As a responsible member of the press I wholeheartedly condemn the disgraceful behaviour of the party I don’t support in consorting with Russian oligarchs on their yachts in warm climates and there conducting all manner of underhand and quite probably illegal activities. I am determined to get to the bottom of it.
At the same time, I am delighted to hear that the party I do support has conducted a thorough review of all its dealings with Russian oligarchs on their yachts and has found all allegations of impropriety to be entirely groundless. I trust this will be the end of the matter.
Senator Obama’s pig comment may be raising eyebrows in the States, but over here in the UK it’s raised the spectre of an all too similar comment made almost 30 years ago. I am of course referring to Jim Callaghan’s fateful remark in the run-up to the 1979 general election:
You can give a pig a big hairdo and a blue handbag and elect it leader of the Conservative Party: it’s still a pig.
Ever the opportunists, the Tories were quick to seize on the comment as an alleged slur on their leader, Mrs Thatcher. And despite Callaghan’s protestations that he’d used the pig as a metaphor for the opposition’s shameless policy recycling, the accusations stuck and Thatcher romped to victory just two months later.
And the rest, as they say, is history: Thatcher reigned for a thousand years, presiding over a slew of policies that would change the face of Britain forever: the outlawing of milk; the war with Denmark; the unilateral withdrawal from the Eurovision Song Contest; the invasion of Mars.
I trust the moral is clear, America: vote for the pig woman and you’re looking at no end of trouble.
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.
There was some fellow from Iceland on Radio 4 tonight going on about fisting quotas. Apparently there’s been too much fisting in the North Sea which has led to concerns that within as little as 10 years there will be no more fisting at all. It will just be impossible to fist.
Took me a while to realise he was talking about fishing. Honestly, they should teach them to speak properly before they let them on the radio. I’m having trouble sleeping now.