They’re just like you & me you know…

Over the years, a few select pillars of our cultural and artistic elite have borne witness to my presence…and some have even made physical contact with me…

The probem is, however, that I’m really shy, so I don’t like them knowing who I am…

For instance, In 2002 I posed as a journalist and got in to a special press conference being held by the glamour model ‘Jordan’. I felt my trouser-bulge swell anxiously as she gave me a teasing wave, but unfortunately I was soon asked to leave, as she apparently found my line of questioning ‘distasteful’. She’s one to fucking talk! But suffice to say, I unfortunately never got to find out if her big hairy moip needed sewing up after she had dropped that massive fatspack sproglet.

My celebrity watching hobby didn’t start there though…Many years ago I once wore a manky old animal fir and sneaked into a party hosted by none other than Nicholas Parsons! My plan was to lay by the fireplace and pretend to be an elaborate hearthrug. It worked like a charm! I nearly pappered my grundies with blissfull jizz when I was not only trampled by King Nicholas himself, but also by some bloke off Eastenders who played the guy that replenished the washing powder in the Laundrette vending machines.

6 months later I crashed a cocktail party in Kentish Town wearing high heels, a low-cut top and a blonde wig. Despite my Size 11 feet, 5 o’clock shadow and capacious beergut I still managed to get brutally arse-raped by John Leslie…And all I was after was a signed photo.

Once I was bitten by the celebrity bug my disguises started getting more and more elaborate. Through the summer of ’95 I had adopted the persona of a champion showjumping horse and toured the well-to-do areas of Britain. Once in the same day, I not only had HRH Princess Anne fart out a squelchy one whilst astride me, but I also received a sly undercarriage fondle from Zara Philips!.. Unfotunately, the success of my idea went to my head and I took it further – resulting in a trip to America and a bit of an unfortunate incident with Christopher Reeve which I’d rather not talk about right now. Those fences were fucking high though.

However, my taste for meeting with royalty had properly taken hold of me and In mid ’97 I sent some time razzing around by the Hilton Hotel in Paris, disguised as a white Fiat Uno. One night I actually got quite close to Pricess Di you know – but her fucking chauffer drove faster than I could keep up with and I lost her …Come to think of it, I haven’t heard much about her since that night – Is she still our ‘Queen of hearts’?

After coming back home I used a combination of rubber tubes and tippex to fashion myself as a toilet in the changing rooms of the London Hippodrome. I thought Victoria Wood was going to be performing that night but unfortunately, and to my lasting regret, she had to cancel at the last minute, and without my knowledge she was replaced by Bernard Manning. I was washing putrified lumps of half-chewed black pudding out of the back of my throat for a fortnight.

More recently I disguised myself as a soap dispenser in the VIP toilets at the O2 arena when Kylie played there. I can’t describe the feeling of satisfaction as I watched her slip off for a sneaky dump, then approach the sink and proceed to pump repeatedly on my dangling nosh-nozzle. Her look of relief as I finally produced drizzles of lumpy ejaculate for her to smear over her hands and face was a vision I will always cherish.

My Latest coup has gone sour however. I was planning to pass myself off as a pair of spangly tight underpants and have Michael Jackson wear me during the finale of his upcoming tour. In preparation for the event I wanted to check what size he wore, so I flew to the US and hid in his undercrackers drawer. I was quite taken aback one morning when he opened the drawer bollock starkers, but thinking that he must have a sense of humour I pointed to his tiny floppy appendage and shouted “A-HEE-HEE!”

How was I to know he had a heart problem? – I spent ages on that costume…the selfish cunt..

Nowadays I’m reduced to perpetually giving myself electric shocks with a stun gun as part of my latest ruse - I'm posing as a gargantuan vibrating anal sex toy for Eamonn Holmes.

At least I’m keeping busy.

And there’s always Susan Boyle - You should see what I've got planned for her.

Actually, before I do anything with her I'd better practice...Now, where's that Stephen Gately these days?...*


*last line added later for cutting-edge topical hilarity
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:14, 4 replies)

I like this
but am worried that it might be fabrication.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:21, closed)

I say fair enough
If you're going to lie on here, at least do it with style. Be blatant about it and funny like this post, not smarmy and pretending to be the truth like some that we could mention.
(The Magic Number is neither magic nor a number, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:27, closed)

Fucking genius
So far reading this has been the highlight of my QOTW week. The style and prose makes me pine for the return of our favourite "Bernard" warbling prodigial son.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:50, closed)

I decided this was worthy of a click by the time I read
"never got to find out if her big hairy moip needed sewing up after she had dropped that massive fatspack sproglet."

It deserves so many more clicks. Brilliantly done, sir.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:59, closed)