Live 8

Full marks to soap-dodger Saint Bob for putting together the Live 8 concerts. Must admit to being slightly miffed for not being top of the bill but I suppose Dame Reg needs the publicity more than yours truly.

A big up, however, for the non-appearance of the Spice Girls sparing us the sight of Ginger's gusset ten years on...

Public Image

So I'm in Imaculada's Portuguese BBQ & Sauna having a private moment when the manager calls me on the mobile. After an ear-bending of gargantuan proportions I get the message that yours truly has to get out there and earn some serious dosh.

Now you will recall that a Comeback Tour was mooted earlier in the year. Now that Cream has finished its gigs, I reckon the coast is clear for the some serious Grope Rocks! action. I get hold of Quentin and arrange to meet him at the White Lion to talk tactics.

I pitch up to find him bent over some gadget which he tells me is a raspberry or something. Apparently, he can be contacted by email at any time of the day or night to which my first question is 'Why?'. Anyway, I tell him that he needs to rustle up some PR pdq otherwise he'll spending more time with his strawberry in the dole queue. He does this little dithery thing for a few seconds and then launches into something about me getting a more consumer friendly image. Inevitably, bloody Clapton's name crops up. Now, is it me or does he look like a middle manager from an insurance company these days? There's a lot of 'over my dead body' from me and gentle sobbing from Quentin before I finally agree to a feasibility study.

So in the interests of consumer research, I'd like to hear any suggestions as how the already stella Grope image might be improved.

Keep it clean

Bath humbug

As today is the first day of the rest of my post-political life, I was not best pleased to learn that we are now no longer allowed to have a hot bath for fear of upping the second degree burns statistics at No 10.

Presumably there'll be an ESBO (Extremely Scalding Bath Order) in preparation as we speak.

Et tu Brute?

Well, the post-election knives are out and yours truly's been asked to resign his leadership of In Vino Veritas. Officially, it's to spend more time with my family but if you'd lived with my mum as long as I have, that's the last reason you'd give.

Truth is, there is a viper in our midst in the rather uneven shape of El Magnifico who has been waiting on the sidelines for VG to dig himself into a big hole. It all came to pass in the Diminished Fifth last Friday where we were foregathered for an end-of-week libation. I was on my seventh JD and Chocotino when the bombshell came. It fell to Quentin, who by now had taken enough Babychams to sink a battleship, to deliver the coup-de-grace by shouting 'You're out - gitface!' from the back of the bar. Now I know how Lady T felt. What followed was an unseemly ruck which resulted in the entire party being ejected into Greek Street but not before I made sure that El Magnifico wouldn't be writing any rhyming couplets for a couple of weeks.

So that's it for me and politics - give me the slimy, corrupt, exploitation of the music business any day

Party Party

Despite our best efforts Vino Veritas did not manage to win a seat in yesterday's election. There was a moment when we thought we might beat the Death Dungeons & Taxes party but I couldn't get my mum away from When Celebrity Nose Jobs Go Wrong in time to cast her vote.

Undeterred, we held a post-ballot party at the Somalian Barbeque and Private Book shop (all you can eat for £2.99 with a complimentary Special Brew) which I have to admit turned ugly at one point when Quentin and Old Cove got into a heated debate about our policy of free hair gel for the over 60s.

Anyway, it's all over for another 4 years and I wish our fellow campaigners all the best for the rest of the season.

Now I can get back to my normal lifestyle, I'm off to my favourite Gentleman's Venue for a bit of well-earned R&R.

Bring on the Swingometer

Well another week of canvassing has passed as the search for the elusive voter continues with only one day to go. I don't mind telling you that all this being nice to people malarky is beginning to wear a bit thin. I call a meeting of my campaign team at the Bigamist and Fancy Piece. According to the party treasurer, the battle fund, which consists mainly of a generous donation from my old mum's weekly pension that I lifted from her handbag while she was watching Celebrity Oven Cleaning, is all but spent - so we're on halves.

While we are honing the final part of our manifesto - no swedish students on the underground, a free coke with every meal for the under 5s, caravans for all - Quentin's mobile starts up. After a lot , 'yessing' and 'uh-huhing' he comes off the blower all excited. Apparently, we've acquired a new member who's jumped ship from one of the other parties. Some bloke called Kilroy-Silk who's given up trying to rid the country of johnny foreigner and wants to throw his lot in with us. Bouyed up by this news, we plan the final push which will be to address a rally of the faithful in the back bar of the Double Standard followed by group postal vote rigging before the last collection at the Mount Pleasant sorting office.

Isn't democracy a wonderful thing?