Reggie, The Pooh and The Miserable Day.

Dear Diary,
Awoke 6am, trudged barefoot to bathroom, straight through pile of steaming dog pooh, AGAIN! Good start. Showered to rejoin human race, shambled downstairs to find more excrement in hall. Dogs been staging overnight dirty protest, apparently. Strong words, Henry in Naughty Corner. Must buy canine colonic corks or some such similar.
Looked out of kitchen window - rain, grey skies, rain and rain. Plan for mind-calming gardening day gone same way as gathered up dog shit.
Decided to attempt to sort out finances once and for all. Sat with calculator for two hours, surrounded by pieces of official, headed paper strewn about lounge, most in red. Either calculator bust or heading for financial meltdown. Funny, seem to be working - just no money coming in. People obviously think I am charity a la Financial Fuckwits-R-Us. Memo to self: "Must write strongly worded letters - or get the boys in".
Soon-to-be ex-wife momentarily lifted glood by announcing discovery of odd saucepan lid to fit lidless stock pot. Hurrah! Deep joy! Result! Not all bad news, then?
Copped an earful of Archers omnibus. Failed to get mind round plot whereby Ruth DOESN'T have affair with cowhand Sam to get back at David for NOT having affair with Sophie. Rest of prog taken up by chat in Borchester gay club and talk of ladyboys! World HAS gone mad - official. Haven't heard farm animal mentioned let alone making noise on fucking show since don't know when. Beam me up.
Back to world of work. Bashed out handful of applications and business-touting pleas. Must generate more moolah. Funny, remember being told while PAYE that too young for promotion. Also recall later announcement that too old for promotion. Don't know when just right for promotion - must have been on holiday.
Took dogs for walk on Green to lighten mood. Got piss-wet-through, all dogs caked in mud, me left like Martin Sheen emerging from swamp in Apocalypse Now. Hour spent hosing down and drying animals. Second shower of day. Fresh togs.
Decided to prepare dinner for later. Only tins in cupboard, labels off most. Daren't risk it. Shoot off to nearby Nazimarket to buy steak as treat. Grinning, spotty, fat bird at checkout delights in shouting to rest of queue that card rejected. Fuck! Much-Embarrassment-in-the-Marsh. Have to use meagre few pennies in pocket was saving for pub.
Back home, tap up STB EW for ten quid loan. Tell her it for present for her mother. Note handed over but don't think believed - STB EW knows polonium body spray costs more.
Load up washing machine then walk to pub in persistent rain - why Gene Kelly felt overwhelming urge to dance when so soaked dye coming off pants onto gonads beats me!
Meet mutant chums and pass two hours discussing topics of import such as who has longest nipple hair and what car you would drive if you were the Dalai Lama.
Back through heavier rain to Pither Towers - pants now completely bleached but knob blue. Interesting effect. Should break the ice at Christmas parties.
Unload washing machine. Discover all formerly white shirts now match gonads. Shit! Rogue blue, wooly sock among sodden mass is culprit. Mood quickly back to colour of newly dyed gonads and shirts.
Decided new-look knob not great social asset after all so third shower of day. Feel like Howard Hughes, only without bank balance. Memo to self: "Must cut nails".
Feed fish. Feed lobster (drunken investment through man in pub). Feed dogs, let them out to evacuate bowels in open air by way of change. Forget still tipping it down. Dogs piss-wet through again! Once more to the towels, dear friends, once more.
Cook dinner and nosh while listening to Leonard Cohen on CD - STB EW's choice. Fuck, I thought I was depressed!! Must invite Len round some time and compare notes.
One hour spent dozing on settee a la snake under rock after devouring calf.
Closed curtains and blinds - cruel, cruel world then definitively shut outside. Checked TV schedules in hope that Devil's Lantern would carry me away mentally to far better place. Some fucking hope! Two hours of Sports Personality of the Year!! This being screened in country where national football, cricket and rugby teams couldn't beat scratch Paralympics cub scouts sides.
Equally appalling shite on other channels. STB EW began enthralling and loud phone conversation with poisonous best friend. Decided to abandon lounge when "I know, they're all the same" conversation reared ugly head. Sought solace in company of best friend - booze fridge. Sanctuary! World much better viewed through bottom of glass.
Sneaked upstairs to study with haul of booze, like lion hauling gazelle carcass up tree to get peace.
Wine now going down well. As Tommy Cooper said, "Best diet I know - already lost three days!" Also forgotten where I am and name.
Play on computer while quoffing, chatting to cyber friends who may all be gay blokes, chimpanzees or homicidal maniacs for all I know. Wine fails to deaden overall atmosphere of gloom, however. Am reminded of Scott and pointless, fuckwitted attempt to race Norwegian to freezing place where no-one else wanted to go or was interested in. Penultimate diary entry was to effect: "It seems a pity but I do not think I can write more. God, this is an awful place." My sentiments exactly.
Henceforth, all days such as today shall only ever be experienced by one group of people. As Scott almost said at very end: "For God's sake, look after our people - except those in Grantham, obviously. Splitters!"
STOP PRESS: Just learnt evil, psycopathic, mass-murdering former Chilean (pronounced Chill-eyann by Moira Stuart) dictator Pinochet has died. Hurrah! Still cheated justice, though. Name one person in this country who entertained him to tea as a friend of the nation. You got it.They should have gone together - in my sights.