Sir Bernard Forsquith-Montague, all round cad and shagger of the stars has been given a page of the Imposter just to vent his feelings on a weekly basis.

Woof and how’s that? Lock up your daughters! And your sons for that matter. Well basically folks, I haven’t had a shag for three days. I saw on the box last night that Prince Albert shagged boys. Well raa bloody socks to him, that’s nothing new, I’ve been doing that since he was a little turnip running around naked in the mud. He can stick that up his right royal bottom and enjoy it. But, as I was saying until Mr. Blue Blood so rudely interrupted me, I haven’t had a shag for three days. So if any of you tight young girlies out there feel like a bit of romping with a stallion, then you can get my number from one of your friends because I probably would have shagged one of them. Ha, ha ha! No but seriously, just look for me, I’ll be out roaming the streets.

So Mr. Anthony Blair thinks that we should go nuclear does he? What sort of bloody fool does he think he is? Does he really think that atoms can create enough energy to make things go? Look at it this way, amigos. Horses are a lot bigger than atoms and you need a good ten of those just to move that fat old thing Cherrie Blair. Could you see an atom pulling Mrs Blair around? Not at all bloody likely. In my opinion, for all it’s worth, and if I may say myself, it’s worth a damn few farthings, all those lazy bastards who hang around in their stinking flats claiming benefit should get off their well rounded arses and do a bit of heave-ho-ing for England. I would rather have twenty working class folk from Stepney pulling me into work than bloody atoms (or horses for that matter because they shit everywhere). A car fuelled by atoms? It’s the silliest damn thing I’ve ever heard.

I was at the Elize du Rond-Point last night, necking the bellinis as one does of an evening, when some stinking little twerp approached me and started speaking at thirty words a second. Well, as you can guess I was not going to allow such cheekiness from a whippersnapper so I took out my cane, bent the little bugger over my knee and gave him ten of the best. I knocked him right into next Tuesday, don’t you know. The little bugger deserved it, talking at me and gesticulating as if he was the conductor of the bloody London Harmonic. How was I to know he was Daniel Radcliffe, the star actor in this new film Harry Potter? Am I meant to know every single face that gets plastered up everywhere and round abouts? Of course I’m bloody not. Apparently the boy’s parents want to take me to court for GBH. I shall simply say that I had the boys best interests at heart. If I had behaved like that with my father he probably would have cut my finger off with a spoon and made me wait at least half an hour before allowing me to go see matron to sew it back on. And look how I turned out. Snort, snort!