Thursday, 28 May 2009

God Save The Queen

Mrs C has been getting twitchy again. She’s seen some of her mates hit rock bottom and needs to keep me on my toes. One of them is even driving an Audi estate, which is a big comedown from a Range Rover and an Aston Martin DB9, but that’s property for you.

Her botox and plastic norks clinic will scrape by, but the resi property stuff is rubbish. It’s probably going to lose us £50K this year. But I reckon if she didn’t have so much to do she’d only end up spending double that much at Hoopers.

Now she says she needs some more “substance” in her life – and she doesn’t mean the kind she used to shovel up her nose when I first met her and she was shaking her bits at the Purple Door in Yesterdays in Alderley.

She set me a target – and I love targets, I’m a winner – to meet royalty. She wasn’t impressed with getting an invite to the new shopping centre in Liverpool, even though “His dis-Grace” the Duke of Westminster was going to be cutting the ribbon on the Capital of Culture’s new “Peasant Crescent”.

My next route was to join this mob called Business in the Community - basically, it's the icing on the shit. Pay up and everyone says what a great guy you are. I went to an unbelievably boring day of speeches last year and signed a few forms pledging to cut our carbon footprint – it’s alright, no-one checks – and then we got invited to go to old Charlie Big Ears gaff down south.

You’ve never seen sharp elbows like it. All these mad witches falling over themselves in an orgy of brown nosing and I’ve never seen anyone look so bored in his life. She was trying to tell him he had an “exquisite garden” – like he doesn’t know that already and all he wanted to do was go on about the polar bears.

She was well happy for a bit and all was good, but rather than thanking me, she wanted more. That’s why I got a ticket for Queen’s last trip to these parts. We got offered slots in the welcome committee for her trip to Warburtons off Jonathan “Warbie” Warburton, but I thought we’d get more “quality time” at her visit to Leigh Sports Village. To cut a long story short, I don’t know if it was something I said, or Mrs C said, or maybe Lord Peter Smith went on a bit about Wigan, or congestion charging or whatever, but the poor old dear nodded off. I didn’t know where to look. Even Mrs C was lost for words and she realises she’s probably been too pushy on the social climbing scales even by her standards.

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

No good deed goes unpunished

I will never, ever, ever agree to going on television again. And I will never, ever, ever agree to helping people who are poor and “deserving of a chance”. Frankly they’re in the cesspool of their own misery for a reason and there’s nothing that can be done.

You will see me on the Channel 4 programme Secret Millionaire in a few weeks and be able to draw your own conclusions, but before you do I just want to set the record straight. I was asked to go to the Stoops estate in Burnley. On my first day I saw a banner on the railings by the bridge – “Happy 30th birthday – Nana”. I promised to put some money on the table and encourage local enterprise. They asked me to pretend to be a social worker, which is harder than you’d think. Tactfully, I left the Ferrari at home – and what a good job. The Hummer got keyed and one of the locals tried to crowbar the family crest off one of the wheels.

Everyone complained about debt problems, so I decided to do a bit of undercover work of my own. The problem was there was no money since Cattles had been run out of town and the IVA boys had got their wings clipped. So I set up two local lads in a business providing “flexible finance solutions”. I didn’t think it was fair to mention this to the producers because it was a sideline.

At the community centre everyone was saying they were bored with no money, especially the single mums. Lightbulb time. With some lighting and plenty of make up, some scrubbed up alright. I offered to make Thursday nights at the centre into Peppermint Hippos, local talent night, if you like.

That’s when it kicked off. I was accused of being a pimp, drug dealer and a loan shark. All true, except for the drug thing – that was just the car. Thing is, I never agreed to that being on the programme. I’ve never seen a mob like it; they obviously don’t have pitchforks and torches in Burnley, just petrol bombs and hammers. One of the lads had to get me out with his helicopter landing on the roof.

So I’m done. I have one final brush with TV people up my sleeve – a “drink off” between Ricky Hatton and Freddie Flintoff. It starts in Players Bar at the Four Seasons at the end of September. Freddie has to pocket his dough from the Indians and duff up the Windies. Ricky needs a lift after he got battered in Vegas. Frankly, the last time someone got that badly beaten around the ring they ended up face down in Michael Barrymore's pool.