Love Me, Love My Thong

Hot damn! The Chipster got up this morning and looked in the mirror. Jealous already? Of course you are… Not for the first time lately, I thought to myself: my God, Chip old son, you’re looking bloody handsome today! And you can’t deny it. Those of you who have seen me in the flesh recently will know I’m hotter than a rabid Spice Girl. I bring tears to the eyes quicker than a well lubricated onion. I put the triple X back into sexxxy.

I’m beginning to think that aging suits me. It’s giving me that unmistakable bearing of breeding, which I’m told is more attractive to the ladies than a midget millionaire. Age seems to be suiting me like it seems to suit my lookalike, the Lib Dem’s Welsh spokesman. You might have caught a glimpse of Lembit in the paper the other day, playing ping pong with his own less sexy version of Gabby Romanian. (I should add that the picture to your right is not the one showing Lembit playing ping pong. Or if it is, it's a strange Romanian version not well known to those of us new to the sport.)

There might be a few years between us and poor Lembit hasn’t got my body – though who has? – but he still looks pretty damn sexy. How the man’s not landed a modelling contract with M&S, I really can’t fathom. Perhaps they can use him instead of Bryan ‘The Fuhrer’ Ferry. If only the man could train his body, he'd be the perfect human: looks, brains, as well as brawn. The others photos I saw of him playing around the pool left me feeling quite jealous. It perhaps accounts for my having just come back from the local Argos where I bought myself a ping pong table.

Ping pong. Don’t you just love saying those words? Ping pong. Ping pong. Ping pong. And wouldn’t the world be a better place if we left it to the Chinese to name everything? Running out and buying the table was a bit rash. This flat wasn’t built for a ping pong. I mean, why do you think China’s so big in the first place? Gabby also had a fit when she saw me with a ping pong paddle in my hand. She thought I’d taken a job taxiing aircraft. After all was calm, we spent half an hour dabbling in the finer arts of spin and ball control. I managed to grind her weak forehand into the dirt for all its worth.

I’m now taking a breather before I dismantle the table and take it back to the shop. Romania has never been a great ping pong playing nation. Neither has Wales. I've come the conclusion that both of our peoples should just stick to what we’re so good at: and that’s looking so hot and bloody sexy.