On rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous

On rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous

We have, at some time in our lives, all wanted to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. Here's how it's done in four easy-to-follow steps:

1. Identify your target. Have a copy of Who's Who to hand for reference

2. Ensure that the Rubbee is a) rich, b) famous and c) at approximate shoulder height to yourself

3. Inspect for dandruff, excessive 80s-style shoulder-pads

4. Go for the kill. Barge in. Rub shoulders. Insert vol-au-vent up bottom if the opportunity arises. Leave.

"So," I hear you ask, "With whom did you rub shoulders with last week?"

I'm glad you asked me that, for my shoulder-rubbing mission was a complete and utter fiasco.

Although the target was indeed both exceedingly rich and incredibly famous, he remained seated for the whole evening and his shoulders remained horribly unavailable for the good, hard rubbing they deserved. And worse - my sad, limp vol-au-vent went unused.

So, R. Gervais* got away from Saturday's family wedding piss-up utterly scot-free, his shoulders unrubbed and his gait unfettered by the finger buffet up the bunghole.

Instead, we spoke at length on the End of the World, his part in the forthcoming apocalypse, and why the people running the bar ought to be the first into the firey pit of Hell.

Then, I stole his cigar butt.

It being rather below me to flog it on Ebay, I have instead given it to Scaryduck Labs for purposes that can only be described as 'nefarious'.

By extracting the DNA of Britain's best known comedy dancer that's sort-of-related-to-Mrs-Duck we aim - thanks to tried-and-tested McDonald's Fruit Pie technology - to grow a dreadful wise-cracking Cigar/R. Gervais hybrid that tells jokes and breaks every anti-smoking law in the country.

Then, when the gag-telling stogie - hand-rolled on the virgin thighs of dusky Cuban senoritas - is large enough and making a number of prime-time, award-winning television comedies based on the concept of 'embarrassment humour', I will barge in, rub shoulders with the nicotine-fuelled funnyman, and my mission will be complete.

Then, I shall smoke him.

R. Gervais: Consider yourself shouldered. Not to mention vol-au-vented.

I am not mad.

I am merely avoiding the harmless snakes.

* He is, it turns out, my mother-in-law's brother-in-law's brother, which, when I've worked the maths through, makes him my sister. I think.