Diana In Heaven

Went round to Brian Clough’s to watch the England v Slovenia match the other day. Was planning to go to Don Revie’s but when we got there he was charging people twenty quid to get in and had put a ban on everyone bringing in their own drinks.

Apparently, the fucker was trying to flog off cans of Skol for a fiver a go. Plus there was compulsory bingo at half time. And he’s only got a black and white telly and he makes you take your shoes off at the door. Fuck that for a lark. So it was a no-brainer – off round to Cloughie’s instead.

It wasn’t a great match and Bobby Moore was bored shitless. He resorted to doing his party piece, which involves swallowing loads of jewellery and then regurgitating it back up. You haven’t died until you’ve seen England’s only World Cup-winning captain coughing up a bangle.

It’s Michael Jackson’s first deathday on Friday and he’s planning to celebrate it in style. He’s got a dozen unicorns to pull him around in a platinum chariot while he tosses After Eights wrapped in edible gold leaf to all and sundry.

Then, for the evening, he’s organised a star-studded party with special performing guest artists. Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding are going to have a fart-lighting contest, Anna Nicole Smith is promising ‘a vagina monologue with a twist’ and Wilfrid Brambell is going to play the spoons with his teeth out.

Jacko’s trying to persuade The Big Man to reach down and pull the Mir space station up here for a couple of hours so we can get the crew out, fuck about with them and then send them back. Only after wiping the short-term memory of all but one of them.

Next week I’ll bring you an exclusive from Jacko about how he really died….

Some odd bloke with a papier mache head pitched up the other morning, going on about how his mum didn’t have anyone to do her shopping for her and that she’d have run out of chops by the end of the week. I think I’m in love.

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