Surely Not!

Unfortunately for Prince Sawdust, I was occupied elsewhere. I had just been asked--very nicely and with sugar on top, I might add--by the Chancellor to arrange a charity event benefitting the European banks. I had hastily called up a few friends of mine, all of whom immediately agreed to partake, of course, and made sure that the Albert Hall would accomodate our gig on just a few hours' notice. I just don't understand why others need months to prepare for something which is so facile to put together, after all.

I had, during a drinking game at the Ritz, agreed to entertaining the masses as well, but couldn't make up my mind whether I should do my infamous disappearing-and-reappearing card trick (which David Copperfield has begged me to teach him for years) or sing a medley of songs by the Bee Gees. While I was making a list of pros and cons backstage, Al Pacino came up to me with an offer I couldn't refuse (mainly because he was sloshed and I was unable to make out what on earth he was saying). Apparently it had something to do with a blindfolded donkey and a couple of mittens, but I didn't have the time to get to the bottom of the story. Pacino seemed to think the whole idea was hilarious, anyway. Good for him. Ass.

Anyway, I was prepared for whatever the night would bring, and decided to improvise my performance. Perhaps some standup about the current financial crisis would get the audience in a good mood, or how about a jolly Morris dance with an imaginary partner. I was getting very excited about the whole thing, just as an urgent message appeared on my Irismatron: "Come to Chequers. Stop. Need you here by midnight. Stop. Bring winter clothing. Stop." Somehow the people at no. 10 have never stopped doing everything "the good old way", and still swear by using "proper telegraph protocol" even though we've come a long way since then. I grabbed my faithful Gucci rucksack and headed for the back door, which took me through to an intricate maze of underground cells, and finally let me out at Trafalgar Square. I had lost twenty minutes from not using the bloody main entrance like everybody else, but I had picked up a copy of Cosmo and a pair of bright red ear muffs on the way. I was set to go anywhere.

Saving the Neighbourhood

Woke up this morning to find an express parcel at my door step. Apparently it had arrived from Halifax, Canada last night and was then delivered by jet ski to my mansion. The label said "Top Secret" in pink ink and I immediately sacrificed one of my bodyguards, Paul, by ordering him to open the parcel. I'd recognise that ink anywhere; it's the trade mark of an old enemy of mine, Prince Sawdust. Since he is known for placing home-made bombs in correspondence letters as a prank, I knew I should stay well away.

Paul never got to celebrate his 25th birthday.

Then again, never did I, but that was because I was travelling to Samoa to save a band of monkeys from being shipped to Arizona for nuclear testing.

Anyway, the parcel from Prince Sawdust seemed to contain nothing but a pair of his old pants. Another popular prank of his. Fortunately, I know all of his tricks (he is in fact very predictable), and by using my underground lab I managed to extract the essence he had wanted me to find in the first place.

Let's just say we have a love/hate relationship. Luckily for me, this time he loved me.

He had sent me a microfilm which required me to turn on my super secret film projector two hundred yards beneath my mansion. In case you were wondering, it's in a specially designed room in my basement. I also keep my vicious fighting poodles there, where they are being trained by Oleg Travinsky, my rather flamboyant but strict Ukrainian dog obedience trainer and gourmet chef, twice a fortnight (just as he has recovered from last session's wounds).

The microfilm showed me plans for destroying the Taj Mahal, which would make the Indians turn ape, and rightfully so.

More to follow...