I have made a vow.Actually, it's less of a vow and more of a court order. And it is this: Do not get your genitals out in public.
Getting your genitals out in public, I have discovered, is A Bad Thing. A Bad Thing that falls outside the strict moral codes of this law-abiding state in which we live, and liable to get me an ASBO.
Busking on street corners in my 'special' trousers, performing 'Last Turkey in the Shop' for interested passers-by, is completely out, then. And let's face it: the money was crap, anyway.
An ASBO, I am told, is a badge of honour in the less desirable social groups. A badge of honour which you may clip to your Matalan baseball cap before you go out on your regular Thursday-night granny-scaring outings; or simply to show off whilst standing outside the local Co-Op asking grown-ups to buy a bottle of cider and ten Bensons in your deepest, most grown-up voice.
Try as I might – vow or no vow – I have not got an ASBO.
It is not for the want of trying.
Just recently, for example, I did the most anti-social action imaginable.
It is perhaps, the worst thing I have ever done in my life, ever. And I've done some pretty bad things, mostly in the privacy of my shed.
I cannot lie, for I visited a large, impressively-marbled government building. And - Lord forgive me for this - broke wind in the revolving door.
Not a piffling little parp, either.
I've not been enjoying the best of health in recent weeks thanks to a slow-burning virus passed on to me from my delightful children, and the awfulness has been working its way out of my system.
"GROOOO-OOO-OOO-PFFFFFFFF!" it went, and I was so shocked and stunned I had to go round twice, before emerging, blinking into the reception area.
For shame, I only had time for two words as a power-suited middle-aged woman strutted toward the revolving door, mobile phone pressed to her ear, barking staccato syllables at the poor sap at the other end of the line.
Two words to convey the danger that awaited her.
Two words to reveal the dreadful crime I had committed against this orange-tanned servant of Her Majesty's Civil Service.
Two words.
"I wouldn't…"
"And I expect the audit on my desk by end of busi…. FUCKIN' HELL'S TEETH!"
She was so shocked and stunned she had to go round twice, before emerging, blinking into the reception area.
All she could manage as she staggered towards the fine fake plastic topiary hedge next to the reception desk, perfect hair now coming astray, the upmarket façade well-and-truly exposed by an East London estuary twang, was a single word: "Boilk"
Fake tan. Fake accent. Fake hedge.
I fled, and after this confession, I fully expect the forces of the Crown to catch up with me any time now.
It's fine, officer, I'll come quietly.
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