Paying her a visit is now a much more complicated affair than throwing a change of socks into the back of the VW and heading up the A1.

First job was to book a flight, but I was miffed to find out that Ryanair doesn't fly to the island.

My disappointment had nothing to do with Ryanair's charity calendar which shows various members of their staff looking exactly how we'd all like trolley dollies to look. Sadly, the air stewardesses on Flybe, while perfectly presentable, were wearing uniforms. Spoilsports.

Still, to be fair, they did get us there safe and on time.

Reunited with YM, first we had to celebrate the old country and after watching a Christmas special DVD of Emmerdale, she cooked me and My Special Friend Yorkshire Puddings.

Naturally, the conversation then turned to the story in last week's news of the chemist who had come up with the formula for the perfect Yorkshire Pudding.

His claim was total tosh as everybody knows making the perfect pudding is an art not a science.

This boffin tried to deflect any criticism by boasting of his Yorkshire heritage. But for those in the know, Yorkshire is as unified as the Balkans. Is he a codhead from Hull, a Wessie (from West Yorkshire like me), a sheep lover from the North York Moors and beyond or worse still a cave dweller from the south of the county?

In any case, MSF, who despite being born in Northborough and raised in Whittlesey, is the second greatest Yorkshire Pudding maker in history, only bettered, if not battered, by my granny Agnes.

Still the scientist is not as misguided as the Yorkshire exile living in the US who sparked the quest for the perfect pud and who claimed: "Coleman's mustard is also an essential accompaniment''.

Which surely is the equivalent of putting a diamante collar on your whippet.

Time t'get back t'homeland, lad.

Maradonna madness
I'm very proud of the eighth of me which is Scottish – even if it is responsible for giving me the ginger gene and a fiery temper to match.

Scotland is a beautiful country full of mountains and glens. But the highest peak is not Ben Nevis it is the chip on the nation's collective shoulder over England and all things English.

The hero's welcome given to Diego Maradona because that sad little man once cheated to knock England out of a World Cup was pathetic. And stupid. Have the kilt wearers not noticed that English footballers don't need any help when it comes to flopping at a World Cup?


I don't know what all the fuss is about just because the names and contact details of British National Party members have been posted on the internet. Surely, they haven't got anything to be ashamed about


The first two words of The ET's story about TV's Tommy Walsh losing £55,000 on the eco-house he built in March made me chuckle. The phrase "celebrity builder'' is true and accurate . . . and totally ludicrous.