Gerard Depardieu's green card

YOU will remember back in 1990 I had a terrible time trying to sneak into a new country.

Andie MacDowall was truly furious – you could tell because she spoke at elevated volume for extended periods, usually with a complete disregard for punctation. But these days, it has never been easier to get the green card.

If you don’t like your government, simply have a noisy tantrum and renounce your citizenship. When they changed bin day to Monday, I threatened to move to Tibet and it was soon put right. But now they want to get their greedy hands on my well earned taxes. It’s like the government are Instagram and my Belgian houses are elegant snapshots of somebody’s cooked breakfast. I spit on these corporate scum.

And slowly, all the best French are joining my walk out. My good friend, Brigitte Bardot has followed me in asking for a Russian passport because our government want to terminate two sick zoo elephants. Like me, she’s noted that no fashionista on the streets of Moscow is currently wearing elephant. Indeed, Russia is famous for its laissez faire attitude to large, tough-hided plains animals. It’s Brigitte’s intention to construct a massive ark, onto which she will beckon all animals and believers two by two, regardless of whether they have highly contagious diseases. I can see it already: Paradis enjoying croissant on the deck; Sarkozy at the helm swigging on his favourite Creme de Cassis – and there’s Cantona, Henry and Deneuve doing ménage a trios in le WC just like old times. After safely reaching port, we’ll move into the Kremlin and dine on black caviar until we all get diarrhoea and have to lie down. Bon vivant!

Yes, I’ve had just about all I can take off this French dictatorship who must think I … how you say… zip up the backside. No more! From this day, I will only have zips on my onesies and teepee.

So, comrades, I leave you with this message: stand up and show your government you’ve got your trousers on. It will be the best thing you do today.

But remember: don’t green card to France. It is a stupid place – just like Les Miserables, with grown men shooting each other in the balls during disputes over bread and women walking through the poop with no shoes on.



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Brown owl shook her bucket at me

Dear Holly,

As I get older, I find my tolerance levels are decreasing somewhat. For example, I caught myself shouting obscenities right into a girl guide’s face in Sainsbury’s the other day. In my defence, she put the shampoo in with the eggs and her brown owl shook her bucket at me. How can I avoid violent confrontation with benevolent children in future?



Dear Gavin,

Have you ever considered trying to express your emotions through music and movement? All you need is a pair of plimsolls, Now That’s What I Call Music 5, and a willingness to leave your dignity behind you. Imagine you’re an enormous oak tree, blowing in the breeze to Kaleigh by Marillion. Stretch up high and reach the sky, then bend down low and wiggle your fingers in the imaginary grass. Watch out for Oliver French, because he’s on the mat next to you frantically channelling a decepticon. As you weave in and out, rustling your branches and letting your roots explore the ground, you’ll begin to abandon your rage, and by the time Slave to Love reaches its instrumental peak you’ll be photosynthesising with ecstasy. Just make sure you don’t get too relaxed and accidentally let off an eggy fart because thirty children in a gym hall rioting to China Crisis is not a pleasant sight.


Hope that helps!