We'll call you, IMF tells Clarke

THE International Monetary Fund has promised Ken Clarke it will definitely give him a call about the vacant managing director’s position.

With the resignation of Gallic sex monkey Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Clarke had spotted an opportunity to escape British politics after describing date rape as ‘a bit saucy’.

With women and men who read calling for him to be sacked, the justice secretary fears his credibility may be damaged irreparably but believes international debt management would benefit from his broad minded approach to sex crime.

However, senior officials at the IMF suggested it may be unwise to replace Strauss-Kahn with someone who thinks his detention at  Riker’s Island is a tad harsh.

A source said: “Ordinarily Ken would be very near the top of the list. Very near. It’s just bad timing really. You can have an alleged sex offender, or you can have someone who thinks that sex offences are just a bit of tickle fun. But you can’t have one after the other.

“It’s not the Italian Monetary Fund.”

A friend of the justice secretary said: “No-one remembers but Ken was actually chancellor for a few years and unlike Gordon Brown he was quite good at it but unfortunately didn’t have a bunch of arse-felching hacks to write horseshit articles about his ‘genius’.

“He’d be really good at running the IMF. A Frenchman’s been doing it, so it’s not like it’s difficult. And the other great thing about Ken is that he’s really good at telling it like it is, even when it couldn’t possibly be more wrong.

“If only Cameron had put Ken at the Treasury and Osborne at justice then we’d have a chancellor who knows what he’s doing and a justice secretary who knows that sex crime begins at school.”

The friend also speculated as to why Clarke had suggested some rapes were cheekier than others.

“He’s a huge Dizzy Gillespie fan but he’s not very street wise so I think he may have felt some empathy for sex offenders when he was told that a lot of them are obsessed with jazz mags.”

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Karen Fenessey's Anglesey Odyssey

I AWOKE to see that Pippa Middleton has jetted off on holiday with her ex, just in time to distract everyone from the real news about her sister. It was like the wedding all over again and all the old tremors returned.

Without realising, I leapt into my car and drove all the way to the royal couple’s home town of Anglesey in Wales. I had to warn Kate or die trying. I lurched hopelessly through the streets of the barren townscape, trying every door but someone had locked them all. Kate was trapped.

Then, as if by magic, I happened upon the local Waitrose. I cried out in joy when I saw a fine head of long, brown hair gliding across the car park with the same royal flourish I’d seen recently on my TV. I approached from behind and reached out to touch that coveted royal mane, but recoiled at the last second when I noticed the split ends and weather-beaten toddler. This wasn’t Kate. In fact, it was obviously a local prostitute, probably lost on her way to Somerfield. Why was she lost? I suspect it was down to such street drugs as heroin and ‘whippets’.

Outside, my tears mingled with the rain, which dribbled from the clouds like urine from an indifferent deity’s underpants into a big, Welsh toilet. Who had done this to these people? Who could I turn to for help? Catherine Z? Dame Shirley B? Midge U?  

“Gone! They’re all gone!” I sobbed at the sky as God turned his back.

Then it happened: out of the clouds a big chopper roared overhead and into the distance. God was right: there was only one way to lure the prince.  If I couldn’t save Kate, I could at least know exactly how it feels to be her, so I scaled a fire escape and threw myself from the roof of Waitrose. I cannot describe the gynaecological pain as my fall was broken by an incomprehensibly placed Welsh bollard. I lay on the ground moaning, drifting in and out of consciousness waiting for the prince to fly to my rescue. But all I saw was a balding man with his troll companion. “It got her, mother!” he gasped, gesturing at the bollard. “It got her right in the hairy biker…”

“I don’t speak Welsh” I murmured before passing into oblivion. When I next woke, I was in a hospital bed.  A member of the local constabulary was standing over me, raping me with his eyes. “Why did you do this to yourself, love?” he asked, intrusively. “Pippa,” I told him. “She pushed me. She’s jealous.”

I am not in the business of telling lies and sure, maybe Pippa didn’t push me.  But as I leave this hellish place clutching my course of cranberry and anti-inflammatories, I’m telling the truth when I say “She did push me, though”. How many more fatalities will it take? The prince can’t be there every time to save us. A pain I know only too well.