A man with a plan, not a miracle cure. A striking change of tone. A speech delivered with gravitas and conviction, but shot through with a rich vein of humour. A natural born leader seizing the mantle of Mrs Thatcher. A man for all seasons. Nice totty for a wife. Our next Prime Minister.
That’s how a demented, blue-haired, swivel-eyed, octogenarian maniac might have described David Cameron’s smug, vapid, nauseating, disingenuous, pointless, dessicated husk of an address to the Tory party conference yesterday.
I, on the other hand, might have described it rather differently.
Be honest: isn’t this something every man’s done from time to time?
When officers had turned up to investigate they found Batchelor still partially dressed and with his flimsy thong on the wrong way round.
It’s so easily done, and after a few cans of Special Brew I’m told the chafing just doesn’t reach the brain. There are hospitals in Glasgow that specialise in reattaching testicles after just such incidents.
To the untrained eye, just two ordinary guys. Can you spot which one has his thong on back-to-front?
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.
They’re those little orange flashy-type lights on the corners of your car. There’s usually a stick for them somewhere behind the steering wheel. Try to think back: I’m sure it was covered in your driving lessons.
Next time you’re writing a cheque for your licence fee, remember to seal it with a kiss for people like Chris Lake, expert on the cost of sending e-mails:
The cost of sending 1.8 million e-mails is about £6,000, estimates Chris Lake, editor of E-consultancy.com which advises people on internet strategy.
“Last week I had lunch with someone who sends out 180,000 a week as a newsletter, which cost him £600,” he says. “That would make it £6,000, but it could be much less or much more. Plus there are the resources to craft it and put it together.”
There are lots of variables so we can’t be sure, he says.
Thank God he had lunch with another idiot in time, otherwise where would we be now? Sheer guesswork from some pillock, that’s where. Imagine that.
I don’t know why they didn’t go straight to Guy Goma.
I’ve just had a very enticing offer by e-mail. I can’t say too much in case someone steals my contact and beats me to the readies, suffice to say it was from a MRS CAROLINW (sic) WOZIMM, a good Christian lady from Nigeria who is rather sadly dying from “the cancer of the lungs”. To cut a very long story short, the unfortunate woman has a $9,000,000 inheritance to invest and wants me to have 25% of it! 5% will go on expenses, which sounds reasonable, and the remaining 70% “will be for the work of GOD”, which I have to say I find rather humbling.
All I need to send her is my bank account details and the money’s mine! She doesn’t even tell me how she knows me, but I’m guessing our great-grandfathers knew each other in the Boer war or something. That’s how I understand it usually happens.
Needless to say I can’t believe my luck. This time next week I’ll be obscenely rich and can finally wave a fond farewell to this fucking blog. Honestly, it’s been a pauper’s game, and never a word of thanks. Good riddance to the lot of you.