Bollocks

My career has now pinnacled and there’s little left for me to achieve in life. I’ve made it. Spangled celebrity invitations must surely follow. I think I’ll do the “Get me out of here” thing first – it’s only up the road.

I came perilously close to serious heights when The Sun did a piece about our involvement in the esteemed Telegraph Pole Appreciation Society for a recent Saturday edition. Embarrassed by the terrible photo though and corny write-up I never broadcast this further than the foot of our stairs. And buying up all copies nationwide proved a larger task than ever I imagined.

BBC Somerset followed. That was nice, I suppose – they got it, at least, and didn’t try to score any cheap points. But then Talk Radio came on for an interview – and I found myself little more than the punctuation between the presenter’s portentous pontifications. I felt somewhat violated afterwards. So when Channel 4 came knocking for a daytime chat show, I had to decline.

I’ve seen the documentaries: Diego Maradonna never had a moment to himself and Princess Diana even had a scuba paparazzi around the U bend in her toilet. I don’t want any of that thank you very much. And neither does Mrs TPAS.

So, it’s rather fortuitous that presently we’re all forced to hide our faces behind masks enabling me to hang on to my utter Z list nonentification once the new year’s Dull Men’s Club Calendar hits the shops. For you see, dear reader, I and, more specifically, T.P.A.S. are the face of November 2021. Do you know who I am?

• 

P.S. I’ve deliberately blurred the text in the hope it’ll encourage you to buy one to see what it says about me and the other eleven fascinatingly dull people on there. Plus you can use it to check if it’s still Sunday or not.