I recently got a job as the new host of the TV motoring show Top Geer, which I present alongside a pair of chattering ventriloquist's puppets: Vent-pup Small and Vent-pup Tall.
One of the regular features on our show is Tsar On A Reasonably Priced Czar - in which we invite bejewelled tsars (such as Oleg of Novgorod or Konstanti of Rostov) to ride around our test track on the shoulders of a Czar who's wearing clothes from Primark (ie; Peter Alexeevich or Vasily of Kostroma).
We also have our popular Power Laps segment, in which our resident, enigmatic lappist The St. Igg' (a reimagining of the singer Iggy Pop, if he'd been canonised by the Pope) gets down on his hands and knees to see how fast he can drink a bowl of milk using only his tongue.
On the rare occasion we do have an immigrant trying to get over the Cool Wall, I stand atop it, with my puppet co-hosts on each arm, and passive-aggresively pour cauldrons of molten pound coins and stonewashed jeans onto their heads, while barking obscure racist epithets that I intend to soar over the heads of my Oxbridge-educated, leftist, posho, not-CofE bosses, who inexplicably hate me, yet love working-class lesbians, Muslims, all those lazy simpletons who loll around in wheelchairs, and - probably - lentils.
We had a long day's filming today on the hit TV show Top Geer - for a feature where we repeatedly reversed caravans over the heads of feckless, stinking, sweatshop workers. However, it almost ended in tragedy, when I tripped over a slope while eating from a jar of Robinson's jam, and fell into a trough of 1872 vintage Babycham. Fortunately, I was able to bravely drink my way to safety, but by the time I came up for air I was both drunk and hangry.
When I eventually returned to the hotel - via a golden dirigible, powered by pedalling Mexicans, who were so stupid they couldn't even speak English properly, I expect, and probably stunk - I was met by my idiot producer, Hoisin Digimon, who informed me that hotel chef had died, and hot food was unavailable.
He had the utter gall to present me with a bowl of plain Pringles, a sack full of £50 notes, and his own leg to gnaw on (even offering to break wind over his shin in order to warm it up a bit), and a further sack of £100 notes. I wasn't accepting that. I'm the host of Top Geer, and frankly deserve better, after a long day insulting minorities and getting drunk and paid, while texting sexist jokes to my best friend the Prime Minister.
I was so incensed at the thought of eating not-hot food that I became gripped with a beserker rage and kicked Hoisin's sphincter out through his tiny Irish brain.
Fired. Un-ruddy-believable. Didn't they realise I was being ironic?!