Meet Delores. Selina’s eldest sister. This is a very rare picture of her. Firstly, because she’s not talking. Secondly because she usually crushes any offending camera with her bare paws and shoves it up the offending cameraman’s arse.

Something to do with being on some kind of invalidity benefit of which no one dare speak. Or photograph her upright and take it to the authorities.

So Delores is staying with us at the moment. I doubt it’s because she’s been thrown out of her state funded semi-detached house. Not even the crack Navy Seal squad that got Bin Laden would take on that mission. More likely she’s savaged a neighbour and is laying low for a while.

Laying low does not involve keeping quiet. Delores talks at a thousand words a minute and at thousand decibels.

Today’s subjects are: the awful Charles Saatchi – not a good advert for adverts; Turkish waiters – not to be trusted but otherwise a good shag; is Simon Cowell for real or just a little bit surreal; will the royal baby be called Delores even if its a boy; where can she find Rihanna and her people and kill them in a fair fight; or in an unfair fight.

In fairness, Delores has a lot of her own people to take on Rihanna’s people. A big Irish travelling rabbit family. But nothing like Watership Down travelling rabbits. Little travelling actually involved. More drinking and shouting.

Anyways, I’m at the pub on the other side of the estate to keep out the way.  And I can still hear her loud and clear. Fast Gerald the Tortoise has put on earplugs and gone back into his shell. No use whatsoever. Everyone else is just drinking very very heavily.

So the question is not why Delores is not wot she used to be. Unfortunately she is exactly wot she’s always been. The question is why the fuck Delores is not where she’s supposed to be. Namely, somewhere else. Watch this space.

In this weather it ain’t no fun being fat and furry. And I ain’t about to join no gym. Or, much much worse, cut down on me tucker especially now I’m in the process of developing the ultimate Bastard Burger.

So I’ve taken radical and direct action. I’ve shaved me fur off. And this reveals to the world quite a lot about me. Oh yus. Its reveals me rather fine collection of tattoos.

Let me take you on a short tour. Right shoulder. Arrow through the heart. When I first met Selina. Yup, she was carrying an offensive weapon. Rather primitive in those days. Now its mace.

The right bicep charts me ups and me downs with Selina. I calls this ink the ‘Its on, its off, its on, its off, its on…..maybe.”

Down the right forearm. ‘MUMMY’S BOY’. In memory of Ma Bunny. And me time at sea.

And ‘DOWN HERE GIRLS’. In memory of a stag nite in Blackpool. Don’t ask wot I got above me arse in memory of a stag nite in Brighton. I said don’t ask!!

That’s the short tour. I’ll give you the full tour some other time. Suffice to say I had a spot of gardening leave in clink in El Salvador. An interesting experience. “Un placer conocerle, señor Cabrón.” As they say over there.

Burgers most certainly ain’t wot they used to be. It pains me to say it but burgers, unlike most things these days, are much much better than wot they used to be. And I should know. I’d didn’t get to the weight I am today without knowing a good burger when I sees one.

For example there’s The Devastator Burger at the Red Dog Saloon.  Three 6oz beef patties, 200g pulled pork, 6 rashers applewood smoked bacon and 6 slices American cheese. 3000 whole calories! Wowzer. A big fat motherloader at £22.75.

And it even comes with its own challenge!! Eat it in 10 minutes with fries and a shake and you go up on their wall of fame. I tried. I failed. I was carrying an injury. Groin strain. I will be back and I will do it.

Then there’s the Troll’s Stinky Breath Burger at the Troll’s Pantry in Brighton. A fine burger coated in Troll Stink Sauce (anchovies, blue cheese, Sussex beer, garlic). Oh yus.!! Always find meself sleeping on the sofa now after a day trip down the South coast. Selina do not like the Stink Sauce.

And someone told me about the Phat Bastard Challenge at Surfers Paradise somewhere in Oz. 900g of wagyu beef, six slices of cheese, 200g of pork, eight rashers of bacon and eight onion rings on a homemade bun topped with special sauce, coleslaw, tomato and lettuce.  Yes, onion rings on top. Genius. This fat Bastard wants that Phat Bastard.

So I’m compiling Bastard Bunny’s Book of Bastard Burgers. Let me know of any big fat Bastards you may come across. And watch this space. Coz its gonna get some big big meaty fillings.