In My Pre Natal Era I was a Holier-Than-Thou, "I don't own a TV actually" prig. Now You'll Regularly Find Me Swimming in Televisual Excrement

I've always concurred with the view that reality TV is, "the lead in the water pipes that sent the Roman's mad", i.e. a toxic, brain-eroding cerebral pollutant. People with self-esteem issues fabricating nervous breakdowns in their underwear, to lend themselves gravitas and sympathy just doesn't meet my definition of entertainment. Pre-fatherhood, I wouldn't have watched reality TV with my worst enemy's eyeballs, regardless of whether it was the abominable "Big Brother" or the marginally less despicable "The Apprentice". In fact, without sounding like a holier-than-thou "I don't own a TV actually" prig, I barely watched telly at all back in my prime; I was too busy having it large (translation: sitting in the pub alone, looking forlornly at women).

Then along came "The Destroyer of all Energies", aka my son. In these post-natal days, I am usually to be found plastered to the couch by 9pm, a pint of red wine in my right ...

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Domestic Abuse: The Hidden Perpetrators

"What an absolute Steve that bloke is!" I coined this rather pithy piece of rhyming slang in honour of smug comedian, Steve Punt. Punt, if you're blissfully unaware, is one half of "comedy duo" Punt & Dennis, who have been sullying our TV screens and radio airwaves for well over a decade now. It's hard to elucidate why he riles me so; possibly because his brand of guffawing satire is no funnier or more thought-provoking than that pedaled by your average left-leaning son of a wealthy banker in any given student union. In short, he makes me want to throw a brick wrapped in my TV license through Mark Thomspon's bedroom window at 4 in the morning.

I'm equally reviled by Punt's partner, Hugh "Milky Milky" Dennis, more by association with Punt than any specific grievance. So, when my wife recently suggested we sit down and watch the sitcom "Outnumbered", starring Dennis, I was sceptical and fleetingly considered divorce. As the episode unfurled, I sat there with folded arms, grumpily refusing to laugh until the keenly-observed comic truths about family life started to tickle my reluctant funny-bone. The scene which prompted this breakthrough featured Dennis being interviewed by a concerned nurse about his young son's repeated admissions to A+E, all as a result of accidents when playing with his dad. Dennis concedes that the most recent incident occurred during a game where he had swung his son around by his ankles, only to inadvertently crack the young boy's head against the edge of a table. "You were swinging him round by his ankles?" the incredulous nurse splutters. "Yes, but he likes it", counters the hapless Dennis before going on to point out that, actually, if she's interested in rooting out abuse, she should check his own recent medical record for the black eyes, knocked out teeth and cracked ribs his son has inflicted upon him while "playing".

Funny because it's true. My 18 month old son has only been able to support his own head for little over a year but in that time he has:

1) Sunk his teeth into my top lip, causing it to swell up to 3 times it's normal size
2) Kicked and stamped on my genitalia with utter glee
3) Rammed an electric toothbrush up my nostril until it bled
4) Dislodged £430 worth of dental work with one well-placed headbutt
5) Inflicted countless other torments that I have buried in my subconscious and which will only ever be coaxed out by years of therapy, before being dismissed as fabricated memories

All the above has been routinely delivered with the smile of a knowing torturer. Only this evening, he invented a new game which I've dubbed "The Siren". There he was, lying on his back on the floor, while I bent over him, about to put a clean nappy on. He suddenly puckered up and made a delightful, heart-melting kissing noise. Of course, I leaned in to happily accept said kiss, at which point he thrust both legs skyward, planting his feet firmly in my throat. As I lay motionless on the floor, trying to suck air through my constricted windpipe, he laughed uncontrollably until tears rolled down his face. Then he pissed all over the floor.

Unfortunately, the stigma attached to a man turning up at a police station and contending to be the victim of domestic abuse at the hands of his 18 month old child is just too great in our society. How many more men, I wonder, are silently suffering while their barbaric offspring hatch their next evil campaign of abuse? Or am I just being a complete and utter Steve?

“It was the scene of murder, drug dealing and hostage-taking but now Brookside Close is due to be sold to the highest bidder."

"The Liverpool cul-de-sac used in gritty Channel 4 soap opera Brookside is being auctioned, with a £650,000 guide price.” So says the BBC.

Brookside was gritty? No. Brookside was the biggest piece of fictional claptrap since Britney claimed to be a virgin. It was as gritty as she was covered in baby oil the first night Justin got his nuts in.

The show was pulp, crap and awful at once. I am not sorry to see the houses sold and I am a bit annoyed they are newsworthy. In fact, didn’t The Sun report this a few weeks ago? Poor form Aunty Beeb. Headline stuff for the currant* though, 'cos it's good old British news innit. Everything’s fine in Africa by the way, my mate Robert just text me to say the Cholera problem has definitely gone away.

* Currant. Rhyming slang for The Sun* *
* * The Sun. Trashy tabloid newspaper