I was listening to the radio and the topic of the day was Celebrities Behaving Badly. A rather earnest discussion was taking place about the way society looks down on common drug users as scum, but is perfectly happy to see rock and pop stars off their faces on a more or less permanent basis.

"We have an expectation that our celebrities will misbehave." One of these experts announced. "It has been that way since Jerry Lewis, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones."

You think? That long ago, huh?

Well, for all you fans of Naughty Musicians, I have a tale with a slightly more notable pedigree. This sordid but chilling story dates back to the turn of the fifteenth century, and is, I hope, more interesting than whether or not Amy is in rehab again this week...

I'm playing Daddy this weekend, and I'm staying with my cousin Kathy for the rest of the day. Of course, I'd originally planned to take the kids out for a nice walk. Maybe check out a local castle or a country park.

But it's raining, in a big way. And Jessie has a nasty cough...

A poem about not getting back to harbour...

I hit the ground hard. It was dark and I was freezing. Somehow I'd fallen. Or rather, I'd landed on an aluminium ladder. But it was pitch black, and for some reason I thought I'd been in a huge building, with lights at the far end.

And that's when I realised. I was at home. In the middle of the night, I'd just fallen out of the loft, and I didn't have a stitch on...