Goodballoon's paunch

Did anyone else hear that bang?

In 1996 Virginia Bottomley, in her position as Secretary of state for national heritage, asked me to form a think-tank in order to improve tourism figures in Great Britain. I was given carte blanche to choose from the very best that the United Kingdom had to offer in order to devise a series of strategies to attract wealthy tourists to this green and pleasant land. The plan was to jump-start the ailing economy and dig us out of the nasty little fiscal hole that Her Majesty's Government had found itself in by pumping Britain full of dollars, yen and sheckels. I honestly could not be bothered to go to all that trouble and so spent the money on a holiday to the South of France and some exorbitantly-priced meals. It was whilst I was enjoying this jolly at the taxpayers expense that I hit upon the devastatingly brilliant idea that would, I believed, make the UK a haven for fat Americans with more money than sense and more dollars than cents (do you see what I did there? That expensive education wasn't for nothing, you know).

My incredible idea? Quite straightforward really. Rather than taking celcius, doubling it and adding thirty as usual, we would take it, add thirty and THEN double it. Clever, eh? Ten degrees celcius would ordinarily become fifty degrees fahrenheit; no longer! Under the new system we would take your ten degrees and turn it into EIGHTY degrees 'Goodballoon' (the new classification deserved a new name and, quite frankly, could you think of a better one?). If the yanks could be convinced to buy London Bridge and that Reagan was a hero then the idea of London as a tropical paradise would have them swarming. The Goodballoon index was a goer! Millions would flock to our land to lap up the St Tropez sunshine during the day and spend the balmy evenings in the piazzas of Barnet, Peckham and Hammersmith.

Major and his cabinet loved the idea. Come 1997 all lights were on green and we merely had the trifling matter of a General Election to get through before the system came into being. A few opinion polls were twitching towards Labour but they'd done that four years before and we'd scraped through. History was on our side, surely. Alas it was not to be and within twelve hours of his election to the highest office, Mr Blair threw the whole idea out on the scrapheap. No matter, him and George are still sticking to my Iraq plan exactly as designed. Well done boys.

My childhood was not a happy time. World War One was a constant buzz in the background and I remember my father's melancholy refrain, "This war: it'll make me a fortune." He was right. My father sold working-class scum to the British and German armies at 3d a man. By the end of June 1916 he was a millionaire. My mother, an alcoholic hussey of the highest order, slept with each and every member of Asquith's cabinet and humped Lloyd George right through the war until his resignation in 1922.

The anxiety of my early years soon fell away as I was packed off to boarding school where I was roundly abused by many senior boys, a few house masters and the headmaster (he didn't get that title for nothing). I was not a good student and could often be found out of bounds stealing milk bottles, scrumping apples and carrying out vicious assaults upon the elderly and infirm often resulting in their deaths or incapacitation. Blue Remembered Hills.

World War Two broke out and I knew my duty. I packed my kitbag, kissed mama goodbye and headed straight for Ireland where I caught a boat to America and well out of harm's way. Ah, America. What a place! The view as we came into New York was quite a thing. Liberty herself standing like a beacon for the world's needy and helpless... or so I'm told, I was up to my waist in some little paddy tart at the time. It's a shame I missed it.

Next time: Death in the air!!!

I've had a wee note-ette from someone claiming to be called 'honey' asking about Danny "fucking" Lipp. Quite why anybody would want to know anything about Danny is beyond me but each to their own I suppose. Let me refer you to a letter I wrote to Danny back in 1987:

"Danny Lipp: you are a man of limited abilities. Your musical career has, thus far, given little enjoyment to anyone beyond the retarded and the Middle Eastern (I'm not sure that there is a difference). Your original records with the Dulcet Lads were bad, your later recordings with The Paliatives even worse; everything afterwards was either unlistenable or still-born. However, you have made me a good deal of money over the years and I am not likely to let that situation change, so it is with some sadness that I notify you of my intention to begin a process of blackmail that will, ultimately, allow my complete control of your records, monies, businesses and familes. Should you challenge my authority in any way I will immediately release the details of incident hereby known as "the Acton nastiness" to Mister Andrew King to be used in his forthcoming biography of you "A Lippful of lies". I am sorry it has come to this Danny, I really am but I like having more money than you."

This knockabout, chummy way of dealing with one another was what made my relationship with Danny such fun and continues to this day. As for "the Acton nastiness", the appropriate parties or "victims" if you must, were all paid off and no charges were ever bought upon myself or Danny Lipp. Tippy Seddon was not quite so lucky and is eleven years into a twenty-five stretch, but those are the breaks, eh?

Now 'honey' how about giving Uncle Jasper a little "sweetness" in return, eh? What say you to a few saucy postcards, if you know what I mean. Oh! You're not a girl are you?

A few weeks ago I asked you all to send me the questions you would like me to answer. I have selected a few of the best ones. Here goes:

1)Yes. Two of them
2)It went in there in 1964 it still hasn't come out to my knowledge.
3)I shouldn't have thought so.
4)a)No, I don't regret it at all. My views on The Queen remain the same as they did in 1987.
4)b)A cunt.
5)Stephen Sondheim.
6)8oz flour, 6 egg yolks, 1 whole egg, a tsp of olive oil and 1 1/2 tbsp of milk.
7)In no particular order: coffee, ice cream, meths, crackle-dab, turtle-minge, gin, felix 5000, Denny Boy in the third at Aintree, chicken noodle soup, cha-cha and heroin.
8)David Niven's eyes. No, make that his lap.
9)Pipe-smoker of the year 1985 (crack & heroin).
10)Bette Midler's. It was enormous.

I hope you all found that enlightening. I learn't an awful lot about myselfand I hope you did too.

Just out of interest if anyone is reading this pile of quack, would you mind dropping me a line? Either here or at the e-mail linky thing on the left. You don't have to but "hands across the water" and all that, eh? Plus, I need money. NOW!

I suppose I better say something about something for once, eh? It is so difficult when you are as old and infirm as I am to get particularly excited about current events. When you've been cock-fighting with Ernest Hemingway, arm-wrestling with Mariel Hemingway and tea-bagging with Bo Derek it is tough to get riled about what some second-rate shyster with a vinegar-stung minge and a spunk-scented mouth thinks... that's right! I'm talking about you, Mr Blair. Or something. Lock me up for telling it like it is. Ninety days? Ha! And as for you Mr Bush, or can I call you Snorty, like in the old days? What do reckon old chap? Complete victory? Sure thing big-boy. A victorious pink-hole piping for you from the "insurgents" in Iraq so far you cheap little hick. That cowboy dress-up game's getting a bit old, don't you think? Tres camp too. And as for you Mr Chirac, why I... Oh it's no good, I can't do it. I can't get excited about this bunch of second-string fucknuts. Wake me up when we've got someone interesting to talk about.