It isn't all glamour, powder puffs, and cute make-up assistants with very soft hands. Oh no.
Of course, it does have all those, but this of not what I am writing of here.
No, I write today of the perils of being a public figure and having your face splashed with the juices of televisual stardust, and then spilled into the living rooms, bars, pubs, and clubs of the world.
I know you will not have recovered yet from my appearance all over your box on Wednesday. Indeed, I am also recovering.
So imagine my alarm when I am served before breakfast today with a writ allegating that I am a father, arising from a dalliance and a-dabbling some time back of what I know not nothing.
It seems the 'mother' involved spotted me on Smartarses and immediately contacted her solicitor and instructed them to pursue me for funds.
As proof of paternity I have demanded a NAD test (Not A Dad), as I don't think even the average chump on the Chatham omnibus would say there's a passing resemblance to the lads in the picture she sent me.
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