I get all sorts ringing me and getting on my case when they’ve seen me here. But when you are featured in the biggest selling newspaper in Britain, two weeks out of three, the phone goes mental and I get stopped in the street even more than usual. And then when your wife pops up in the local rag, then I start to know what it feels like to be Jade Goody, but without the cancer, obviously.
First off, I’ve never made a secret of the fact that RC Textiles Solutions supplies some of the top High Street chains. For some reason they won’t let me say anything about it. I’ve got this lad who runs it – one of the Indian rag trade boys - I tell you what you know, he’s a good guy. He’s given loads of these women a job. The paper was on about it being a sweat shop, that these women were “slaves”. It’s all rubbish. Number one, they don’t pay tax; two, they claim dole and all the rest of it. By the time we’ve given them some free clothes and a few quid they’re better off than if we did it legal and paid them the minimum wage.
As if the News of the Screws hadn’t had enough of me they then had me bang to rights on the Lloyds Bank ski trip to St Anton as “ordering drinks”, “dancing on tables” and “heading off to a night club”. So what? What do you think we go on ski trips paid for by banks for? The skiing? The food? It’s Austria for fuck's sake; so you get on the lash. I actually can’t believe how tame it was this year. All these lads from the bank are like rabbits in headlights, you tell them to get a round in and they have to call Alistair Darling.
To cap a bad month on the publicity front Mrs C only goes and gets herself in the Wilmslow Bugle. She’s bought this clinic out of administration which does “modern hi-tech beauty treatments”. Tit jobs and botox to me and you.
Now, the reaction to all of this sums up what my so-called friends are like.
When the News of the World came calling Tony Tighe was straight on to me pledging to put my side of the story. Luckily the Indian lad copped most of it because I was away skiing.
Every freeloading lawyer and corporate finance jockey in town knew that the ski sting was just bad luck. By the grace of Roger, eh lads?
But nobody gave the old girl a smidgen of credit for joining the ranks of the Cheshire entrepreneurs. Oh no, just tired gag after tired gag accusing me (me!) of being behind it and asking if they could get a discount on some placcy bangers and a shot of botox for her indoors.
With friends like these, eh?