Oh Come On - It's Not My Fault!

I've had some very unnecessary comments since I announced that I'd be popping into City Hall on Thursday night.

The "erection night" and "pinky & perky" comments I can take, although I don't find them at all funny. But the suggestion that I've acquired "the Gordon touch" after being re-elected unopposed as Chief Whip for the 7th successive year is deeply offensive. I can assure all my readers that the flooding of City Hall has absolutely no connection whatever with my planned visit there.

After consulting with Labour colleagues in Whitehall, I can also confirm that there will be no outbreaks of ugly and painful sores, the North sea will continue to comprise salt water, no rivers of blood are expected despite Channel4 documentaries on Enoch Powell, temperatures will be normal for the season, there will be no widespread power cuts, the river Euphrates will continue to flow despite the US "surge", London will remain united and no hailstorms are anticipated. In addition, numbers of flies, frogs, lice and locusts are expected to remain substantially unchanged.

Breaking news...

The cat is out of the bag. It looks like all will be well for the trip to City Hall, after all. My well-known jaundiced view of LibDems had already been seriously challenged by the prospect of a date with the posh Alix Mortimer. I was quite taken aback when I saw the whole nine yards and - although I was pooped and a bit three sheets to the wind last night - I could really fancy making some headway there, son of a gun! But when I heard that Captain Mortimer (as she is known on the high seas) is planning to sail her ship, the SS. Dubrovnik, into City Hall for the election night broadcasts I was totally blown overboard.

Wow! Am I up for that? The weather's looking a bit rough and it may be cold enough on Thursday night to freeze the balls of off a brass monkey, but I'm planning to dismantle my inhibitions, overhaul my rig, get a crew cut and forge ahead. With a bit of good luck and a windfall in the offing, I'll batten down the hatches, splice her mainbrace and have a field day, even if there is no room to swing a cat down there. I hope Linda doesn't find out, because if she does there'll be the devil to pay. My water-logged skylarking intentions will go by the board, the wife and I will be at loggerheads, I'll be between the devil and the deep blue sea and at the bitter end I'll have to pipe down, dismantle my plans, scuttle the evening and toe the line. And that would be a mutinous shame, by and large.