We put the kids to bed, had a cup of tea and then watched some telly, but at least we didn’t dress up as a toolbar.
For Halloween, eighteen of us dressed up as the different parts of the Toolbar itself.
- Google blog
I hoped at first that it might be some weird new euphemism, but I’ve now come to the conclusion that they actually dressed as a toolbar.
You know that bloke who killed all those people 20 years ago, yeah?
You know his wife, right?
You know her guinea pig?
It’s dead.
This, according to the Sun, is the biggest story in Britain today.
I mean, seriously. What about the canoe guy? What about Diana and Dodi? What about that nice bachelor man who gave all that money to that nice Mr Brown? About these pressing issues the Sun cares not one jot.
The country has truly gone to hell in a hand-cart, and to be honest it wasn’t even much of a hand-cart. The country has gone to hell in a wheelbarrow.
OK, I admit it, I didn’t die back in September. That whole canoe thing was just a ruse. I’ve been hiding out in Central America and I would have gotten away with it too if I hadn’t foolishly put a photo of myself holding my passport and driving licence on the website Look, It’s Me! I’m Here! In Panama!.com. It’s always the little things you overlook.
Turns out that in September I offended a group of Icelandic fundamentalists with my cheap fisting gag. Icelandic fundamentalists are a lot like Islamic fundamentalists but with warmer coats and a fanatical hatred of Kerry Katona. They did some digging and found that I’d recently named my pet cat Björk and after that it was just non-stop hate mail, effigy burning, flaxen-haired trawlermen outside the house demanding my death – you know the sort of thing.
In a last-ditch attempt to placate them I renamed the cat Atomic Kitten and that’s when the shit really hit the fan. Should I have known about the Kerry Katona thing? In retrospect, yeah, perhaps I should. Call me naive if you like – I just thought it was a nice name for a cat. In the end I felt I had no option but to stage my own death, cash in on the life insurance, go to Panama and buy a couple of yachts. Honestly, it’s been a living nightmare.
But now I find myself back in the UK and I’ll say one thing for British prisons: they know how to keep a man safe from Icelandic fundamentalism. I could get used to it in here.
Just one final note for my next-door neighbour (whose identity is obviously best not revealed for her own sake): please tell Atomic Kitten I forgive her for all the trouble she’s caused and I’m not dead after all. And make sure you do it that way round: get her feeling guilty first and then hopefully you can slip the not dead thing in “under the radar” as it were. I know one day she’ll understand.