-looking chap on the left is Mr Tom. Now 20, and with a dodgy eye, multiple nicks out of his ears, three (approximately) teeth, bad breath and a kidney problem, he joined the Crussell household about eight years ago after being feral for an unknown amount of time, actually, he just turned up and moved in one day – cats eh?

One of the problems with homing a feral is that they tend to remain partly wild, even after years of conditioning there can still be territorial behaviour.

On Sunday morning we woke up to find a pile of cat shit in the living room and cat pee all over every wire I own – how it didn’t start an electrical fire I’ll never know. We knew who the culprit was and following a shift scolding, One raggy, fleabitten old black mog sheepishly retreated to his “naughty bush” in the garden.

After penance had been served, the old devil was allowed back in and skulked off. Peace reigned in the house for about two hours before I heard the sound of cat retching from the kitchen. I rushed out and there was Tom, about to be sick. As soon as he saw he, he raced for the litter tray in the hallway, lept into it and prompted puking over the side and all over the floor. In itself it’s not a pleasant thing to witness, but the fact that he headed for the litter tray to be sick shows a lesson has been well and truly learned.

It was later in the day that we found out Tom had been shut in the living room overnight, no wonder he messed on the floor. It did make Elly and I feel heinously guilty as we’d punished him for something he hadn’t done, then showed how well behaved he could be…

(Since this incident occured, Tom has been given extra ham by way of a peace offering, no further crapping has been reported…)

With the credit crunch biting ever deeper, shopkeepers are trying hard to get us to part with our cash, though there are times when you wonder whether advertising is the best policy.

There’s a barbershop around the corner from my office which carries the following sign outside:

“Penis enlargement is a poor way to boost low self-esteem, a better way is to get a good haircut”

What a stroke of utter genius! Not only is it thought provoking but it hammers home the importance of having a good coiffure and it also includes the word penis!!!!!

However…

I doubt very much that a gentlemen with a teeny todger who’s wandering the cold and lonely streets of our nation’s capital is likely to have his spirits buoyed by a number 2 on the back and sides and a square-cut across the back.

It’s a bit like saying “In Palestine people are dying in the name of religion so why not buy new socks?” or “You’re broke, with no job, your wife hates you and your kids cross the street to avoid you. Why not pick daisies?”

Penis.

I’m back and I’ve just noticed it’s been three months since my last post. My excuses are:

• Been busy
• Been busier
• Been ill

Ah well, they’re my excuses and I’m sticking to them.

So, the New Year’s off to a flying start and it’s time to launch a Keep Fit DVD. Everyone else is doing one; that bird off Eastenders, the woman out of popular beat combination Steps and that really good one from the dark-haired wossname who presents Big Boredom – every one a celebrity funfest.

So, Keep Fat with Crussell should be hitting the shelves soon!!! I filmed it myself, starred in it, wrote the theme tune and even put together a press release – and if this doesn’t get your enthusiasm hormoes singing with delight, you must be DEAD!!

For Immediate Release
Keep Fat with Crussell (published by Crussell)
£599.95 (retail)

Fed up with watching TV fatties sweat themselves into a pulp? Sick of the lardy bird off Eastenders showing how she wasted away to a size 20? Then don’t watch the TV ads for pointless weight loss videos that don’t work – get Keep Fat with Crussell !!!!!

Featuring 60 minutes of top class, singalong Scandinavian Death Metal tunes join the funnest(*) exercise programme of the year. In just half a dozen simple steps you can exercise to your heart’s content, just watch the pounds fall off .. your bank balance.

Routines include:

The Warm Up (featuring Grave Digger’s Syphony of Death) – ease into the programme with a few arm extensions as you slip a jumper on after standing for too long in front of the fridge looking for that elusive bar of Toblerone

Sofa Crunches (featuring Cattle Decapitation’s Human Jerky) – Reach and stretch for the TV remote as the realisation hits that there’s bugger all on every channel even though satellite provides you with 600 of the buggers.

The Upper-Torso Recoil (featuring Zyklon’s World ov Worms) – A full upper body crunch completed in rhythm to the actions of the ugly birds on BabeStation who look like they’ve been battered with a brick then chucked into an ill-fitting “fetish” outfit.

The Neck Revolve (featuring Gorgoroth’s The Right of Infernal Invocation) – Tone those neck muscles by vomiting copiously into the lavatory after trying to drown out the BabeStation girls with too much cheap lager.

And many, many more !!!!!

So, don’t delay, rush out quite slowly and steal a copy from a store near you TODAY!!!!!!!

(*)Bloody Americanisms …