Oh the beautiful game. For a few precious moments we forgot about ‘Brits in the Sun’, Fergie’s latest clanger and the national deficit and actually felt proud to be English.

Until the game started of course and now even those of us who didn’t give a hoot about football before feel the grey clouds of Blighty weighing heavy on our shoulders. All because somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere a Liverpudlian who looks like Miriam Margolyes couldn’t get a little white ball into a net the size of my kitchen.

Still at least the game has improved international relations. Before the Germany game for example the England team went to visit an orphanage in South Africa, ”It’s so good to put a smile on the faces of people with no hope, constantly struggling and facing the impossible” said Jamal Omboto, aged 6.

Well that’s apart from that little security wobble, which has thankfully now been explained by Fifa. They released a statement last week explaining that the fan didn’t break into the players dressing room after all, but was let in by Rob Green.

But it’s Capello that we don’t know what to do with. We’re stuck with him for another 18 months. After all that enigmatic ambiguity about his “masterplan” it turns out he was all pitch and no cup. And he still seems complacent.

However, I think the penny (‘What’s that?’ I hear our players ask) may have dropped for Capello yesterday when he noticed an old lady struggling with her bags of shopping in the street. When he stopped and asked her, “Can you manage dear?” the old lady replied, ”No way. You got yourself into this mess, you get yourself out of it…”

Do you suck your cheeks into a pout as you pass every shop window? Know how to pose like a pro? Heard ‘You’ll wear that mirror out!’ once too often?

Don’t risk a frown line and seven years bad luck, the Wicked Queen and I are on your side (your best one of course). We believe vanity is a staple of life. Like Starbucks. Or Vogue. And those boorish (boring and pig-faced) critics will be sorry when those sarcasm lines are indelibly etched on to their faces.

However, since time is no friend to those of us who watch the face like we do, we mustn’t waste a second away from the mirror. Order yourself a Vigne Mirrored Clock from the London Clock Company – and you’ll never be accused of vanity again – only clock watching.

A word of warning however, you must try not to focus on time marching across your face or you’ll resort to pricking yourself with a needle.

Margaret Thatcher once said ‘Women are like teabags’ … (Judith Chalmers in particular)… ‘You never know how strong they are until they’re in hot water’.

How true. We know that sometimes it’s hard to be a woman. Working 9 to 5. It’s a man’s world after all. Stop! In the name of love … No, just stop!

All this empowerment is getting out of hand. All we women need is a bit of confidence in ourselves. We may complain our lives are hard – ‘it’s just so busy and stressful’ we sob into our Tuesday night sauvignon blanc – well, perhaps we’d feel a little better if we remember that it always was.

Yes we may work longer hours than ever before without any household help or community support. But we also don’t have ration books to balance, mangles to service and suffragette meetings to go to. Imagine Mondays as ‘washing and meatloaf day’ instead of ‘Eastenders and pasta night’.

One of the few things our grandmothers had that we don’t, is confidence in our role in life. Something we’d all do well to find. And not just confidence in what we do but more importantly what we don’t do. It is in no way elegant, grown woman behaviour to try and recreate Heston’s masterpieces at every meal whilst looking like Cheryl Cole having juggled the career of JK Rowling since 7am. Give yourself a break. Feeling cosy in your favourite dress, getting a smile from your boss and whipping up a spag bol should constitute a successful day.

So you can find some great tips in today’s Daily Mail from me and other gurus (!) to make everyday a little easier.

And one more tip from me to the sisterhood … Ignore the media and it’s depressing ‘aspirational’ bombardment. To quote another great feminist, ‘Calm down dear, it’s just a commercial!’

The web is awash with schoolboy jibes at our new Batman and Robin, so rather than try and beat them, I just thought I’d plagiarise instead …

Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg has said that he is ‘honoured’ by his new appointment as personal fag to David Cameron.Under the arrangement, Mr Clegg will perform household chores for the Prime Minister including pressing his trousers, brushing his jacket and polishing his shoes. In return, Mr Cameron will protect Clegg from being bullied by other members of Cabinet.‘Of course Clegg is not a full boarder,’ said Cameron, ‘he’s a day boy. But rest assured, we will treat him with the respect that he deserves.’‘This is a unique opportunity,’ said Clegg, ‘For some people, running around and opening doors for your fagmaster might seem demeaning. But for me, this is a price that I have to pay. That, and my lunch money.’David Cameron denied allegations that some Liberal Democrats were already being bullied after Danny Alexander was found with his head down the lavatory and Chris Huhne had to visit matron after being given a wedgie. ‘This is all part of the rough and tumble of government,’ said Cameron, ‘I am sure that the new boys will soon get used to this horseplay and find their rightful place in the pecking order, at the bottom.’Meanwhile, it is understood that Vince Cable will be expected to wear a pinny and serve tea to Chancellor, George Osborne. ‘This isn’t exactly what I had signed up for,’ said Mr Cable, ‘and it may take a little while getting used to my new ministerial title as ‘Scullion’.’When asked whether he had sold out to the Prime Minister, Clegg replied, ‘I have made his bed, and he will lie in it.

The coalition deal was finally sealed yesterday evening during a hastily arranged phone call between David Cameron and Nick Clegg where they compared notes on the daughters of minor aristocrats that they had felt up at charity balls in the 1980s.The prime minister’s spokesman said: “We knew we had a workable, four year deal when David and Nick both realised they had probably fingered the Hon. Charlotte Brampton during the same Henley Regatta.”

The new administration started work immediately as Downing Street released the first round of cabinet appointments including Binky, Pinky, Ponky, Porky, Splodger, Dodger, Bodger, Badger, Fishy Frobisher, good old Charlie Two-Yachts and Vince Cable.

Remember the time at school when you were in the loos with your bestie having a bitch-sess about Holly Hotpants, when poor Holly walks out of the cubicle?

Suddenly feeling the tiniest bit sorry for Gordon Brown and his big gob? Finding yourself awash with empathy at his inability to curb his enthusiasm? No, neither are we.

Although I would like to argue with the MP who said, on Brown’s gaff, ‘It’s never ok to call someone a bigot’. Really? Is there no one involved in WWII that it might be ok to call a bigot?

Don’t feel too bad, what on earth would we do with ourselves without gossip and drama? And frankly, if you can’t stand the heat magazine, get out of the bitchin’.

So fellow pyromaniacs, stoke up! Instead of using fire buckets to extinguish flames, use them to start them. Once it’s hot enough, grab some wings, some legs, some ribs (just avoid putting your foot in it) and to wash it all down, raise a glass of fire water …

Gordon, you’re toast!

Think manifesto is a perfume, BNP sell petrol and still giggle when anyone says ‘Election’?
Stick to hosting your own parties where everyone’s too young to care how many seats you have.

Far less labour intensive, and with no consideration of the budget, your parties could never be called conservative (Liberal, certainly.)
And why not campaign for your own party politics. Everyone has to bring a bottle, no one ’sits’ for anyone (though standing or falling down is permitted) and no one’s allowed to mention elections … hee hee hee

That gets my vote. Just as long as no one calls the policies.

Great. You’ve missed the last train, a hair appointment and yesterday’s episode of 24.
Who’s idea was this pesky time change anyway?

Time to stop backpedalling and take control of time. Remember you’ll get that hour back in November (though you won’t have earned any interest unfortunately). In the meantime, stop missing appointments with a London Clock Company’s Silver Plate Alarm Clock. It’s got a four bright backgrounds to choose from and diamante dials to distract you from pining for that lost hour of your life.

Don’t know what your excuse for being late again will be though …

Tattoos used to be the graffiti of sailors. Swallows meant ‘Home’ and skulls ‘Appreciate life while you have it’. But now in every design you can think of, the last decade heralded the Fashion Tattoo.

I wonder what our grandmothers think of tattoos as fashion symbols? Perhaps they didn’t tattoo themselves because they realised that tattoos are forever and isn’t transience the point of fashion? There are already a few tattoo bearers in their thirties regretting their Chinese writing after the circulation of various urban myths. Such as the one about the woman whose sexy back tattoo actually reads “inferior goods”, or the karate student who thought his tattoo meant “strength,” but later found out it means “small domestic animals”.

For some tattoos signify free expression, for others they just read ’cheap’. It seems however mine signified ‘a holiday in Lanzarote with someone my mother considers a bad influence’. So, the latter then. In holiday mode I was veering between the two schools of thought, until on an opportunist whim I followed my friend in the tattooist’s chair. I went for a small flower on the sole of my foot. I’m always doodling little hibiscus and I thought it was a smart way of having my boho tattoo without ruining evening dresses. It wasn’t great. It looked a lot like I’d trodden in something, and the tattooist had shaded in my delicate outline, turning it into a grubby black blob.

Still, I liked it. I had to, it was there forever. Or so I thought. But after a month it looked an awful lot lighter, a month after that it was barely there and just a few weeks later it was gone. Today only the tiny stamen of the flower remains, earning me a funny look everytime I have a pedicure. Apparently the skin on the foot regenerates too quickly to hold a tattoo – something the Spanish tattooist ‘forgot’ to tell me. I knew every tattoo told a story, I just didn’t think this was the one I would be telling. Still, I think I had a lucky escape, I hear squashed-fly foot tattoos are so last year.

But don’t let my pathetic little tale put you off. I just advise you  to put a little more thought into yours than I did. If, like me, you’re undecided, don’t put your foot in it – just dip your toe in gently. First read the fabulous book ‘The Electric Michaelangelo’ by Sarah Hall and buy these gorgeous cufflinks from Simon Carter’s new Tattoo range, encrusted with Swarovski crystal they’re bling enough to be so very now, in the brillant retro shapes of sailor’s tattoos (I love the swallows, they’ve tiny red beaks).

Of course, if you do find yourself sold on having a real tattoo, but aren’t committed to it forever, just have it on the sole of your foot, it’ll be gone in three months.

Er, bit fresh out, what? Ah the magical feeling of bounding around in snow like you’re  in a Mariah Carey video, the bonus days off work, the joyous warmth of human kindness in the bleak midwinter.

Yes, yes that’s all very lovely but what about the pesky fact that this is the season of dieting, detox’s and new exercise regimes. Which is always tough, but is now proving downright impossible. Anyone for salad and a jog? No, thought not. Now we’re under siege with the outside temperature below zero my hibernation fat is pleading with my resolve for lashings of mulled wine and mashed potato. Thank god there’s no winter sun holiday booked to worry about.

My current answer to the cravings is vegetable soup, Ladyhawke on full blast and keeping warm by doing my new yoga DVD.

It beats risking broken limbs from the icy wobble back from the pub … although I’d better hang on to some of my winter cushioning in case my resolve breaks, and it would be a shame to waste that last mince pie.