BEING Britain’s leading money saving expert isn’t easy, especially when you’re always getting recognised while stark bollock naked. It’s happened six times:
Locked out of my hotel room
There’s always someone who hasn’t collected their newspaper at 6am, so you can sneak out, peruse the headlines and replace it none the wiser. I did just this in the July heatwave, got disorientated, long and short of it I’m in the corridor nude with nothing but a Daily Express and an economics student walks past. ‘Morning Martin,’ he says.
On a mate’s stag do
Went to a stag do in Munich and rubbed some of the lads up the wrong way by converting Euros to sterling. I thought they’d want to know the cost. Well, normally it’s the stag who gets stripped and tied to a lamppost, but this time it was me. And who comes along but a bunch of pensioners who never miss Good Morning Britain.
In the shower at the leisure centre
Showering costs money with gas so high, so I perform my ablutions down the leisure centre. The full lather and soap. I’ve paid for it. But when I got accosted, still midway through a vigorous scrub, I had to explain why a current account’s a better bet than a cash ISA for ten minutes, cock out. I used up a whole hotel soap.
Tackling a burglar at 3am
I’m not short of cash myself, after a lifetime of shrewd decision-making, but I won’t let that make me a target. So when burglars broke in I tooled up and gave chase, fully nude because that’s how I sleep. I cornered one who recognised me and asked whether he should commit to a ten-year mortgage. Ran through options until the rozzers arrived.
Relaxing in a sauna
I like to get away, and I find Finland very relaxing because it’s cheaper than Norway. There, in a spa in the wilderness, I could sit in the buff and sweat my cares away unmonitored. Until I hear ‘fancy seeing you here!’, open my eyes and it’s only Angela fucking Rippon. What are the chances?
During my medical
Looking after your health is looking after your money. I get a full medical every year, but in a supreme piece of irony just as the GP was holding my gonads and asking me to cough, he suffered a massive heart attack. My balls were in his death grip. I shuffled, naked and carrying his body, to reception where ambulances, the police and fire crews were called. It took eight hours to free me. I sent a large bouquet to his funeral.
