TFTD (21/6/9): Hey ho. Another weekend ruined by heroin.

I wanted to make elderflower cordial. Dissolve some caster sugar and citric acid in hot water, then add a couple of lemons and your elderflowers, collected from the riverbank by you and your winsome children, possibly while singing in three-part harmony, like the fucking Von Trapps. What could be more wholesome?

Ah, but I can’t get hold of citric acid in any chemist in Cardiff. Why? Because heroin isn’t water-soluble. In order to shoot up smack, you have to add citric acid, which helps it to dissolve in water. Then you heat up your delicious heroin/citric acid/water mix on your spoon of choice, et voila. Inject. Enjoy. Take the rest of the afternoon off. Also works with crack cocaine, apparently.

It’s illegal to supply citric acid for drug-taking purposes. Excuse me, Mr Chemist. Do I look like a fucking junkie? Apparently I do. Sigh.

And then when you protest, “But I only want to make some deliciously refreshing elderflower cordial from the frothy blossoms that nature has so generously bestowed,” they look at you like you’re just some shrill middle-class ponce. Which I am, but still.

Heroin. Just say no.

The syringe falls from the cold, dead hand of Pete Doherty, after I swap his citric acid for fucking battery acid. That'll learn him.

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TFTD (20/6/9): I fail to see the point of magpies. I hate that football-rattle noise they make, at six in the fucking morning, every morning. When I am king, they shall be wiped from the face of the earth. And assorted other birds I don't like.

When swans breed with seagulls: a bird that breaks your arm, then nicks your chips.

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TFTD (19/6/9): Piers Morgan, the new face of Burger King? Jesus. It’s put me off burgers for life. Piers Morgan, naked except for a tiny little loincloth? Whopper with Cheese, sir? No thanks, I’d rather not.

In the picture, Piers Morgan’s face is grafted onto the body of a much younger man. It’s the opposite of Amanda Holden, who has the face of a much younger woman stuck onto the wattled neck of, well, Amanda Holden.

Talking of which (ie, botoxed judges), whom would you rather shag: Danni or Kylie? Scientific research conducted in a pub recently reveals that 68% of men would rather bend one up Kylie, but only because it bestows greater bragging rights. Most men, however, believe that Danni would actually be the better shag. 

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TFTD (18/6/9): I’ve been to the degree show at the Cardiff School of Art. Lots of excellent work, plus the usual hefty dose of posturing student wank. Oh, and some blocks of lard, pretending to be a sculpture:

A cow died to make this. Perhaps that's the whole point. I don't know. Or how about my own personal favourite – a small white empty room, with this label:

The label doesn't  identify the artist. I suppose what I mean is, it doesn't identify the sex of the artist. Perhaps that's the whole point. I don't know. Sigh.

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TFTD (17/6/9): And the award for Greatest Living Englishman goes to… Gary Barlow. The fat one nobody fancied. The talented one who wrote all the songs, and yet we still picked on him. Gary Barlow, who went to work diligently every day, and every day had a bucket of shit poured on his head. And he’d come back into work the next day, and it happened again, every day, for ten years.

So he went away, had a family, reformed the band, and made the two best albums they’ve ever done. Gary Barlow. Stoical role-model. National treasure. On behalf of all smart-arsed columnists, I apologise. Still needs to shoot his fucking stylist, mind.

The obvious choice for that vacant plinth in Trafalgar Square: Gary Barlow with a bucket of shit on his head. Yet still somehow dignified.

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TFTD (16/6/9): Cardiff is reeking of female sex pheromones, which are forming a dense cloud over the city. They’re oozing from every pore of about 75,000 excitable chubby housewives in their early middle age. Take That are in town. If Howard or Jason wandered onto Mill Lane by accident, they wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d be fucked to pieces, and then torn to pieces. Not a shred of evidence would be left.

Tragedy in Caroline Street as little Mark Owen is fucked to death by a munting Valleys slag
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TFTD (15/6/9): I love Scotland. The scenery’s amazing, and the people are delightful. Apart from that porter in Glasgow Airport. Horrible little fucker, he was. No wonder Al Qaida didn’t stand a chance.

Instead of hiring ex-special forces soldiers, I reckon world leaders should employ crack teams of Glaswegians porters. Anyone who came within 50 feet would have their shins hacked off by wheelie trolleys. Honestly, it really hurts.

Barack Obama walks the streets of Baghdad unhindered, under the watchful eye of a malevolent little ginger fucker from Glasgow Airport

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TFTD (14/6/9): There were hundreds of walkers on the main path up Ben Nevis, but hardly any on the route we took, the Carn Mor Dearg Arrete. It’s bloody hard work, with a couple of genuine if-you-fall-you-die moments. Good character-building stuff for our ten-year-old daughters, whom we cajoled around the 11-mile route, with its whopping 2,500 metres of ascent/descent.

All our fellow walkers were in full-on hiking gear, with compasses and maps and lashings of Goretex – apart from one bloke who was just wearing trainers and a Newcastle shirt. Proper hard, he was. Presumably if the weather turned nasty he’d simply head-butt it.
 

On Ben Nevis, a Newcastle supporter out-stares a rain cloud until it fucks off back to where it came from, Sunderland probably

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TFTD (13/6/9): I’d read about Scottish midges, usually in a glossy travel feature by some hysterical Islingtonsite, who makes you mutter, “Keep your knickers on, luv, it’s only a tiny little insect.”

But fair play. They’re horrendous. It’s like being taunted simultaneously by three million pre-school children. I’d bought some fancy insect repellent in Millets, which Highland Midges clearly find delicious.

I ended up using the military stuff, nicked from the Quartermasters Stores by our ex-army friend. It works really well, but apparently the chemicals are so strong, it melts the plastic of the SA80 rifles. God knows what it did to our children’s faces. Kept the midges off, though.

TFTD (12/6/9): I once wrote in a guide book that Snowdonia “… has all the drama of the Scottish Highlands compressed into one small corner of North Wales.” Having spent the weekend climbing Ben Nevis, I cheerfully admit that I was writing bollocks, again. 

Snowdonia is fantastic, but the Scottish Highlands are truly, jaw-droppingly fucking amazing. So there.

Me, writing bollocks, again. It's a kind of  pictorial metaphor, if you will.

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TFTD (11/6/9): Shame about Ryan Jones missing the Lions tour, again. He’s a nice guy, and deserves a break.

I interviewed him shortly after the last Lions tour, when he came back from New Zealand covered in glory. I went to meet him at his house in Penllergaer. He’d only just moved in, and he didn’t have any furniture yet, so we sat on his living room carpet.

He’s a big bloke, and his legs stretched almost the entire length of the room, with these huge bare feet pointing up at the ceiling.

My abiding memory of the interview is that I sat there thinking, if his feet are that big, then his cock must be absolutely enormous.

I did think of asking, but it would have been a bit weird, just the two of us, sat in his living room, on the floor. So I didn’t.

I’m still curious, mind. Do you know how big Ryan Jones’s cock is? cock@charleswilliams.co.uk

The whistle blows as Ryan Jones is illegally supported by his Wales and Ospreys team-mates

TFTD (10/6/9): I've been neglecting my daily updates. It's partly because I've been doing proper work, and partly because I've been up Ben Nevis. That's the mountain, not someone I met on Gaydar. Still, I'll just cheat and fill it all in retrospectively. Nobody will notice. 

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TFTD (9/6/9): Terrible news for England football fans, who may not be able to watch the crucial World Cup qualifier against mighty Andorra tomorrow night. It’s because of the Tube strike, and the difficulty of getting 75,000 fans, at least 48,000 of whom are tattooed morons, safely to and from Wembley.

Yes, but it’s a risk worth taking, surely? What with the desperate shortage of transplant organs and everything.

An alternative would be for the 48,000 tattooed morons to go to somewhere safe and spacious, like Hyde Park for example, and arrange themselves into a huge conga line. Then they could sit back on each other’s laps, and attempt the Guinness World Record for the world’s biggest circle jerk. Yes. That would be good. Better than watching football, anyway.

 What, forgotten where it is? Try looking under your grotesque belly, you fat cunt

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TFTD (8/6/9): The great thing about Google Analytics is that I now know what kind of Google searches people are doing to find this website. (Don’t worry, it’s all anonymous. I don’t know who you are. More's the pity.)

I had a visit a couple of days ago from someone who’d Googled the phrase ‘Penrhiwceiber gurning champion’. And this leads directly to my website. No other options. I’m not sure why.

But I’m very pleased to learn that there is a Penrhiweciber gurning champion, and that someone is Googling him/her. Although having been through Penrhiwceiber on the train recently, I spotted at least eight contendors, and that was just on the railway platform. Faces like fucking Picassos, every one of them.

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TFTD (7/6/9): "Tell me," people often ask, ""What is the secret of a really good cottage pie?"

"Well," I reply, carefully marking the page in my well-thumbed copy of Gibbon's Decline and Fall, desperately pleased that anyone cares about my opinion on anything these days, "The secret is to put a layer of baked beans between the meat and the potato." 

"But isn't that a bit, well, common for a man as urbane as yourself?" they ask, clearly taken aback. 

"No indeed," I reply, removing my pince-nez and polishing the lenses with a large handkerchief taken from the pocket of my smoking-jacket. "I also find that a cheesy crust is a pleasing addition," I say with an avuncular twinkle, while stroking my long white beard.

"But..." they begin to interject as I raise a forestalling hand. "Please, no further questions," I say. "You must now fuck off, for it is time for Trisha."     

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TFTD (6/6/9): Well, Graham Norton's new Saturday night show was breath-takingly rubbish. 

TFTD (5/6/9): Never intervene in a playground squabble between three-year-olds. It's more trouble than it's worth. 

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TFTD (4/6/9): After David Carradine wanked himself to death, I wonder how many men found themselves idly fiddling with the dressing gown cord, musing about whether it’s worth a crack.

It must be pretty good fun, if celebs like Kung Fu man and Michael Hutchence think it’s worth a pop. Hmm... shall I shag Kylie or go for a spot of autoerotic asphyxiation? If the choice is that tricky, then it must be fantastic. And it’s only a wardrobe away.

I bet there’s a statistical spike of accidental deaths every time a celebrity dies while having a wank. Copycat wanks. Apparently this whole asphyxiation thing is more common than you'd think. But it's rarely reported because the relatives who find the body usually tidy away the shameful evidence before calling the police. And that's the bit that puts me off, frankly.

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TFTD (3/6/9): Just after the Kosovo war ended, I went on a press trip to the capital city, Pristina. The place was utterly shafted. Nato cruise missiles had punched huge ragged holes in all the government buildings. Welsh squaddies were trying to stop the ethnic Albanians murdering the few remaining ethnic Serb peasantry. Everyone had AK47s. The national drink, slivovitz, tasted fucking disgusting.

All in all, it was a pretty screwed-up country, but there were the first fragile signs of hope. Outside the library in Pristina was a bold new piece of public art – a giant concrete ovoid. I don’t know what it was meant to represent – new life, rebirth, regeneration, etc. But someone had taken a black marker pen and scrawled on its side these immortal words: Fuck your egg.

Fantastic. This has become a personal mantra of mine. It can be used in all sorts of situations. For example:  

Melvyn Bragg:     In this week’s In Our Time, we look at how Wittgenstein’s philosophy of linguistics has changed 20^th-century thinking.
Me:         Fuck your egg

Manager: You can’t take your glasses outside.
Me:         Fuck your egg.

Hairdresser in Llandaff North, just now:     We don’t cut children’s hair.
Me:         Fuck your egg.

Twitter:     OMG jus sn ladygaga on jon ross show she rocks yeh!!!
Me:         Fuck. Your. Egg.

Look, it's all very impressive and you're very clever and I don't wish to appear rude, but...

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TFTD (2/6/9): I’ve just been reviewing the papers on BBC Radio Wales’s breakfast show. Here’s how it works: you turn up at 6am, spend 20 minutes frantically skimming a huge pile of today’s newspapers, and go on air to talk about the day’s burning issues.

Like MPs’ expenses, for example. This isn’t something I care deeply about. I’m bored of it all, and say so. The presenters, though, are serious political journalists to whom it matters a great deal. And they’re a lot cleverer than I am. So they tear me to shreds. Fuck. Same thing with the Susan Boyle story. It’s the inalienable right of people with learning difficulties to go on freak shows and have their lives ruined, apparently. Fuck again. Not my finest radio moment. Still, there’s another look at the papers in an hour. Perhaps that one will be better.

Now I have 35 minutes to go through the papers again. This time I pick some fluffy bollocks about children’s books, a story about email, and some absurd research on the virtues of chocolate milkshake. I’m on home territory here. At least I can make jokes.

As I listen to my own wittering, and watch the presenters nod politely as they listen in their headphones as they plan the forthcoming interviews with cabinet ministers and ambassadors, I have a horrible self-revelation. I’m turning into that fucking idiot Simon Fanshawe, who reviews the papers on BBC Breakfast. Simon Fucking Fanshawe. Ye Gods. Has it come to this?

Just when my radio appearance seems doomed to failure, I remember the trusty old adage: if in doubt, get it out.

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TFTD (1/6/9): I just spent an hour in Primark, a shop I seldom visit because I am middle-class. I like being middle-class. I like the food, and the skiing, and the not having to shop at Primark.

But I need several key pieces for my daughter’s school play costume, and Primark is the cheapest place in town, thanks to the nimble fingers of all those children sewing away in sweatshops in the third world, just so my daughter can be a Robin Hood villager for the afternoon, before the clothes are tucked into the dressing-up box until they are eventually thrown away.

My three items cost me £8.88. The personal cost is that the queues are fucking enormous, even on a Monday morning. So I join the line, standing morosely in a 40-strong queue of the chip-eating classes whom we laughingly used to call Chavs, until we felt guilty about dehumanising people who don’t happen to ski at the same resorts as we do. We're big on guilt, we middle-classes.

If this was John Lewis or M&S, everyone would be loudly harrumphing and demanding to see the manager. But the queue at Primark was polite, patient and cheerful. There was almost a party atmosphere. The girl in front was telling her family how she couldn’t wait to get into her new outfit for the party tonight. There was none of that dreadful sense of entitlement you get in, well, middle-class shops.

Oh, and that’s the other thing about the middle-classes. We’re unbelievably fucking patronising.

Stand aside everyone, and let the fine young gentleman through. He's middle-class, you know.

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ARCHIVE

But wait - where has all the other shit gone? I'm sure there was a cartoon from mid-May that was almost funny.

Fear not, gentle reader - it's all in the archive. Simply click on the link below - or this one here, which does the same thing, which seems like unnecessary duplication - and you will be directed into the loving arms of Marion, the friendly archivist.