The proposition seems to be fast inching its way into a preferred position

Today’s column is dedicated to a chimping ex-colleague who was recently stabbed in the leg on his birthday by a gentleman as keen as mustard to relieve him of his wallet and consumer durables. When he reported the crime (I believe that stabbing someone in the leg remains a criminal offence, even in multi-cultural London), he was pulled up by Old Bill for using the phrase ‘mugging’ – apparently this is no longer politically correct – ‘street robbery’ is the currently-acceptable terminology. Anyway, get well soon, me ole mucker.

Back in my counting house after a week spent packing things into boxes, then unpacking them again. Our new street is apparently much smarter (according to Up My Street, anyway), although I’m not so sure. If the cars parked on a London street are a social barometer, our former street was, to use the fib still beloved by estate agents, 'up and coming.' The M-reg Fords and Nissans were gradually being replaced by soft-top Porsche and Audis, whereas in our new street, practically everyone (including ourselves) has a beaten up estate car or MPV equipped with mandatory child seats, cat blinds and single juvenile Wellington boots on the biscuit-crumb-laden floor. Not a low-slung coupe to be seen.

Anyway, the cat is completely freaking out, and I still haven’t got used to the idea that I now have a ‘wet room’ (“The Modern Way to Shower!”) in my house.

So here’s a strange comment from the Times website yesterday, hidden away in the inevitable ‘have your say’ column appended to a somewhat dull article about computers.

The BBC is struggling to interpret the news that Vlad “Bad Muthaf*cka” Putin is about to point his rusty nukes back in our direction, leading a number of people in the US to suggest that the yanks should pull out of Europe entirely. Why? Well, the Beeb is sometimes rather keen on presenting the US as a bunch of aggressive morons, and the Russians as our somewhat misunderstood best friends. Difficult to put a positive spin on Europe being left adrift in the hands of a bunch of ex-spies from Leningrad hell bent on re-establishing the Soviet-era political system. Still, apparently all Vlad wants is respec’ (as they call it at the other, less smart, end of my new street), which suggests that he’s simply a jumped up mugger (sorry, ‘street robber’) with intercontinental ballistic missiles instead of bling and a shank.

Strange how détente has moved on, though – Russia’s reason for not attacking us is no longer for fear of swift annihilation at the hands of the Americans, but rather that Western Europe is its major energy customer, and therefore a valuable source of wealth. Best to wait until they’ve bled us dry of a few hundred billion more petrodollars until they let the SS20s loose, I guess.

Silly government initiative of the day? ‘Britain Day’. Great idea, but for the fact that the Scots and the Welsh hate the very guts of the English, mainly because we have no idea who or where they are, and really don’t care because it doesn’t matter. Oh, and we pay them millions and millions for sitting around moaning about us. As for Northern Ireland – well, I should think that participation in the celebrations may not be wholeheartedly embraced across the constituency of communities…

You’ve no doubt read that Michael Moore’s latest number (about the failings of the US healthcare system) holds up our own dear NHS as an exemplar of all that is great about healthcare. I don’t suppose that I’m entirely objective - Mrs Chimp has spent two years waiting to be allowed onto the waiting list for the waiting list for a post-birth operation that for bureaucratic reasons is classed as ‘cosmetic surgery’, thereby placing her behind dozens of fatso South London chavs waiting for government-funded boob jobs and tummy tucks (breathe, man, breathe) – but this is perhaps evidence that Mr Moore has finally descended into madness.

I was going to do a moaning piece about the recently launched London 2012 logo, but due to the fact that a gentleman amusingly called Marcel Knobil (a ‘brand expert’, apparently) doesn’t like it, it gets my vote.

And finally, have you ever wished you could have been a Nazi soldier sweeping majestically across the cornfields of the Urals in an open topped Kubelwagen in the glorious summer of ’41, with the wind blowing through your clipped blonde hair as the communist untermenschen scatter before you? Look no further. All you have to do is buy one, get it to the Polish border, and drive Eastwards at speed with a bit of Wagner on the multiplay CD. Sorted.