In the interests of a fair and open debate for the ongoing elections I thought I'd better come out and say that I don't believe any of those horrible rumours circulating on the internet at the moment* regarding the behaviour of my fellow candidates, Anne Widdicombe and a jar of Hellman's mayonnaise.
They're right to maintain a dignified silence on the whole sordid affair, and you certainly shouldn't take their reticence to be drawn on the subject as a sign of sinful, sinful guilt.
Instead I though I'd share a rambling anecdote designed to con you into thinking I'm worth perjuring yourself at the poling booths for.
As you can see from the picture, I was in Tokyo staying with my good friend Godzilla. After a messy divorce he was thinking of getting out of the 'battling rubbery-looking super villains' game. "Maybe you should take a sabbatical?" I said to him, "Take a little time to yourself and recharge your batteries. Maybe do some painting?" And while he was away learning watercolours in the Algarve I would look after his flat: water his plants, feed his cat, things like that.
Anyway, there I was trying to find a jug to put some Baby Bio in when who should call but MI6 -- they were having a spot of bother with some missing love slaves -- according to their sources this bloke called Scaramanga had kidnapped them, but in a stroke of luck they'd found out he was in Tokyo getting some more carnivorous Koi Carp for his secret-agent-eating tank -- and would I mind rescuing them?
Well I was out at the pet shop picking up another packet of Whiskas when who do I see, but the very man himself, looking for a tub of secret agent bits to feed his fishies. Long story short: he invites me back to his secret lab for sake and sushi.
There we are tucking into some excellent tuna nigiri when the doorbell goes and there's Blofeld. He'd come round to return Scaramanga's fondue set and the video of this year's Eurovision Song Contest. Scaramanga asks him to stay for tea, but we're all out of sake, so we grab the love slaves and head off down the nearest karaoke bar where Blofeld starts telling us about his latest plan for world domination.
Now you don't need me to tell you that it involved a huge amount of technical blah-blah-blah and nuclear this and biological that -- the usual super villain who's got too much time on his hands nonsense. "Look," I told him, "why go to all that bother and expense when you can just write a brain virus and hide it in an MP3 file? The Spice Girls are getting back together, you could probably piggyback the brain melting drone on one of their new songs. No one would notice the difference."
"I didn't know the Spice Girls were getting back together," says Blofeld.
"Oh yes," says Scaramanga, "people think the motive's purely financial, but between you and me I think it's because Posh Spice has had bugger all creative success since the group folded in February 2000 after their R&B styled album Forever did badly in the charts."
"Oh for God's sake," says Blofeld, "you're so gay."
"Are too! It's the three nipples isn't it?"
At this point I order more sake and then we all get up and do You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling, though if I'm being brutally honest, Scaramanga was a bit flat.
Scaramanga wasn't impressed when Blofeld got up and sang Summer Loving - he'd been looking forward to doing that one himself all evening...
An hour later and everyone's getting a bit squiffy: there's this big debate going on about whether or not Sporty Spice goes like a bunny, when who turns up but James Bond. He's three sheets to the wind and brings the whole evening to a crashing halt with his dreadful, tone-deaf karaoke rendition of On The Good Ship Lollypop. Honestly, I didn't know where to look.
So we grabbed him, took him back to Scaramanga's hotel room, smeared him in vegemite and fed him to the carnivorous Koi Carp who were swimming about in the bathtub.
All in all it was a fun evening and the love slaves agreed it was the most fun they'd had in ages and we should really do it again some time.
* Not even the ones I started.
Labels: Cold Granite, lies, ramble, Stuff about me