Call for donations

Dear reader. Last week in a simple moment of indulgence I spent more than I aught on shoes and weskits. Several thousand pounds in fact. Now my damned credit card was wrenched from my grip and callously cleaved in two by some bloody dullard of a shop girl, so beneath my station I could barely credit it. Then to compound this act of impudence, the wretched creature dared utter, and I quote: “no more heels for you, fat boy”.

Oh reader I weep, pity me.

Now I have some half-witted thugs, calling themselves bailiffs at me heels. The credit crunch is supposed to be suffered by the dronelike zombies who work for a living. Not privileged prophets like yours truly. Was Jesus ever flung into a debtors prison because they wouldn’t let him off the exaggerated costs of a Top Shop store card? I think not.

I have, of course, demanded a bail out from the government, but to no avail. My old chum Fatty Brown isn’t returning my calls, but that’s what happens when you have a scotchman in the house.

Thus reader I await you kind donations. They can be wired direct to my account or placed between two slices of corrugated cardboard and be posted to me. Nothing less then a grand, dear reader, do be sensible.

Now then. I must return to my bacon sub, whose attentions I have been neglecting. Come here you!