ABOUT those rumours. Let me put the record straight, here and now. It never happened. And if it did, someone else did it. I wasn't there at the time, and even if I were, it couldn't have been me.
Until these totally unfounded allegations surfaced, I was unaware that it was humanly possible to do something like that with one of those, certainly not in such a confined space and with the necessary vigour. Yes it is true that I own a pair of bicycle clips, but I have only used them in accordance with the manufacturer's instructions, never in the quite improper and potentially dangerous manner implied.
Don't get me wrong, I am not against this sort of activity. Each to his own, if others wish to indulge I wouldn't intervene, I probably wouldn't even watch.
But, as my friends would tell you, and indeed do tell you in the prepared testimonials they have so generously signed, I would not touch this sort of thing with a bargepole. In fact, I would not touch the bargepole, at least not without the pole owner's consent.
Moreover, my doctor could explain why I am physically incapable of doing such a thing, ever since that other ghastly misunderstanding in Bangkok which is subject to an earlier and equally robust injunction.
It is deeply upsetting to be associated with such scurrilous, offensive and, I am assured, unproveable allegations. This is quite simply hogwash: moreover the hog and I are no more than good friends who happen to share a bathroom.
Some might still believe the whole sorry story. To them I say this. Who is the more reliable witness? Someone such as I, a law-upholding pillar of truth, a respectable, dog-fearing member of society, a former paid-up member of the Tufty Club whose single fault is to possess an excessively charitable view of my fellow man?
Or my accuser, an illiterate, sewer-mouthed, gin-soaked, malodorous deviant whose only friends are those which infest his unwashed underparts?
It pains me even to issue this denial, but my expert media adviser assures me that this statement will instantly kill all media interest in the whole tawdry saga.
For the sake of my wife, my children and Hans, my personal fitness trainer, confidante and live-in astrologer, it is time to put this story to bed. And not my bed, to another bed entirely, thank you very much.
That will allow the press to stop wasting their ink on grubby tittle-tattle, and concentrate on the crucial matter of the day: what did Prince Charles get up to with his servants?
Well, there's no smoke without fire.
MY eldest brother is 40 this week (note the word "eldest", a subtle yet unmistakable signifier of my own comparative youth). Finding him a present was no problem, he likes books and CDs and there are oodles to choose from in York.
The card was more difficult. Shops seem to think anyone born two months before Christmas should count themselves lucky that they still sell a handful of dog-eared birthday greetings. Nevertheless, what a miserable choice. My brother is not a) a woman, b) a lager lout with a love of toilet humour (he drinks bitter), or c) horrifically sentimental. So there was not a single birthday card that suited.
In the end I panicked. Now winging its way to London is a card bearing a picture of two kittens in outsize sunglasses piddling on the carpet, under the legend: To A Very Precious Daughter-in-Law.
Updated: 10:37 Wednesday, November 12, 2003
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