God’s Naming Committee reconvene
A while ago, we published our unique take on a slightly odd concept - what a committee meeting convened by the Great Creator on the seventh day to give names to all the things he had created - would sound like. Bear with us, it's not quite as dull as we're now making it sound. Well this week, they're naming fruit. There's literally nothing that isn't funny about that.
Christ's balls Dave, that truly sucks.
TB to Jean-Claude Juncker: Feel my second coming, bitch!
Are you lookin' at me?
Howdy Euro-philes (in the word of my good mate George W)! What's cooking?
I'll tell you what's smokin' on the hog-burner (also in the words of my best buddy Dubya): me. Yup, I am truly bringing the shizzle (in the words of my also good brother, Snoop The Dog). If you can't stand the heat, you should remember that the European Parliament formally requires manufacturers in all member states to advertise the maximum temperatures of all domestic heat-exuding appliances. Dang bitch! (In the words of beloved late former Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Mo Molam.)
And why am I in such a chipper mood, I hear regular readers of How Inappropriate asking? Well, it's quite simple. It's because I am about to be enthronised (as I believe is the correct term) as the first President of Europe. Get outta here (in your words)! No, it's a cast-iron FACT that I will be the ruler of the free Europe by Christmas. (Even my heroine Maggie never managed that!) The reason for my confidence is three-fold: 1. the useless Gordon has finally started campaigning for me (rather than against!) And, given the massive amounts of respect that miserable myopic misanthrope commands on the world stage, that counts heaps; 2. I haven't publicly shown any interest in the position at all. In fact I have let the spineless Jean-Claude Junker think that he is the only bunny in the race, despite the fact that he is a) the prime minister of Luxembourg (where were you when we needed a coalition, you half-country?) and b) slightly more spineless than a sack of tofu; 3. (and here's the really cunning part) the job doesn't even exist!
Sometimes I have to send myself an awe-struck congratulations card when I realise how brilliant a strategist I am. Not to declare my hand for a non-existent job and in the process make everyone else think how desperate I am for it that only Gordon Brown will publicly stick up for me - that's the blackest of political magic! The job's as good as mine and why not, pop-pickers? Why give it to some banana-straightening no-mark Euro-bore, with his 15 languages and dubious heritage? Can anyone say that I am an undeserving candidate? Have I done anything that rules me out of the running? Is failing embarrassingly to get Britain into the Euro, despite imposing draconian public spending rules that crippled its health and education services wrong? Is sending hundreds of Brits to their death in seven meaningless colonial wars wrong? Is trying to pick up several of the most attractive women of the night in Finsbury Park on a Saturday night wrong? Frankly my dear, who knows!
Because, as I asked JM whilst we were leering at the Titian nudes in the main gallery of the Tate Britain last week, what makes a man? Is it the cut of his cloth, or the measure of his deeds? I mean, obviously I am a pretty sartorial fellow, and not for nothing do I wear Lacoste nudy-lady underpants whilst I'm snacking on brushetta in the exquistely decorated drawing room at Connaught Square, but I also get the job done. Especially the job of being a President of a whole bunch of countries, none of whom agree on anything; not even if they actually like each other. Eat that Obama (who thinks he's so cool he doesn't even have to return my eight urgent calls for support on Tuesday). Who's going to be eyeing up the First Lady of Europe when Cherie and I dance the foxtrot on the world stage? Who's the daddy now eh? In the words of my old pop hero, Michael "Whacko" Jackson, who's bad??
Have a blessed Halloween, my children.