You can imagine the scene. Well you'll have to because it will never fucking happen. I'm in the gym (ha ha ha). With my personal trainer (Donald Holding) and I step off the running machine (the what? am I for real?) to do an interview with BBC Radio Sheffield (Sheffield? In the North. This gets even more preposterous). On my mobile (at least that bit rings (!) true).
I also get a text from my vice chair the magnificent Ms Social Enterprise London Pin-Up Girl (hubba hubba Bubba) Hillda Ogden-Newton&Ridley to tell me "woke up, turned on the TV and you were not on it for once, thank fuck. I haven't been able to watch any of my favourite programmes for fear that you would appear. I have missed several episodes of Rastamouse and had nightmares that you'd appear at the Brits singing Rihanna's Umbrella-ella-ella in a spandex leotard. I could have sworn I even saw you on Emmerdale discussing the cuts with the Dingles in the Woolpack. Are you having trouble keeping your end up?" [private joke between myself and Hillda, eh Hillda? Please do comment to confirm below if you read this would you sweetie? Ta]
And I admit after a marathon 2,893 separate media interviews I'm fair whacked and having trouble keeping it up - it is hard work trying to maintain a straight face when all around are talking bollocks - so I have taken the morning off. To go to the gym (no one is falling for this, right?)
I need to do some essential grooming! But enough about my online chatroom activity. I'm at Windsor Castle on Friday for my Investiture. I'm beginning to get nervous. What if they realise it has all been a terrible error and rescind my K? Will HM spot my bald patch as I kneel before her? Will I blind her as the glare of the lights bounces off it? Will she think it's Hubert come back for another go? Will she even give a toss given she's been married to a slaphead for 400 years? Still my nails are scrubbed clean, which took bloody ages due to the accumulated grime from all of the grubby matters I have dirtied my hands with over the years, and my birthday suit is well pressed to iron out any wrinkles.
And, yes I know, that is now two mentions I have made of my bald patch recently, not that I am vain or anything. But I may have to accelerate progress on researching the possibilities of gampwigs.
So where are we on Bogg Society? No new announcements but I detect a change of tone. There is even more negativity than before.
I had a long list of points to make at this point but I really