Look, just think of some names or the puppy gets it.

Bonzo is saddened by your continued antipathy toward my penis and its lack of a name. Look at him. Just you look at him. You did this. His misery is on your head, you unspeakable cunt.

Well, you've had nearly a week and the response to my competition has been nothing short of completely underwhelming. I've had a grand total of two suggestions, which will be dissected in further detail below. It's almost as if you don't care about my penis, as if you had better things to think about. I know that's not true, so what's the freakin' problem, people? This just makes me glad that I didn't go with my original penis competition idea, which was to have you all try to come up with a theme tune for it. Anyway, here are the nominations so far. You bastards.

1: Clive. Suggested by: Stella.
As far as I can tell, Stella came up with this one off the top of her head. The big drawback from my point of view is that I have an uncle Clive and I believe that in some cultures naming your wang after a relative can get you stoned to death. Calling my penis Clive would make it difficult for me to look either of them in the eye again. Sir Clive, on the other hand... now that's a different matter.

2. Mr In-My-Pants. Suggested by: Kim's flatmate.
Now this one I quite like. Kim's flatmate (I don't know your name, but thanks for taking the time) has come up with a cheeky little number that doubles as a pun on Mr Splashy Pants, the Greenpeace whale. Actually, Mr Splashy Pants wouldn't be a bad name itself, if only it wasn't taken. Eerily accurate, too. But Mr In-My-Pants has a nice Red Indian ring to it that I find appealing... like 'Gets-Caught-In-Gussett' or 'Pokes-Woman-In-Small-Of-Back-As-Sun-Rises'. Although, as to that last one, chance would be a fine bloody thing.

All I'll say is this: there's a little girl out there who loves Bonzo very much and if I don't see some co-operation very soon he'll be going back to her in a fucking jam jar. I'll even include my email address so you don't have to dick about with the comments thing:

blackcountrybloke@hotmail.com

You dig?

Competition Time!

How about 'Optimus Wang'? That's not bad.

The premise is simple - it's just occurred to me that, despite the commonly-received wisdom that all men have a pet name for their penis, my own member remains nameless. Anonymous. I think that's a shame so I'm throwing it open to you, the general public, to decide on a moniker. Submit your ideas and the winner will win.. something, I haven't decided what yet.

'The Defoliator', perhaps... or is that just unnerving?

Some of you might think that this is a bit weird. IT IS NOT WEIRD. I'm genuinely interested in hearing what you come up with. This is what happens when you haven't updated for a while and feel like you really should but can't think of anything.

Err... let's just back slowly away from that idea. Although it might, alas, be closest to the truth.

I mean it. I know there's only four of you out there but I'm deadly serious. If you're on facebook or something then get all your 'friends' to join in. It'll be put to a vote, which I will abide by. Forever. So get creative. My cock is, metaphorically, in your hands.

Just to reiterate: NOT WEIRD.

Malingering Bastards.

You're fooling nobody but your bloody selves.

I might be straying into controversial territory here but I've got to say this lest I burst like a blood and pus filled balloon. You know those people you see trundling around on those plastic mobility scooters, taking up the whole pavement and blocking the aisles in supermarkets? Well I reckon that about 80% of them are putting it on. They're fakers. They just can't be arsed to walk.

If you're in a wheelchair and you're wheeling yourself about, using the only limbs available to you to mobilise yourself, then fair enough. Good on you, in fact. Equally, if you're paralysed from the neck down and have to use your chin to press the go button then you get a pass (how generous of me!) But whenever I see some fat bastard tooling about on one of those things I have a sudden urge to push them into oncoming traffic. 'Oh, but I'm too heavy to walk and I get so tiiiired', they might say, to which I would reply: well, you ain't gonna lose any weight rolling around on that thing, are you? Eh? EH?

In Las Vegas they rent mobility scooters out to the deserving, the only problem being that fat idle fuckers keep bagging them all so they don't have to heave their bloated, doughnut-stuffed carcasses between casinos. Shameful. But here's my solution: a little device of my own invention called the bee-zooka. It's a gun that fires laser guided, exploding bees. One blast from that baby and we'll see who can walk and who can't.

Remember that you're an individual... just like everybody else.

Go out now and buy a copy of Bizarre magazine. Actually, don't; it's a bit of a waste of money. Just take my word for it that there's a regular section where people (women) send in a sexy picture of themselves and a brief description of their preferred sex practice/fetish. There's a bit for men as well, only smaller. Every month, dozens of them. Probably hundreds by now. And they're all pretty much identical.

'Demonika wants to be tied up and eaten out by a naughty nurse and to have a threesome with Alan Rickman and Marilyn Manson. The strangest place she ever had sex was in a shopping trolley behind the Tunbridge Wells branch of Costcutter.'

Accompanied by a picture of a girl with the same pink hair, same pseudo-goth rubber get-up and same tattoos as all the others who thought that their fiercely boring sexual peccadilloes somehow merited inclusion in a nationally circulated magazine. What winds me up is that Bizarre caters for the 'alternative' crowd, who look down their pierced noses at normal, everyday people; people who dress conservatively and just have sex without feeling the need to honk on about it all the fucking time... and yet here they are, all exactly alike within their carefully described boundaries - the same clothes, the same opinions, the same tawdry little fantasies. Read one and you've read them all.

(And before you say anything: yes, I know I have tattoos, and used to have a piercing or two. I'm including myself in this rant. Why do you think I'm so pissed off?)

But it's the same all over. Derren Brown, the famous television hypnotist/mind control guy, has a book called 'Tricks of the Mind'. It's a cracking read and I heartily recommend it. There's a bit where he gives a group of students an envelope each and tells them that it contains a personal 'psychic' reading that will describe their personality and innermost thoughts in great detail. Upon opening it (surprise surprise) they're all shocked and amazed at the reading's accuracy. One stupid bitch even accused him of looking at her diary, such was the eerie precision of what he'd put down.

The thing is, there was only the one reading. All the envelopes were exactly the same. The trick worked because people are, basically, quite unoriginal creatures. We all go through similar stages in our lives, where we worry about similar things at similar times, and have similar experiences and similar wants and needs and goals. All Mr Brown had to do was play the percentages, and it didn't steer him far wrong. I'm desperately trying find this comforting, like we're all in the same boat or some such fucking thing, because it depresses the hell out of me if I dwell on it too long.

So thank God, says I, for the internet, where you can stake out your own little piece on Facebook and do it up how you like, or amass reams of personal information on strangers and make out like they're your 'friends', or maybe even start your own blog where you rant to a world that's not listening about things people already know as if you were a real person who actually exists.

Ahem. Anyway, that's how life is. Your ideas are meaningless, your dreams are ridiculous and you are an idiot. And that's fine, I suppose - we're all in the same boat, after all. But please, Bizarre women: don't make out like you're some spirited free thinker because you own a rubber basque and have maybe thought about having a woman eat your snatch. I mean, it's your life, so do what you like and good luck to you. I, however, am not fucking interested. I've got my own tedious non-life to be getting on with, thanks all the same. Just take your nipple clamps and your Hello Kitty butt plug and fuck off.

She will be mine. Oh yes. She will be mine.

Big news, everyone; I've fallen head over buttocks in love with singer songwriter KT Tunstall. She was on Later With Jools Holland the other week and thanks to her lovely face, quirky specs and the lubricating effect of a bottle of red wine I was completely smitten.


She's Scottish, you know.

And has been known to wear interesting hats.

Here she is doing the guitar thing. Perhaps now might be an opportune time for me to re-evaluate her musical oeuvre; I wouldn't like to embarrass myself in front of her by admitting that I couldn't name one of her songs if my entire comic collection depended on it.

This is her speaking at Live 8 about the need to be kind to animals and poor people. The woman is an angel. I'm sure if I actually did meet her she'd be nothing but nice to me, and would ask her security people not to mark my face when they dragged me away to give me a quality kicking.

I'd have mentioned this earlier but I've been caught in the grip of post-Christmas malaise for the last couple of weeks. By which I mean I've mostly been staying in, reflecting on my own worthlessness and wanking too much.

Form an orderly queue, ladies.

Life and Death on Teh Internets.

Oh, calm down - it was dead when I found it.

Death: there's a lot of it about. Seven Welsh kids commit suicide and Bebo gets the blame. Heath Ledger swallows enough pills to give Keith Richards pause and promptly shuffles off, his passing marked by ten thousand tasteless Brokeback Mountain jokes. Aged chess champion Bobby Fischer dies of being old and mad and gets the same treatment. All life can be found on the web including, apparently, that uncomfortable bit at the end.

Which I reckon is fair enough. People live their whole lives through the net these days so it makes sense that they'll die there as well. I'm less sure that, as has been stated in the press, the internet can make you spontaneously want to kill yourself but I suppose 'Internet Death Cult' makes for better copy than a sober, reasoned analysis of why seven perfectly normal, perfectly healthy teenagers would decide to take their own lives.

(Incidentally - six boys kill themselves with nary a peep from anyone; one girl joins them and suddenly it's all over the press, a national fucking tragedy. It's almost like society doesn't care what happens to young men. Oh, hang on... it doesn't, unless there's a war going on that we need some corpses for. Sorry about that, the memo has only just reached me.)

The net seems to be to be just another aspect of this huge, gigantic mess we call life, one that reflects stuff that's already there. If you're going to top yourself then you'll have found the reasons and rationalisations elsewhere; the only thing the internet will do is confirm or deny what you're already thinking. Possibly the realisation that, despite Myspace's claims that you have 250 friends, you have not one single person to go to the pub with might do it, although it seems unlikely. But if you are thinking of killing yourself (and, frankly, I'd rather you didn't) then you should read this. It might help.

Paint nothing.

Get thee behind me, Satan.

I've just spent an hour wrestling with colour charts on the Dulux website and I hereby declare it to be one of the most boring ways to waste a perfectly good Sunday afternoon I've yet found. You lose your grip on time and space, lost in endless shades of white and off-white and near-white and anti-white. And the names! Bracken salts. Labrador sands. Volcanic splash. It was a nightmare.

But I'm glad because the moment you start to care about this stuff, the day you find yourself fretting over the miniscule differences between Sundrenched Saffron and Desert Island, the day your stack of colour swatches is bigger than your stack of Batman back issues, is the day that you are officially a lost cause. It's all over. Life has broken you.

Luckily, it bores the arse off me. So I ain't dead yet.