Returning to the UK from Canada yesterday was a profoundly grim experience. Arriving at Terminal 3, I got a very good idea of what life in a refugee camp must be like. Hordes of weary, confused travellers were shunted around the hideous building by equally confused airport staff. Occasionally someone would peel away from the pack to hug a frightened-looking relative and attempt to try and find an exit. When we eventually found our way out into the exhaust-filled air we were faced with a hundred-strong taxi queue. We stood and waited as tattooed cockney cabbies hurled abuse at people whose English was very much better than theirs. Three cabs refused to take us to our destination in central London before we eventually got into one whose driver insisted on ranting on about bloody foreigners coming over here, taking our taxis. I retreated into the safe cocoon of my iPod and wondered what first-time visitors here must make of it all.
Once home, my mood lifted as I read the papers. It appeared that Sir Clive Woodward had resigned as England rugby coach to chance his arm at football. This was rocking good news as it has given me extraordinary confidence to make a go of my new idea. I am retiring from the world of TV comedy to start a new career in the world of Greco-Roman wrestling. I have long been fascinated by the epic struggles of sweaty men in leotards, and feel that the homoerotic context has been grossly exaggerated. If I'm honest, I have no real knowledge of the sport but that hasn't stopped Sir Clive, and I'm certainly not going to let it stop me.
I fly to Uzbekistan in two weeks to take up my new post as their under-12 boys coach. I've never been to the country, but I saw something about it on Fox News, which is a very reliable source. They said that it was a very nice place with lots of oil, so I'm not worried.
Just as I'm sure Sir Clive has gone and had a bit of a kick-about with some local lads to get an idea of what footie is all about, I decided to do a bit of pre-work so that I won't be totally green when I get to Fuknutz, the town I'm staying in.
I drove into Swindon and challenged the first group of chavs that I saw to a bit of a wrestle. They were clearly not tutored in the Greek way, as they set about me with two baseball bats. Then their dad came out and gave me a good kicking as the mini chavs made off in my car. I walked home in quite some pain, determined not to let my unfortunate choice of sparring partners put me off my new career.
I tried to ring Sir Clive but got through to his office where a woman said that she didn't know who I was and was not prepared to put me through to him. I told her that I understood that he was probably out playing in the park with jumpers for goalposts and could he give me a ring when he came in for tea? She put the phone down, probably just jealous that Sir Clive and I are so multiskilled and she wasn't.
Just to make sure that he got my message, I got his address from a friend of mine at BT and popped round to his house. I could see a light on upstairs and decided to climb up the drainpipe to surprise him. He was certainly surprised. When I knocked on the window I must have looked quite a sight as I don't think he recognised me with my missing teeth, black eye and torn clothing. He screamed a bit like a girl - which won't go down well in football - and then shut the window on me, making me fall backwards into his begonias.
I'm not going to judge him for the way he behaved and I really hope that he does well in his new profession. If he doesn't, there will always be a place for him in Fuknutz. Who knows? Maybe one day Sir Clive and I might even be popping into Buck House for another gong or two from Her Majesty for our services to wrestling. Watch this space.
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