A quiet start to the day and then, in the midst of browsing through the new Squinty Fuckers catalogue while Olga ladles me out a bowl of her delicious cold, grey flannel soup (*hold* the parmesan....), a bombshell. A hurried telegram arrives from Ziggy Woodblum - you'll recall that he's my agent, solicitor and all round greaser of palms/scrubber of backs etc. Never one to compromise clarity when there's a charge attached, Zig's message is brief and to the point:
cll m - z
(I do wish Western Union would reverse their decision to charge double for vowels - Ziggy can be almost incephirable at the best of times, let alone without recourse to one fifth of the alphabet. Mind you, to be fair, with his vast array of speech impediments - it can take him several hours, not to mention emergency medics, to order a bowl of soup - a truncated text message can be the safer bet.)
I finally get through to him on his landline. "Bob? No, there's no one here of that name - why don't you leave us in peace? Why, why why? Nazis!" "Hang on, It's *me* Zig. *I'm* Bob..." "Oh, my lovely Boy! Glad tidings, my life! The goyim wants you for Strictly! Brucie....Brucie..."[sound of a pretend pound coin being rammed into a call box repeatedly accompanied by a high pitched moan followed by a dead telephone line...]
So, it's all very exciting - I check the Ceefax and, no word of a lie, I've been confirmed by the BBC as one of the contestants on this year's Strictly Come Dancing! Fantabulous news, isn't it! So this means not only do I get to lock horns (amongst other parts of the anatomy) with the delightful Camilla Giddyup...
...but I'll also get to meet Brucie! ("Shut that doo-er!!")
So, ready the super trouper, loose the dry ice, skip the light fandango! Now, where did I leave me red shoes....??
L.U.V. on ya,