GOR' blimey guv'nor and gadzooks! Thrice I had partaken in the devil's dandruff that very morning, and now I was well and truly off me crust, ta very much. The willing young lady of the night what I'd procured the previous evening was still wriggling around on me boat race like an eel on a bleeding frying pan. "I've had enough of this lark – now begone scarlet woman and leave me a couple of Rizla on your way out," I tell her.
Then I glances down at me Mickey Mouse fob watch. "Gordon Bennett!" I thought, "I'm due on the tellybox in half an hour, and I've only intercoursed three ladies in the past four hours". So's I rang the local escort agency and they send round this Thai midget who did unspeakable things to me with a toilet brush marinated in Deep Heat.
Following a most stimulating evening of badinage on me chat show sofa, I spent the early evening in the green room chatting to me guests, one of whom is an old chum of mine, the legend that is Mr Ronald Corbett. About an hour into proceedings, Ronnie, who'd been talking to David Cameron for ten minutes, turns to me, slaps me on the back and says: "This posh cunt's doing my fucking napper in – fancy necking a disco biscuit or three, for old times sakes?"
So's off we both trot, like a couple of proper scoundrels. Ronnie reaches into the pocket of his sports jacket and produces this huge great bag of pills and pops a couple into me hands. Strike a light, I think to meself, as the pocket rocket jock (as I like to call him) drags me off to this dingy little club in South London where we dance our tits out 'til the sun comes up.
Shiver me timbers and roll out the barrel – 'what a bleeding palaver over there in Iraq', is what I'm thinking as I watch breakfast telly, munchy-wunching on mouthfuls of toasty soldiers. I turns over to Lorraine Kelly on the other side and think to meself, 'I'd like to give that Scottish MILF some of me meat dagger, and make no mistake'.
So's I picks up the trim phone that hirsute twat Justin Lee-Collins give me as a down-payment on a wrap of Ajax I sold him the other night (shove some tissues up your hooter, that might stop the bleeding!) and rings GMTV. I ask, like, in me best telephone voice, whether the fragrant Lorraine would be interested in coming round and having her plumbing fixed, so to speak. To my chagrin, a recorded message told me that 'all competition lines had now closed, and I wouldn't be charged for the call'. Midget time.
As told to Matt Owen