Ah yes... Now, this is going to be a little awkward. No doubt many of you are still digesting the lurid minutiae of my private affairs, which have so recently embellished the otherwise drab grey pages of our nation's less reputable tabloids. Well done, you. Now, whilst I would like to comment upon these stories, and refute some of the more colourful and, frankly, physically challenging aspects, I'm afraid that I am unable to do so. Thanks to the gormless spanner whom I have unwisely chosen to handle my legal affairs, I find that I am the unfortunate victim of a backfiring super injunction. This means that whilst everyone else in the world is at liberty to chew over the intimate details of my personal life, I myself am forbidden to discuss it.
Hello there, my name is Doctor Adolphous Bongo, although I'm probably not allowed to tell you that. It's infuriating, but if this business has taught me nothing else, it has brought home to me the shocking levels to which the press has sunk. I'm not in the habit of reading the likes of The Daily Whoppers, or whatever these things are traditionally called, and I was quite unprepared for the sight of so much bare flesh masquerading as news. If I wanted to undertake regular examinations of the naked human form in almost forensic detail, I would make a point of attending my surgery more often. That said, it has to be admitted that Mrs Macauly's varicose veins don't compete on quite the same level as the gorgeous Tracy, 19, from Tunbridge Wells.
I suppose the real lesson here is that there is a limited amount of wisdom in trusting your legal affairs to someone who operates out of a caravan parked on the waste ground behind the Red Lion. This man, the chief cause of my distress, goes by the name of Mr Ralph Hampney-Cocksure LL.B(Hons). Don't allow the letters appended to his handle confuse you into thinking that he is anything less than a certifiable cretin. Granted, he's villainous and despicable enough to call himself a lawyer, and in more favourable circumstances I might even be proud to call him a brother. But when charged with obtaining for me one teeny-weeny little super injunction, the man has demonstrated a level of mental capacity one would normally attribute to a bar snack. Seriously, in a straight up contest of mental acuity, my money would be on the Cheesy Wotsit every time. I wouldn't trust the prick to operate a toothbrush without sticking it into the wrong orifice - possessing, as he does, the kind of searing and incisive intellect that would be admirable in nothing more sentient than a house brick.
Anyway, what's wrong with dressing up a donkey in rubber? I put this question to you apropos of nothing in particular, you understand. Certainly, nothing that I am liberty to publicly disclose. I'm just saying, purely as an exercise in idle speculation, that if a respectable, upstanding professional man - a medical man, perhaps... let's say, for the sake of argument, a dentist - well if such a man wished to consort with a consenting quadruped, four gallons of taramosalata and a length of rubber hose, then shouldn't he be allowed to do so, without the whole thing getting splashed all over the Sunday papers? I mean, it's getting to the point where a man can't call a pair of galoshes, a family-sized pack of chocolate fingers and a tyre lever his own.
Speaking of tyre levers, I was fortunate to bump into the eminent bottom doctor Sir Harvey Bumstead at the golf club the other day. Lord, what an awful drag! Golf, I mean, not Sir Harvey. Actually, Sir Harvey's not the most sparkling of company, but he's typical of the kind of bigwig one get to jostle elbows with whilst teeing off on the seventh. Interestingly he told me that he's got my solicitor - the Cocksure fellow - pencilled in for some kind of rectal procedure next Tuesday, and he very charitably invited me to pop along and lend a hand, so to speak. And that, in case you were wondering, is where the tyre lever will come in - it is my intention to give the chap the kind of injunction that will permanently change the way he walks. And no amount of taramosalata will put a smile on his face after that.
Copyright © Paul Farnsworth 2011
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