Who else is a bit sick of Uggie? I mean, yeah, he was great in The Artist and that trick where he pretends he’s been shot is really good, but he’s pretty full of himself. You don’t see other award-season chumps wandering around with their Oscars in their pockets. Uggie, please, take off your Palm D’Og collar, you’re embarrassing all of us.

There are few dogs from better ‘stock’ than Bo Obama; his owner is the current U.S. President who was given him as a present by Ted Kennedy. As such, it’s unsurprising just how amazing this little guy is. When he’s not high-fiving pilots on Air Force 1 or holidaying in Hawaii, Bo spends his time playing football and going for runs with his dad. Bo (whose name sounds like a Home and Away heartthrob, don’tchathink?) is also the only little guy I know who could still make the bitches swoon wearing a multicoloured floral lei. And – oh my God! – look at his thick, curly hair and little tongue and floppy ears and the way his fur wiggles when he runs. He’s so cute!

Last night was, as my close friends in the grime scene say, “A LOT” (shout out to Tinie!). Ya boy Ed was on a wave like I was riding on the crest of a Japanese tsunami (no offence intended to my fans if you or anyone you know has ever been affected by a tsunami). I bagged a couple gongs, sang a little song, wrestled my way through the press throng, went home and smoked a bong – nothing long.

Do you see that ominous, fleshy shadow on the horizon, bulging like an elephantine balloon full of half-digested cheesy-chips and flat Coca-Cola? That, my friends, is something called obesity, and one day soon it’s going to kill us all. We have one chance to avert this impending, chocolate-milkshake flavoured disaster. His name is Jamie Oliver, and he alone can hold back the tidal wave of mayonnaise that’s about to engulf the world.

This isn’t true. The reality of the situation is that some people are fat because they eat too much and then don’t run anywhere. This is pretty straight-forward. Do we really need a faux-Cockney to tell us this in a condescending tone? No, we really don’t. Here are some more things about the fat-tongued bore that annoy me.

If you are planning to throw a party, I strongly advise you to follow the below instructions to guarantee a good time is had by all.

When I look in the mirror – which, contrary to what many of may believe, doesn’t happen all that often – I no longer see Lizzie Grant, daddy’s little girl. No, I see Lana Del Rey, a cross between Tupac Shakur and Zsa Zsa Gabor. The baddest bitch – but also a very sensitive soul. A delicate flower that is wilting under the unforgiving spotlight of unwanted attention. A scared newborn kitten drowning in the fame drain where it tumbled forth from its mother’s womb.

The 16th of October, 1980. That was the first day that word was thrust in my face. I remember it clearly because it was the day after Gentleman Jim Callaghan, my then idol (and also the name of my first pet gerbil), was ousted as leader of the Labour Party. I was ten years old – or should I say ten years young, since I certainly wasn’t old, considering I was only ten – and, unable to suppress my anguish any longer, I sobbed uncontrollably throughout a 55-minute afterschool recorder lesson at Primrose Hill Primary School. Griselda Thirion was the culprit. “You look incredibly ugly, Edward,” she spat, as tears dripped down onto the sheet music for “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. David, standing by my side, didn’t prevent himself from chuckling at me, as he so often did back then, leading others to follow. Who’s laughing now, Dave?

A week last Tuesday I was at the checkout in Whole Foods – the Kensington branch – when something very much awry occurred. I’d like to point out at this juncture that I was just going about my very normal, everyday life – I was even wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Everything seemed fine until I handed the middle-aged lady at the till my Coutts Gold Card and I noticed her suddenly glancing at a message that had flashed up on the computer screen in front of her. Then she asked me the most bizarre question. “Would you like cashback, Mr Grant?” she said, trying desperately to effect an air of normality.

There’s nothing that gives me more pleasure when I come home on a cold winter evening than the sight of a fat, succulent bird splayed out on my kitchen table. (That’s not to say I’m a fan of coq au vin – that’s always been more Michel Roux Jr’s kind of thing, the fruity devil.) The mere thought of a piping hot lump of white (or brown) meat for me to devour is enough to send me into raptures. Sometimes it’s hard to stop myself taking a running jump onto the beast when I burst through the kitchen door.

We fought them in the fields of Flanders, we fought them on the beaches of Dunkirk, we fought them in the skies over Dover, we fought them in the sands of Egypt, we fought them in the jungles of Malaya – and this week, we fought our most iniquitous foe yet, in the FIFA headquarters in Zurich. And we won. Score!