Strapped for Cash

£122! That's what it cost to get Martin fixed up. I was thinking of doing it myself at one stage. But I can't stand seeing him in pain so I went down the seafront and shelled out the money. Again.

Took on another shift at Ann Summers. I'll be working on the Bondage equipment helpline for a few weeks. Like the Samaritans for perverts. One fella had wrapped his missus in pvc tape but didn't have any nails to get her out. And the tea needed cooking. All human life. By the way I suggested he get some bolt cutters or a blow torch or a set of those false nails.

I think it's going well. Me and Martin made up. With his new skull lining and the little moustache I got the taxidermist to paint on, he was quite happy and out of nowhere he placed his hand on mine. The war was over. How could I be mad at Martin?

Deaf Metal

Me and Martin Chuzzleclit are not speaking. Moody bastard. We did a gig just outside of Morecambe on Saturday night. For the deaf. Not the best environment for a ventriloquist. I'm sure the bloke signing by the side of the stage was making wanker signs.

I started shouting. Chuzzleclit started shouting. No one could hear us. Someone signed laughter at one stage. Eventually Martin flicked a finger at one of them. "It's the only language they understand" he said. It kicked off. Martin took a belt to the head from a deaf ex-wrestler from Hest Bank.

The manager gave us half the money. He said he hadn't laughed that much since they had Mike Yarwood in here doing impressions. Martin and me walked all the way home to the flat. And not a word was said.

We sat all the way through Sunday lunch and Antiques Roadshow in silence. I may as well been deaf. But the dent in Martin's head will need fixing.

Yorkshire Air Museum

Been quiet for a few weeks. Still packing giant dildos for Mrs Summers in her warehouse. The head of human resources told me last week she hadn't seen a man handle a cock as gently since her uncle came with her family on a caravan holiday up in the Lakes. I think it was a compliment. Whatever it was, it's going on the new press material.

Malcolm Powder finished his community service and to celebrate he boosted a Vauxhall Corsa from the Woolworth's car park and we headed off for the day, Martin in the back. We headed over the border to the Yorkshire Air Museum.

What a load of shite! We paid £5 each and some cocky bollocks showed us through a door and pointed at the sky. "There you go. Now fuck off" he chimed. Bloody Yorkshire. I hate them as much as I do Londoners. And Blacks...

The outdoor apparel shop never had my size of cagoule. Bastards.

Better than Quentin

Went to the chip shop this afternoon. For a large bag and sign a new 31 year contract with the agent. I don't know what made me more sick. Or had more grease on it.

He still has the picture of me and Martin Chuzzleclit on Noel's House Party on his wall. Above a photo of Chris Quentin pissing on a hen night group. But below a framed photo of Mickey Duane and The Blue Parrot performing at the Embassy. I suppose that's how he sees me. Above Brian Tilsley but beneath a manic depressive alcoholic ex squaddie with a badly made parrot puppet up to his elbow. Sometimes i hate showbusiness.

A 31 year contract seemed the best option. I figure he'll be dead by then and he won't have a chance of getting 10% when he's decaying in a casket. I'm not sure i've really figured this out. I didn't read it. It was smudged with batter. But I'm sure as ever the agent will look after my and Martin's best interests. I mean Chris Quentin wouldn't be with him. Would he?