Saturday, 13 August 2011
About Four Euros a Day
Dear Mr Cameron
Have you ever engaged in the genteel sport of snorkelling? I ask because I know your holiday was cut tragically short and you had to restore your socks toot-sweet.
The Youth has been revolting again and you must be at your wit's end. (I surmise that the singular possessive apostrophe is correct.)
The pallid complexion disguised by the expensive Tuscan tan doesn't fool me for a second, Sir! You need the oxygen of good publicity. A few favourable headlines in The Daily Beast, what? And, of course, now you've been forced to disown Mr Murdoch (père et fils) these headlines aren't quite so easy to come by.
I feel your pain.
So, tomorrow morning pop along to the Serpentine in your Boden trunks, belly flop into the shallow end by the - sshhh! - duck house, splash around for a few minutes - feather-footed through the plashy fens - and just under the rusting Coke can and the empty packet of Scampi Fries you'll find a large stash of Roman jewellery. Rings, bangles, buckles, cigarette cases and those things they wrapped around their upper arms - I forget the name. I got them all from Past Times and they are guaranteed genuine reproductions.
(I've gone for jewellery as cracked vases will leave you open to various media wags chanting What's a Greek urn? Best avoided, eh?)
Anyway, take care not to drown as I can't imagine the Police Diving Squad will be all that swift in coming to your assistance after those remarks you made.
I've been on the blower to an Assistant Chief Constable and he's already sold the info to Fleet Street's Finest so, Mr C., remember to look surprised when the flashbulbs go off.
It's worked for Vlad and it'll work for you, mark my words.
All best wishes &c, &c
P.S. Apols to any comment-makers. Blogger has declared me persona non grata and won't let me reply to any comments.