I am greatly excited by this new “dogging” craze sweeping the nation.

According to the paper, every third person in the UK is likely to be secretly engaging in dogging practices. They’re everywhere, these doggers. I stay alert as I walk to the village shop, to see if I can spot any in the undergrowth.

I rate the chances of getting the LTLP involved as next to zero. She’s not naturally outgoing and, even after many years of sharing and honesty, I’d still struggle to work “fancy driving down the park and getting drilled by three complete strangers?” into the breakfast conversation.

We’d also need to upgrade the Beetle to something a bit more practical, like the 4×4 that Woody’s just invested in. The pervert!!! This is obviously why so many people drive cars that are clearly too big for their legitimate needs.

The real thrill, however, has to be the near-certainty of running into a celebrity. It seems obvious that the public toilet/Clapham Common thing is now so much old hat – probably wouldn’t even make the papers. Dogging is the new cry for help! George Michael must feel terribly old-fashioned even in his new found philanthropy.

Friday morning = ‘Rubbadubbers’ = the best thing on TV, although this week’s episode wasn’t as good as the one set on the moon. Really, really wish I had under fives so I could tune in and not feel sad and pathetic.

Off to London. We’ll see if anybody tells me: “I had that Stan Collymore in the back of my cab, once”.