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Well, it’s been a tense few days but I think we’re alright now.

I’ve had complaints from all my utility suppliers, you see: electricity, phone, water. I’d rung them up to tell them they were selfish money-grabbing bastards who should be tortured remorselessly and unspeakably by being made to watch every minute of the forthcoming Olympics until their selfish cheating eyes and ears bled.

They seemed concerned, so I had to take the trouble to explain that I only meant it ironically.

Then the Chancellor of the Exchequer said he was unhappy I’d called him a thick useless t*at who wouldn’t know a rip-off from Ripon, and only calmed down when I explained I’d just mentioned it because that was how he treated the rest of us.

Then there was the dentist. He said: “Why don’t we have a look at your teeth, sir?” And I said: “Why don’t you f*ck off?” With four fingers and a sharp implement shoved in my gob, it was difficult to explain I was only teasing, but I think I managed.

There were unpleasant scenes, too, at the cricket, where I travelled with a few Brothers last week. Somerset were playing South Africa. I playfully yelled at one of the South African players: “Hey, you f*cking b*ack c*nt!” Everybody took grave offence for some reason, at least until I explained that I only meant it as a gentle piece of satire.

Several people locally, too, seemed to have been upset at my reaction – “shove it up your a*se” – when presenting me with bills.

Oh dear. It seems that these days, only premiership soccer players and magistrates truly understand irony.

Anyway, I’ve written to the Prime Minister explaining that I really don’t want to upset anybody and he has very helpfully explained that I’ve transgressed the terms of the Irony Act 2012.

Under this helpful piece of legal clarification, it is made very clear that you can only be ironic if earning more than £100,000 a week for a pointless exercise that is entirely useless to society. If you don’t meet these qualifications, abusive language falls under earlier legal remits.

In reply, I’ve suggested that maybe MPs should enact a new law – I’m calling it a Thank Your Lucky Stars law.

Under my proposal, anybody earning more than £100,000 a week for a pointless exercise that is entirely useless to society will be required to get down on their knees, in public, every morning, on live television (don’t worry, they can sell the rights) and declare: “I hereby thank my lucky stars that though I am a cretin, I am able to earn countless millions of pounds for a pointless exercise that is entirely useless to society yet consumes obscene amounts of money. I hereby commit myself to behaving in public in a manner that is entirely commensurate with this good fortune and the high level of public exposure to impressionable people – i.e., the least I can do to repay such incredible luck is to conduct myself with good manners, dignity and humility.”

As I say, I suggested this to the Prime Minister but I don’t think he’s going to do anything about it. He thought I was just being ironic.

It’s all in the name

It reminded me of a brilliant comment I read on the satirical website Newsbiscuit when the Americans were planning a remake of the World War Two movie The Dam Busters. Clearly, it was reported, for reasons of political correctness they would have to rename Guy Gibson’s dog, which in reality was called N*gger. Somebody suggested an alternative name: “C*ntface”.

Well, I laughed so much I immediately renamed my dog in honour of this.

It didn’t last long. There I was, stood by the car trying to persuade the dog, who’d disappeared as usual, into the back. “C*ntface!”, I shouted, “C*ntface!” Growing more and more frustrated, I screamed: “C*ntface! You thick useless waste of space! C*ntface!”

And as I yelled “useless waste of space” a second time, who should appear but David Cameron?

His nose was wet and his tongue was hanging out, so I gave him a dog biscuit. Sometimes you could swear they can speak.

Clearly, though, I didn’t want the likes of him following me around, crapping on my doorstep literally as well as figuratively. So Belle got her doggy name back.

Now then, how was that for irony? Bit heavy-handed? Thought so.

It’s raining, then

Well, it’s serious now. According to BT Yahoo this morning, this miserable apology for a summer is now threatening to ruin the Olympic beach volleyball – apparently when temperatures dip and rain falls, competitors are allowed to put on more clothes. I’m not making this up.

And on that subject – the weather, not sexism – here’s a pertinent reminder of something I wrote in January.

Weather report

“Is it still raining?”, enquired Management, as I limped squelchily through the door.

“No, my sweet angel, it is not,” I replied.

“It is not raining. It is still raining. In fact, it is lashing, it is lashing down with merciless, remorseless determination; it is torrentially drowning every single blade of grass within a five-mile radius of this door in a shifting sea of impassable mud; every single second of every single day it is precipitating, my angel, so that the road down the hill outside our house is now a river. It is not raining, it is pouring such that the warmth and humidity engendered have caused mould to grow inside my Wellington boots. It is not raining, it is destroying my clothing. I now have no waterproofs left because every single waterproof I have, even the ones that cost several hundred pounds and are lifetime guaranteed to keep you dry should you fall into an ocean, in fact especially the ones that cost several hundred pounds and are lifetime guaranteed to keep you dry should you fall into an ocean, stinks like a five-day-dead badger and admits more water than our so-called ‘power shower’ admits to my bald head. It is not raining, it is splashing about levels of mud that would make a veteran of the battle of the Somme take one look at our garden and declare: ‘I may have walked at a snail’s pace into a hail of Hun bullets, but I’m not going to try walking on that.’ No, my sweet, it is not raining. It is causing our dog, a collie hardened by hundreds of generations of breeding to tolerate the most appalling of conditions without so much as a flinch, to stand at the doorstep at night and look out with a sneer on her lips, preferring to cross her legs for 12 hours rather than go out for a wee. When she finally does, she takes an hour to dry and then shakes about 100 gallons of muddy water over the floor, furniture and walls anyway. And stinks worse than an MP’s expenses. No, my darling sweetheart, it is not raining. From the dull grey dark sky, in a never-ending stream of relentless, pitiless, cold, wet, leaking, stinking, filthy, rotten, lousy, English, putrid, squalid, foul, stinking misery, it is fucking raining.”

Do you know, I don’t think I phrased it strongly enough.