I like to think I’m posh, so like Billy Bunter in those books from my boyhood ,
I always said pater instead of father, mater, instead of mum,
and dreamt of attending an educational institution such as
the fictional Greyfriars whose 'master's educated Bunter Minor.

So, it was with a heavy heart I walked through the gates of Mulchester Marton,
a public school favoured by those who pursued the cult of celebrity,
and was thus considered ‘cool’, unlike its rivals Harrow and Eton.

Indeed, there were no scowling masters like Bunter’s nemesis Mr Quelch,
prowling round in a swirling cape, wielding his cane.
Rather the teaching staff smiled and dispensed counselling if we were naughty.

I convinced myself I could follow in the footsteps of previous Martonians,
like my dad, a self-styled TV cookery expert,
who’d achieved dubious fame by living on an island with bikini-clad women,
surrounded by television cameras, and mum, a stand-up comedian,
noted for sketches about tampons and former lovers.

The only snag was I had no talent, and like the bands my peers listened to,
all with bizarre names like Televisionhead,
The Frozen Apes or The Billericy Bakes, I couldn’t sing or play.

But fate intervened in the shape of drama teacher Nicholas Natwitty,
who, benefiting from the school governor’s policy of recruiting from the regions,
used expressions like ‘Aw reet’, and ‘By gum, I’d love a chippy tea.’

When we expressed curiosity as to his origins, he said,
‘Boys, that is an example of Lancashire dialect, 
prevalent in my home town of Wigan,
famous for meat pies, not to forget its rugby team.

‘The fans shout ‘Gerrom on side!’, and ‘Come on ref, open your eyes!’

This endeared him to us all, and we applauded his efforts
to introduce that ‘northern sport’ of rugby league to Mulchester Marton,
but it appeared our headmaster felt that wouldn’t fit into the category of ‘cool’,
as the media overwhelmingly favoured the round-ball game.

Why, just listen to BBC Radio Five to hear them always talking about bleeding football.

I got on well with Nicholas, perhaps because I inadvertently saw him
dressed in suspenders and stockings, and pretended to believe his excuse
that he was indulging in method acting.

He helped me rehearse for my part as detective Delphon Delamoss,
a cop with a liking for female undergarments in the play French Letters In The Post,
the creation, according to him, of some obscure writer called Valetta Valedictory,
but I suspected it was actually himself.

So promising he could get me into acting school, I joined him to steal out at night to,
like a good method actor, immerse myself in this strange world.

In league with Polish farm girl Miranda Manatesh, who had muscles like joints of ham,
once a week I became an ardent fetishist, getting up to saucy antics in a draughty barn,
and soon discovered a like mind in Irish pupil Mick Maguire,
who’d been kicked out of Harrow, but claimed it was because
of a scandal involving his father, noted former rugby footballer and senator,
nicknamed affectionately by fans as Sean Cheat-In-The-Scrum.

During the holidays Mick and I travelled to his home in Co. Meath,
and, convincing da and ma he could become an officer in the French Foreign Legion,
was allowed to bring our Parisian teacher, Madame Pompidou,
back to his Dublin home for personal tuition.

But she seemed to enjoy flirting with an innocent like me.
So when Mick, cleverly hiding his jealousy,
told me about a hippy commune on the isle of Inishman (pictured),
I left expecting to indulge in steamy fleshpots,
taking the 10-minute flight from Connemara Airport,
only to find it was a retreat run by monks who only spoke Irish,
and soon had me hauling nets and emptying lobster pots,
in a place second only to Donegal’s famous Glencolumkille,
one of the finest examples of a Gaelic-speaking area or Gaeltacht.

So, bribing a fisherman to take me to The Dingle,
where Mick’s dad had a private yacht, I vowed to exact my revenge,
which came unexpectedly when I discovered the lovers skinny dipping with Funny Fingle,
Kerry’s famous dolphin.

A photo went viral and Mulchester Marton’s headmaster,
Frederick Fortitude-Forthcot, was furious.

Of course I blamed my parents, but they had broken all contact –
I learned later my ‘mater’ was in a sanatorium,
after her manager insisted she try an ‘earthier’ comedy audience –
she’d collapsed from shock when she didn’t receive any laughs
in a working men’s club in Accrington.

My ‘pater’, like his vain wife, also fell foul of his own sense of importance,
when, convincing his agent he could throw great disco shapes,
he appeared on reality TV show Devilish Dancer,
and it became apparent that his talents lay in posturing, rather than dance.

So, what happened to these zany characters?
Mick was expelled when the Gardai raided a remote cottage,
discovering home movies which, even by James Joyce’s standards were rather rude,
with pictures of partially-clad ploughgirls and farriers.

Unfortunately, my face was seen on said film, and now I'm residing in Her Majesty’s Prison, Fulham.

But I enjoy reading letters from Mick, who is coaching
rugby on the Polynesian island of Malloplongerflude,
or Mallo for short, but receives surreptitious visits from his dad on his yacht.

Mick hopes he can return to the northern hemisphere,
after the success of his forthcoming sitcom, Unholy Solitude,
a sitcom about two priests who live on an island,
smoke dope and listen to Kylie Minogue’s latest single, in the caves which adorn its cliffs and crags.

But what about the dolphin?
Well, lonely after a clampdown on nude bathing with all creatures amphibian,
Funny Fingle is receiving therapy from a wildlife expert who,
due to his campaigning efforts for the rights of fish,
was offered free herring by grateful fishermen in the Irish port of Killybegs.

As for my former teacher, he fled to the Scottish Highlands where,
hiding in a cave on the slopes of Ben Nevis,
he bumped into old Oxford University pal Monty Millercramp,
a wealthy climber honing his skills,
preparatory to joining an expedition to climb Mount Everest.

Treating him to a bottle of whisky, he kidnapped the befuddled climber,
and after plastic surgery Nicholas was on his way to base camp,
but, hastened by the arrival of a furious Monty in his private helicopter,
slid into a neighbouring defile, and now teaches kids left homeless
by the avalanche caused by a more-money-than-sense flying millionaire.

As for my former love, Polish lady Miranda Manatesh,
she’s taken up pole dancing – no pun intended, and is looking forward to my release,
bribing the guards to let me see pictures of her latest fetish.

As for me, I have befriended the governor’s secretary Miss Jenny Gruntworthy-Grape.
One day, after gaining her confidence, she whispered in hushed tones,
‘I had a date with high-wire performer Tiptoe Tony,
who, instead of inviting me back for a romp – unlike my previous suitor,
Gervase Give-Me-A-Grope – introduced me to his pals Grinner and Smiler,
who put on a custard-throwing performance to rival the world’s best clowns.

‘But, despite making a name for himself with Lollobigtop’s Circus,
he couldn’t resist burgling stately homes as the big tent toured around Europe.
Of course, the inevitable happened and he was nabbed when scaling the walls of Blenheim Palace.’

‘So, thinking of my love, I allowed the boss of this awful place, HMP Willesden,
Mr Tom 'Tactile' Tittleworth, to have his wicked way,
if he would arrange his transfer to this place of correction,
where I could plot my sweetheart’s escape.’

‘He’s breaking out tomorrow, and will carry you across the rooftops
if you arrange to bribe that guard you have in your employ, to put a trampoline under the east wall.’

So, I shut my eyes as Tony edged his way across the icy roof.
Then, falling from a great height we bounced our way to freedom.

I will now sign off, not before thanking those who helped me through
the pitfalls I encountered after my parents sent me to that blasted school,
expecting me to follow in their footsteps, and be known simply for being famous.

It is ironic, for thanks to them I ended up in a career I’m eminently suited for.
For after Tony and I escaped the long arm of the law,
he enrolled me in the custard-throwing-school run by his former employer, Lollobigtop’s Circus.

I am now enjoying a burgeoning career as a clown, 
which is perhaps what Fate had in mind,
when it sent me to that blasted school Mulchester Marton.