Chiggedy check yourself before you wreck yourself, the Colonel's in your face like a big can of Mace.
By which I, of course, mean to say "Hello there!" How's it hanging, dawgs?
It's hanging good, you say? Capital news. A weight off my mind there. Now, pleasantries over, let us cut to the chase, what?
In response to literally no enquiries I have decided to share with my dear readers the story of my life. Gather round folks, while I relate the story of a young player called Egdelwonk Lenoloc.
I was born in Kyrgyzstan, a baby. From then on, I grew outwardly in all directions, a trend that continues to this day. At the age of thirteen I acquired my first moustache, a wispy "five-a-side" affair that was carried away one day by a strong gust of wind. It later re-appeared on the jowls of "Birds of a Feather" TV unfunnywoman Lesley Josephs and has subsequently performed a self-penned "one 'tache show" at the Edinburgh Festival.
I received a brief but serviceable education. I went to Crenshaw High. Shit was fly.
Aged sixteen, sporting the bushy soup-strainer that is with me to this day, I enlisted in the Kyrgyszstan army for a couple of years of square bashing.
You know me, I'm not one to boast, but man alive, I bashed them squares good. I bashed them squares to the left, I bashed them squares to the right. In mid-season form I could batter the shite out of a square faster than you could say Jarmila Kratochvilova.
The army brass hats, impressed by such pugilistic prowess, rapidly promoted me to the rank of Colonel. While this sounds impressive, I didn't have any subordinates to lead or command. The entire staff of the army in those days only amounted to twenty-eight chaps.
However, in 1991 we shocked the world by overthrowing the yoke of Soviet oppression. The evil empire, having taken its eye off the ball in the eighties with its' Glasnosts, Perestroikas and Wham concerts, simply forgot about our small nation. In a bloodless coup, the Soviet ambassador was turfed out of his residence, a small statue of Lenin was hockled on and everyone in the country got pissed up on vodka.
Stirring times, my decadent bourgeouisie capitalist running-dog chums.
However, this brave new land fit for heroes decided that soldiers simply Wouldn't Do. The military machine was dismantled and replaced by a solitary security guard on minimum wage. In an ironic twist of fate, this position was filled by the former Soviet ambassador who had being doing a bit with the secretary of the Minister for Employment and How's Your Father.
Of course, counter-revolutions are all hip and dudey, but without the cold hard roubles of the russian overlord, the nation's finances went down the kharzy. The one day week, the winter of disco in tents, the Minister for Finance going fur-hat in hand to the IMO and finding it didn't exist any more. All these hardships and more were suffered by my people.
It was then I resolved to come to England and live the good life.
"The Good Life" was the one western TV programme that we were allowed to see behind the Iron Curtain. The state television channel thought that the show, with it's "hats off to back-to-the-land collective farming" message and rejection of capitalist values was just the thing to bung the way of the proles. Plus, Felicity Kendall was, like, totally fit as. To this day, la Kendall is worshipped and revered throughout my homeland. This is much better than those wassocks from Albania and their ridiculous obsession with Norman Wisdoms.
Learning the language of Shakespeare and Dickens wasn't easy. The only source material was a stash of Topper and Beezer comics liberated from the British embassy, a copy of "The Famous Five Chin a Picaninny" by Enid Blyton and occasional pirate radio transmissions of Sofia b-boys on the legendary Electric Bulgar-loo FM station. Thus my slightly unorthodox mode of expression was born.
That Tricky Dicky was quite the card, eh? A regular box of tricks. And Beryl the Peril, giddy up!
Having mastered this strange new tongue I stowed away on an Easy-Jet to Amsterdam, hustled my ass go-go dancing in the Melkweg before finally pitching up at North Shields ferry terminal in Old Blighty.
At this point, my career options were minimal to say the least. Dressed in ragged, unfashionable clothes, I had only the sketchiest grasp of the English language and a career in the armed forces had dehumanised me to the point where I was unable to interact socially with my fellow man.
Naturally, I got a job as a Civil Servant.
Oof! There's a punchline, what?
The rest of the story can be read on this here website.
Now that you know it, it's time for you to blow it. Get on your knees and kiss da ring...
Where are you going? Come back!