I’m worried. Wilbur, my pig is starting to show signs of stress and I’m sure it’s to do with his sudden rise to fame. Since his appearance on Through The Keyhole and the cover story about him in Cotswold Life magazine, his local profile has soared. Media requests, personal appearances and lucrative sponsorship deals have been flooding in. I’ve tried to keep his home life as normal as possible but it seems to have all gone to his head. Having experienced the ups and downs of showbusiness myself, I am in a better situation than most to try and guide my porcine protege through these difficult times. To me he is making that difficult move from young pig to adult. This would be tricky enough at the best of times but to have the added pressure of the spotlight on him has led him off the path of righteousness. He is the Justin Bieber of the pig world and is trying to work out where he fits in.
For instance, last week he was invited to a beer festival in Tewksbury. He was very keen to go but I put my foot down and said no. Wilbur retorted by biting my thumb so hard that I have lost the nail. The power of his bite was extraordinary and has left me with an unexpected admiration for our Prime Minister’s youthful bravery. Canada might have a new, sexy young prime minister with tattoos and a penchant for boxing, but he has never, to my knowledge, tested his mettle against a pig’s mandibles.
Speaking of Justin Trudeau’s election, this was a very popular result in my house. My Canadian wife has suddenly become a lot more interested in politics and has been glued to the TV any time young Trudeau appears. “I just think he has fabulous eyes… I mean policies…” she drooled, shoeing me out of the living room so as to better see, sorry, hear the great leader.
Pleased as I was that the “last neo-can”, Stephen Harper, was unseated, I’m suspicious of Trudeau. It’s his tattoo. I have a visceral loathing of them and I can’t trust a person who sports one. I can’t justify this prejudice; it’s just ingrained and, much like a tattoo, will never go away. I remember reading that George Shultz, Ronald Reagan’s secretary of state, had a large tiger tattooed on his arse when he was a student. I imagined him attending some important summit and all the foreign ministers chuckling among themselves about his bottom. This must also be the case with David Cameron whenever he is at some meeting of heads of states. You know that Putin is whispering to Hollande about Pig-gate like some gossipy fifth-former.
I fear that Wilbur might be on the path to a tattoo – it can only be a matter of time before I spot something like “pigs on tour” inked on his behind. I’d lecture him about it but what would be the point? He has already hit the alcohol. There is a large apple tree that hangs over his garden house and Wilbur has discovered that if he leaves the fallen apples to rot a little they become rather potent. Showbiz is a slippery slope.
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