The Ignoble Prize for literature goes to..

(March 1989, South Carolina) Michael Anderson Godwin was a lucky murderer whose death sentence had been commuted to life in prison. Ironically, he was sitting on the metal toilet in his cell and attempting to fix the TV set when he bit down on a live wire and electrocuted himself.

Severely pissed off
fighting through the hoards of tourists and shoplifters in Primarks on Oxford Street, my girlfriend asks the shop assistant:

"Excuse me, do you have any brown dressing gowns?" she turns to me as I stand sheepishly behind her. We'd had a row about me walking round in Le Buff at home; what with the terrible unintentional flashing incident involving the Japanese couple next door who saw my meat and two veg while they were doing their gardening. I had to get a dressing gown. I was on an official warning.

The tired, bored shop assistant starts: "We've got blue, green, red-"

My girlfriend, Liz, tired and irritable from a hard days work raises her hand: "Sorry, has to be brown," then she turns to me and says: "Tell the lady why it has to be brown, go on!"

And I mumble: "So I can pretend to be Obi Wan Kenobi when I'm doing the hoovering..."