James for PM

AS I lay back in a steaming bath last night, with Classic FM in the background, a mellow Silk Cut, a cooling Jack Daniels and Coke and an easy-reading Miss Marple, I made a decision.

AS I lay back in a steaming bath last night, with Classic FM in the background, a mellow Silk Cut, a cooling Jack Daniels and Coke and an easy-reading Miss Marple, I made a decision.

As I washed off the face pack, stubbed out the fag, downed the booze and retired to my sumptuous boudoir with a luxurious maroon colour scheme, I began thinking I shall start walking the path to political power.

If a man like John Prescott can get elected to one of the high offices of state complete with weekend retreat mansion, then there is no doubt in my mind that I can too.

I say that if Patricia Hewitt can get driven about in a nice Jaguar and apparently excuse herself from reality at the same time, then surely the Rt Hon James Marston MP isn't such a bad idea?


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I think I stand a good chance and with the local elections coming up I'm tempted to throw my hat into the ring.

I have decided that when I am elected by a sweeping mandate by the electorate of this great nation I am going to make a few changes.

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Ban spitting - isn't it awful? Yesterday I saw a girl chav spitting right across my path. I blame the footballers.

Allow smoking in pubs - that's what pubs are for.

Repeal the anti-hunting laws - how can fox hunting be morally wrong when horseracing-angling-shooting isn't?

Kill the council tax-make people clean up their own rubbish on pain of flogging.

Commission a new royal yacht-Camilla has deserved it and Britain deserves the best.

Stop policemen cruising around in cars-time they got on the beat and stretched their legs.

Outlaw chewing gum - I've had enough of it on the streets.

Redecorate the little Number 10 sitting room - I couldn't possibly live with all that chintz.

Redecorate the House of Commons - I don't look good on a green background.

Reform state benefits - I am tired of looking after the idle.

Force everyone who goes to the gym to put their energy into cleaning up the streets - exercise should be a public service.

Outlaw Big Brother and other reality television - I wish someone would.

Make ballroom dancing a national pastime - its elegant and stylish.

Sell Essex - it's cheap.

Buy Ibiza - why not.

I've got a few ideas, some more unlikely than others I admit, but if at least one or two were acted on I'm sure I'd be a popular PM.

Well I've had some good news this week.

After several weeks absence-due to international jet setting on my part and a four week break - I have resumed my strictly-come-dancing lessons.

Now moving with confidence in the “improvers” class - I mysteriously ceased being a beginner sometime during the Easter bank holiday weekend - I have been back on the floor of the Holywells High School drama studio cutting some rug and shimmying my way through Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.

Of course, for a man of my talents dancing the Rumba-cha cha cha-quickstep-waltz-and rock and roll- though not at the same time - isn't too difficult.

And although there is unfortunately no mirror to observe myself as I glide round and round I think I am doing ok.

Last week we brushed up on the lock step - a tricky manoeuvre which seems designed just to try to make you trip yourself up-and did a little bit more on the rumba-my favourite dance.

As I sashayed through the steps and rounded off the class with a refresher on the alemana turn - you can tell I'm getting better as I know the lingo - I thought I was looking pretty good.

Just as I was coming to the end of the “windmills”- a strange arm led move which requires razor sharp timing and the complete and utter acceptance that you look and feel daft - I turned to the doyenne of the Ipswich ballroom dancing scene called Pat and commented:

“I definitely think I am an improver now, don't you?”

Pat, who has been dancing for years and has seen it all before, just turned her head in my direction and laughed.

Hardly a vote of confidence is it?

I shall be back though - I have my heart set on a pair off Lycra trousers and a sequinned top, and I need an excuse to spend.

Today, dear fans, I need to clear something up.

Many of you have phoned, texted, written and e-mailed asking me if I was at Her Majesty's recent 80th birthday celebrations and what role I played.

Unfortunately I didn't get there.

I know it's shocking, but the trusty rusty Rover just wasn't up to the trip to Windsor and short of arranging a motorcade all the way to Berkshire, I felt that I would err on the side of caution and avoid costing the tax payer thousands just to allow me to entertain the royal family.

I think they managed anyway and, although I'm sure it was an oversight, I'm not sure they sent me an invitation.

So instead of cosying up to Prince Edward and sharing a crafty fag with Camilla - and before you ask yes I failed in my latest giving up attempt after the patches made me sick - I found myself at a bit off a loose end.

So I took to the duster.

Speeding round my little Ipswich sitting room and moving into the comfortable-but-functional-kitchen-cum-dining room I thought to myself - and I do a lot of thinking when I'm cleaning - how lovely it must be to have a lady that “does”.

I doubt I am unlikely to start employing a full compliment of staff, but I wouldn't mind. I wonder if Her Majesty can let one of hers go?

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