OK, now this is getting ridiculous. Today I won £620. I am really trying to lose. I am over £2000 up in four days and over £2700 on the year.
I rang my mum today. She said she’d been reading the diary and wasn’t happy that I was gambling and that it was bad. I said “I’m two and half thousand pounds up!”
“That's not the point,” she said.
I countered, “I have to carry on. I’m trying to prove to the people reading this that gambling is a bad thing, that it’s a mug’s game and that you can’t win.”
She voiced the suspicion that I was on some kind of deal with
http://www.ladbrokes.com/ to promote their site and make the feckless idiots who read my diary, (and who all love me and look up to me and want to be like me) throw their money down the toilet. I said I wasnÂ’t, that she was being ridiculous, though I had to admit that I was impressed by their tax-free winnings, their easy to use credit card system and the fact that any pay outs went straight back on to my card with no fuss or bother.
IÂ’m joking. IÂ’m not trying to promote them. Quite the opposite. IÂ’m trying to show that they are evil shits who will steal your money (so it doesnÂ’t really matter if you donÂ’t pay tax, cos 25% of nothing is nothing). ItÂ’s annoying me more than anyone that my plan isnÂ’t working, believe me. This lucky streak simply canÂ’t last. It canÂ’t. I will reduce myself to penury to save you from the evils of gambling, even if it means winning millions of pounds.
ItÂ’s going so well that I begin to wonder if Ladbrokes are aware of this diary and are letting me win for the publicity. So donÂ’t fall into their trap. Do not go and play on online casinos. For the sake of my mum.
My mum was also keen to tell me of a new video that is hitting the shops soon that tells you what to do in the event of a chemical or nuclear weapons attack. I already know what to do, you run around screaming, flailing your hands in the air, shouting “My skin, my beautiful skin. It burns. Aieee, I die!” I’m not paying 15 quid to be told that.
I laughed at my mum and told her she was being paranoid (because as you know, that is not a trait I have in any way inherited from her). She spoke with a strange icy chill in her voice, “It’s going to happen. It’s definitely going to happen.”
I began to wonder how she was so sure. Could my mother be part of some Al Quaida sleeper cell? It would be the perfect cover. A 65 year old woman from Cheddar who plays a lot of golf, helps out at Church events, has no criminal record and has never been involved in any major suicide bombing mission. That was definitely it. All this time suspecting strangers without noticing that my mother is Osama Bin Laden. The beard and the Kalashnikov should have given it away.
No paranoia is definitely not something that runs in the family.
Now IÂ’m a bit paranoid that the CIA or FBI or whoever it is, might have some internet search engine looking for the many key words that are in this posting and might not be tuned in to my unique brand of off the wall observations. If I wake up in the morning to find that Cheddar has been blown to smithereens by bunker busting bombs (theyÂ’ll need bunker busting ones, because thatÂ’s where my old mum usually ends up in her golf games! Boom boom! Literally boom boom in this case. ) I am going to feel a bit guilty.
She isn't really in Al Quaida. At least I'd be really surprised if she was.
Adding to the slightly surreal sit-com style life I am having at the moment (in more ways than you will ever know) my mother also informed me that my elderly God-Mother, Aunty Joan, a respectable, elderly Christian woman from Halifax has booked tickets to see my show in Burnley.
This is just disastrous on so many levels. She has already bought her ticket. The box office lady warned her that it was a bit of a racy show, but Aunty Joan said “Yes, but you see, he’s my God son”. My father warned her that the show might include knob jokes and she said that she had seen one (and probably only one. Probably only once) before. I don’t know if that will prepare her for the cavalcade of material about auto-fellatio, oral sex and Jesus enjoying the antics of lesbian nuns. Will Aunty Joan join in with the ladies shouting, “We love your cocks”, I wonder? My mother asked if it was possible for me to tone the show down a bit for her. I said “Only if I don’t actually say any of it.” Which might be the course of action I am forced to take. Perhaps for once the show will be about domestic fowl.
On top of this, Burnley is not selling particularly well and my fear is that I will be performing the show only to my Aunty Joan. If you live in the Burnley area then I think this might be a bit of a special show thatÂ’s well worth seeing for all the wrong reasons. Maybe you'df like to buy a ticket for any respectable old ladies that you know who live in the area. Make a kind of theme of it.
Worse still, because the last bus back to Halifax leaves at about ten, mum has asked if I can give Aunty Joan a lift home on my way back to London. So thereÂ’s going to be no escaping her reaction, whatever it might be. I will doubtless let you know how this goes!
