Dog and ball

Jez is a friend of cousin Martin, who's father to my goddaughters*, Charlotte and Isabelle, who're both aged seven.

Recently, Jez took his dog to the vet, who noticed the dog had only one testicle.

Didn't you know, asked the vet.

I don't spend much time inspecting my dog's genitals, replied Jez, who told this story to Martin, who related it to his kids.

Does that mean the dog's a lesbian, asked Charlotte.

*I'm enthusiastically athesist, but... well, it's a long-ish, dull-ish tale.

Hypothetical drummer wanted

Disposable Raygun, the hypothetical pop band of no-hopers of which I'm the leader, are going to need a new drummer.

The original sticks-man, cousin Thomas, aged ten, is planning to form his own combo, The Betters, having received a guitar for Christmas.

Contact me somehow if you'd be interested in pretending to be the tub-thumper for a crappy, non-existent group.

People with talent need not apply.

Bum war

We're a bad influence on children, me and Emma; we've taught a stupendously daft game to various young 'uns in our family.

It's called bum war, the name being a play on thumb war - and like that battle of opposable digits, our shenanigans begin with a declaration: "One, two, three, four! I declare a bum war!" (The original call was, "Bum war! It's a bum war!")

The two combatants, standing back-to-back and bending slightly at the waist, then attempt to push the each other over using only the power of their rumps. This involves much slamming together of arse cheeks, staggering and giggling.

It's a sort of buttocky sumo, which often ends in one or more people toppling over in worring proximity to sharply cornered or easily breakable objects/furniture.

Number of injuries so far: zero.

Potential for injuries in the future: massive.