Wednesday, 19 March 2008

The pain of D.I.V.O.R.C.E

Since the missus booted me out I’ve been overwhelmed with the support from my legions of mates. I tell you what, you can’t buy friends like that. Well, you can, but you know what I mean. Mark Guterman phones me every day. What a lad. Big lad, big heart.

Paul Beck has helped me take my mind off it all with some boss helicopter trips. We’re all bombing down to Cannes for that MIPIM thing. Apart from anything else we need to see how the public sector bods are spending our council tax on Russian brasses.

Me and Becky are doing a stormer on these sporting dinners. We’ve got a big one coming up for the Bolton promotion winning team of 1978, Peter “Reidy” Reid, Franky “Oh Franky” Worthington and Brian “Kiddo” Kidd. As long as we can get Frank to get his tackle out, we should have a great night. After that we’ve got an evening with David “Maysie” May as part of our “legends” series.

I’m gutted about the Supercasino getting torpedoed. RC Solutions had the contract in the bag for all the, er, solutions and systems stuff. We’re thinking we might have to get together with the council and come up with a better idea. Some of the lads are already talking about a Super Knocking Shop, but you’ll have the Millie Tant brigade up in arms.

If things look like I’m being taken to the cleaners on the old D.I.V.O.R.C.E, then there will be a wholesale emptying of bank vaults in the Isle of Man and a lot of very happy sick little kiddies benefiting from my generosity. We all know that kids touch the heart strings, and I’d rather they had it than that greedy cow.

All her mates down at the golf club have been turning her head with tales of how much she’s going to take me for. Luckily for me, not so for her, I use Pannones for getting me out of scrapes with the VAT, so I told her she couldn’t use those lovely ladies. She’s currently talking to that lot who advertise with the picture of the Porsche with the WAS HIS number plate. Outrageous.

You won’t believe what she’s going for. She even believes my rich list entry. This new brief has told her she can have a pop at my future earnings. What future? Since President Brown started nationalising the banks and frightening off the gamblers there isn’t a future for this country.

I better keem schtum on some of the things we’re going to hit her with when it comes to court, but we’ve been adding up what she might be able to invoice the Daily Sport for if she was to get out the new pair of funbags I bought for her at Transform.

The alternative, of course, is going round there with a red rose between my teeth and my cheeky smile. It’s worked before. Maybe it’s worth another try.

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