Ho! Ho! Ho!
I am, of course, giving a festive Santa Claus style greeting rather than divulging the contents of Snoop Dogg's christmas present list.
It can barely have escaped your attention that we on the cusp, some say the brink, of the Christmas season. So, a big "Merrizzo to da Chrizzo"* to everyone looking in. Sorry if you were only looking for bukkake-related material but you could really give the old "face like a plasterer's radio" hi-jinks a rest at this time of the year, couldn't you?
Anyway, I can't sit here blathering on about christmas, can I? You are doubtless keen to hear of my latest doings, you shower of slavering prurient voyeurs that you are.
Well, firstly I have been having a shave, a haircut and donning some dapper, well-cut threads and cutting quite the roguish, man-about-town figure if you must know. It recently dawned on me that I had begun to look rather rough around the edges. Raggedy jeans, sagging t-shirts, a floppy, bedraggled mop of hair, that type of thing.
This type of get-up is all well and good when you're a young shaver, all chewing gum and bad attitude, but sits rather less well as the years go by. In short, I have recently realized that I am no longer a teenager. It reflects poorly on me that I am the small matter of twelve years late with this startling insight, but there you go. I never claimed to be perfect. I claimed to be great and/or skill.
So, it has been on with the shaving products, hair oils and natty neckwear and neatly-pressed trousers. The response has been little short of annoyingly patronising.
"You're looking smart today, Colonel. Got your eye on some young filly, have you?"
"After a new job, eh?"
"What are yee dressed as, you big puff?"
That type of thing. Still, you can't let the scorn of fools trouble you. I believe it was Adam Ant who wrote that "ridicule is nothing to be scared of" and they don't come any more level-headed and sagacious than Adam Ant out of Adam and the Ants, do they?
An example of this new-found Jason King-style high rolling was this recent weekend. After a pleasant afternoon watching Premiership soccer via an illegal satellite feed and drinking the local pub dry (not a great feat as the simpleton who owns the place has only a rudimentary grasp on the concept of stock ordering) it was off to the gaudy gin palaces of Morpeth, the place, lore has it, to go for "tidy boilers". Well, I wasn't in the market for heating equipment but I was in the mood for aled-up slavering on.
Imagine my surprise when business ensued and boots got knocked.
In fact, the new-look Colonel has cut quite a swathe through the massed ranks of the local females too. In the last two months alone, I have had "liaisons" with two, count 'em, two ladies. Yes, I am quite the Darren Day, eh, what?
However, we shall draw a veil over such goings-on. The upper echelons of ladies' men, which I'm sure nobody would dispute that I must now be classed in, do not shout their successes from the rooftops. They maintain a discreet silence regarding such matters, holding that it is poor form to be bandying the names of fair ladies all over the place.
Particularly if they have been making the two-backed beast with what must, in all fairness, be described as "hoonds".
To conclude, may you all have a splendid holiday celebration and a prosperous new year where you have better things to do with your spare time than reading the addle-pated ravings of a greasy-haired, lying old fool.
*"Merrizzo to da Chrizzo" meaning, as I'm sure you all know, Merry Christmas. It's a kind of urban twist on the old expression. The kind of thing I expect Nate Dogg or DMX might append to their Christmas cards to Dr Dre.