On B. Elton, bastard
I'm a pretty confident chap. So confident, in fact, that I am willing to lay a wager. And it is this:
"I bet you ANY MONEY* that at some stage before the next UK General Election, Ben Elton will stand up and declare his allegiance to David Cameron and the Conservative party."
I tell you, it's going to happen. I remember first seeing him, sparkly suit and ranting about "Bloody Thatcher" on Channel Four in the mid-eighties, saying to myself, 'he'll be a raging Tory by the time I'm forty, writing awful Terry and June sitcoms'.
Twenty years later, and he's writing musicals with Andrew Lloyd-Webber and churning out the kind of smug film, television and paperback product that makes you wish chopping up people with a blunt axe wasn't actually illegal.
Only the final transformation into Thatcher's love-child remains.
It will happen. Oh yes.
* Up to 37 Galactic Groats
The vote-o of three
And "three" is the number of the vote-o. Not two. Or four. Five is way out. Three.
I shall be spending today in a course, one which >gulp< doesn't have computer access. You will, then, be forced to talk amongst yourselves discussing a slow, painful death for Sir B. Elton, and of course selecting a story for tomorrow's Friday tale of mirth and woe.
First Aid: "Then, I had my first nervous breakdown, and realised this is how they make tramps."
Food Fight: In the name of science, I ate beetroot for a week to see if my poo would turn purple. Worryingly, three years later, it still is.
Taking Leave of my census: It was then that we realised it wasn't the vicar at all, but a homeless derelict known to the local Threshers wine shop as “Jimmy”.
So? Vote. Me. Up!