My heart is where my heart is. Under the table. Where I am.

Music. Band: Republic of Loose.

They sound like an otter pretending to be impressed by a fridge.

Band: Nine Wassies from Bainne.

Old album: Ciddy Hall.

Songs: Lyrics in Irish about how stupid the otter looked. He didn't even know what a fridge was.

This is the web address mentioned on the sleeve notes:

http://www.dojo.ie/9wassies/

I don't have a garden. I sold it to a bat. The bat says he's going to use my garden to make a fool out of an owl who's been looking at him in a funny way. That's why I sold it to him.

I'm asking my toe to stop telling people that I wrote a letter to my own hair but my toe keeps telling people I'm an idiot.

Music. Eurovision. Why 'vision' if it's music? Why look at it if it's smiling Irish dancers saying 'meow, I was told to do this by a man with a cardboard head'? Because one of them might fall over a gypsy with a small monkey.

Sound. Here. Now. Where's the fire hose, Megan has it. Who's Megan? Tip toe through the tulips, write down the address of tulips, get your feet back from the tulips. Hello Megan, can I have my feet back? Yes you can. I like Megan. Who's Megan?

I'm writing this to convince people that I'm not gluing a Toblerone to a beach ball. I might have been gluing a Toblerone to a beach ball ten seconds ago. I might be doing it again in ten seconds time. But I think this proves that I'm not 'always gluing a Toblerone to a beach ball', as some people have suggested.

Band: Hal.
Album: Hal.
They're gluing a beachball to a lifeguard while he's sleeping off a hangover after being told he had to give his elbow back to a cat.

I'm in space, wow, I'm at the bottom of the ocean, ooh, I'm falling off a swing, ow, but at least I'm not being kicked by a horse, ow!

Streets, fires. Coma. Out of coma and pointing at a pig. No wait, this is why I went into the coma in the first place.

I'm I'm I'm I am yes who am I again? Excuse me while I check who I am.
I'm Grey. I write. Music. Ireland. Words distilled to make, no that's whiskey. That too. No that's someone else. I'm Grey. I saw a blackbird fall off an ice cream cone.

Our weekly look at old age: boommmm booming sounds. Look and listen. Whales.
Our weekly look at whales: see above.

Music. Toes. Stones, ow. I'm going home I'm going home I'm going home. I'm stuck in a cupboard. I'm still going home, I live here.

Lucille Ball meets Sartre.
"Hello, I'm Sartre. Who are you?"
"I'm Lucille Ball. What do you do?"
"I'm a philosopher. What are you?"
"I'm a philosopher too."

This was my idea for a TV show. You have to guess how long it'll take Sartre to realise that Lucille Ball is not a philosopher and dead. My guess is never because he's dead too. But one of the TV executives said he'd have to shoot me in the foot. I was able to get away while he was getting his gun, and he missed anyway.

Music. Sound. New Coldplay single. Apples. Yeah, apples. Don't tell me I didn't mean to say apples. No, do tell me.
Yeah well you're wrong.
This song reminds me of apples. And old Coldplay singles. Don't tell me I meant to say 'old Coldplay singles' when I said apples. No, do tell me.
Get off my horse. Don't tell me I don't have a horse or I'll shoot my horse.
Donkey, shoot my horse.
Donkey looks concerned. He'll probably miss anyway.