The time has come (again). Prove to us that you inhabit the penumbra of fame. It’s Tenuous Connections 2009.

Here are the rules of the game: You have to come up with a tenuous connection to a celebrity. The cheesier or weirder the celebrity the more points you get. The more tenuous (or weirder) the connection the better too (although there is a cut-off point – seeing them on television does not count, nor does merely living in the same country or following them on Twitter).

Last years winners were:

(1) The Prestigious UK Award:

Rivergirlie for: “I bought my house from Uncle Monty.”

(2) The Equally Prestigious International Award:

Claudia for: “I was introduced to Dax Moy the celebrity trainer who used to mock Moobs’ paunch.”

You cannot use a connection that you have entered before. For the bibulous amongst you the prize is plonk. For the others (or at your discretion) it will be something that has fallen off the back of a truck headed for Amazon.com.

Place your entries by leaving comments. The winners will be decided Zimbabewean Election stylee: there will be a vote but then I will steal the ballot boxes.

Good luck!

Average Rating: 5 out of 5 based on 172 user reviews.

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Walking the path at the southern edge of the field, the setting sun casts my shadow fully 30 feet forward. My umbral hand clips a rabbit who, sizing my threat, decides against giving me the benefit of the doubt and lollops away. At my feet, rooks’ feathers mark a scene of battle.

I turn back. The hedgerow daisies are rivers of silver. The Sun is falling behind a fist of cloud propped on the horizon; a fat gold coin dropping into a black silk purse.

Average Rating: 4.9 out of 5 based on 198 user reviews.

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If you had happened to sneak a look through a hole in our hedge at seven thirty yesterday evening you would have seen me being driven towards the car at the end of a sharpened stick wielded by my beloved. She had decided that it was essential that we should attend an adoptive parents support network meeting.

Arriving at the venue, we found that the network had been divided into two sub-groups. Ours was meeting in a sitting room furnished with tables and bookcases designed to look like crumbling Greek temples. The room had the feel of a fourth form chemistry teacher’s re-creation of Atlantis for a school play. In the middle of the lost city of the ancients sat 12 people, shoulders slumped, alternately gazing mournfully at a bowl of Pringles or smiling weakly at each other like a prayer meeting at St Bashful’s.

From the corner came a droning, keening noise emitted by a floppy-looking lady in big pants. She was recounting in the minutest detail every deception perpetrated by her social worker; every snub and shortcoming visited upon her by her childrens’ school teachers and every disappointment and frustration that could be found within the impressive bounds of her unhappiness. It seemed the Sun never set on the empire of her discontent.

Had it not been for two things she would have presented the sternest test of the network’s ability to provide the support she plainly desperately needed. The first obstacle to helping her was that on the four occasions in two and half hours on which she drew breath and someone else began to speak she rallied and was able to intervene before they finished their sentence. Then off she skittered down another throbbing leyline of misery.

The second obstacle was the fact that she was the organiser. At the close of the session she smiled bleakly and said “well I do hope that hasn’t put any of you off”. Around the circle all one could see was bloodless faces and wide eyes. It was like a fishmonger’s window.

Next time, a sharpened stick will not be enough.

Average Rating: 4.9 out of 5 based on 239 user reviews.

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