The Dog's Blog

'Avin' it!! That's right true believers, the Dog is back. Nobody has missed me I'm sure but who gives a flying one, not me, you tossers. All I have to say about the matter is that Pentonville is a lot more upmarket these days. It has a better class of lag than it used to. No nonces, just criminal class. Anyway, I was stitched up...say no more. Innocent, m'lud, an' all that malarky. Not a guilty one in the place, all done up like kippers. Crooks, eh? Can't trust 'em to lie straight in bed.

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Just a short one for today because...oh, read the title.

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If anyone has actually been bothered to notice, not a lot of work has been getting done around here of late. Not one to shirk my responsibilities when it comes to lying in my basket and not doing a stroke, I do, however, have a good reason why I haven't spewed out any diatribe in the last week or so. I could lay it on thick about my commitments in the showbiz world or that I was lying low with Kate Moss after just nicking out of frame in  time before she was caught on film with a bung hole full of charlie but it's alot less glamorous than that. I've actually been on my hols...

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I'm like the next dog, I like a drink. In fact, I'd like one right now but I made a pledge to my lawyer that I wouldn't taste a drop until after my hearing at 12:30. (We don't need to go into the details now. Let's just say a particularly fine malt scotch led to the enforced removal of a bus conductor's index finger. This whole compensation culture can really bite you in the ass.) Anyway, back to my thread...

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I'm not one to talk...When it comes to conversing with people from other countries, I'm old skool: just talk louder and wave your hands about. It was all empire once, right? Johnny Foreigner couldn't have forgotten that quickly, right? Avec Vous a large beer for me, por favor?? Sorted. Saying that, I have the added non-vocal arsenal of the growl, the bite and the strategic urination which helps no end when getting my message across when on unfamiliar soil. I do, however, contend that the latest bout of concern back in the old UK about the lack of foreign languages being taught to 'the kids' is a deserved one. Anyone who's had to spend a night in a Spanish jail cell will tell you that useful phrases like él me toca inapropiadamente (he's touching me inappropriately) come in damn useful at times.

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At sodding last! My buggery cold is on its last legs and I no longer feel like I'm the canine equivalent of a incontinent snail, leaving snot carpets behind me for unsuspecting people to slip on like germ-filled banana skins. Sweet. Apart from actually being able to face my food without retching and coughing Boneo crumbs all the over the place, it means I can actually escape from the hell that is daytime TV and shite movie re-runs.

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Flew into Blighty last night on a whistle-stop tour to get a few 'legal' issues sorted out re: a right load of old cobblers about me fathering a litter by the Crufts supreme champion. Right, I'm sniffing like a supermodel after a nostril full of 'Bolivian appetite suppressant' and looking like I've just been maced when I bump into an friend who's been away at Her Majesty's leisure for the past two years due to a rather unfortunate incident involving the Deputy Prime Minister's Jaguar and a set of false number plates. Anyway, despite the fact that my head's bangin' like a teenager with his first willing partner, I'm pretty chuffed to see my old mucker after his time away in the chokey. What does he do? He sees the snot and streaming eyes and makes the mark of the cross in front of me. "Bird flu!! Get back!" he says as he legs it down the high street, not giving me even enough time to call him a nonce.

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Ugh...I'm feeling well ropey at the moment. I haven't felt this nasty since that night I thought mixing Smirnoff Ice and worming tablets would be a good idea. I woke that morning with that age-old adage rolling through my addled mind: never scrimp on drugs - buy the best. Anyway, what makes the utter horribleness of my current physical state even more distressing is the fact that it totally isn't my fault. If I'd had a few too many then I would have raised a paw and said "fair play"  -- and then "bleeeeuuurrgghhhh". But in this case I find myself under attack from exterior forces which are not alcohol or illicit substances. Bloody germs, mate. And bloody Catholics too!

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Right, Let's 'ave it. Free speech: big fan. How else would I get away with chewing out the deserving and delivering jaw fulls of diatribe whenever I get a flea in my crevice? Internet freedom: Love it. Give it to me in spades with a Pedigree Chum-Sambuca chaser. But this clown is abusing the privilege: http://mrdog.aengus72.com/. "The official homepage of Mr. Dog"? Have a word. Has the contract crossed the desk of Venezuelan Boris, my manager and driver? I think not. Has it been approved by yours truly? Again, nada. I haven't even seen a wad of used notes or a box of cubans to keep me sweet. Liberties have been taken - and I'm not having that!

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And lo! The Dog did spake to the noisy gits which woketh him up with a mighty hangover at six in the morn and said, "Leave it out, you nobs. I've got a ton and half of tequila rolling around in me bonce and I don't need you praising the Lord at this time of the bleeding a.m. Go and Kum-Bay-Ah outside someone else's gaff!" And so, the pilgrims -- who had traveled many miles -- were told in no uncertain terms to get behind thee and sling thy hook.

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