I’m sick of Nawaz Sharif copying me all the time. I went on a long march. He went on a long march. I did a song and dance. He did a song and dance. I shot my mouth off. He shot his mouth off.
But in two departments, there’s a difference. He’s asking for a joint session of Parliament. I’m asking for a joint session. He hit the people for a six. I hit on six people.
Which reminds me, I’d better delete the texts I sent out. I can’t help it, you see. My phone diary is chock full of chicks. And when my mind (such as it is) is wandering, it sort of wanders to those activities. For instance, yesterday I flipped to “F” on my diary and as I reached for my phone, about to text, my aides began frantically talking about the Renaissance city of Florence for “F”, trying to take my mind off you-know-what.
Florence to me is forever associated with a little old lady with a birdie name like Robin. This Florence woman ought to have been a nurse at my hospital. Isn’t Florence all about hospitals, antiseptic, scrubbed floors and other good deeds, I asked my aides. They rolled their eyes and said “no, Florence is all about art and artists”. I said, “show me” and in order to keep me off the other “F”, they googled Florence and sure enough it’s full of paintings of immodest women and shameless men with their private parts carved in stone. Perhaps I’ll go to Florence for my next holiday, I told my aides, where I’ll catch up with that other old lady, Madonna, holidaying in Italy with her new boyfriend and new children. Like me, she also likes to hit on people half her age.
Oh dear, groaned my aides, we’ve come full circle again. Then they started talking frantically about whether Nawaz will get a full bench to hear his petition for restoration. I said, “no way”, he’ll get a full bench if he files a petition for refrigeration, not restoration.
But in two departments, there’s a difference. He’s asking for a joint session of Parliament. I’m asking for a joint session. He hit the people for a six. I hit on six people.
Which reminds me, I’d better delete the texts I sent out. I can’t help it, you see. My phone diary is chock full of chicks. And when my mind (such as it is) is wandering, it sort of wanders to those activities. For instance, yesterday I flipped to “F” on my diary and as I reached for my phone, about to text, my aides began frantically talking about the Renaissance city of Florence for “F”, trying to take my mind off you-know-what.
Florence to me is forever associated with a little old lady with a birdie name like Robin. This Florence woman ought to have been a nurse at my hospital. Isn’t Florence all about hospitals, antiseptic, scrubbed floors and other good deeds, I asked my aides. They rolled their eyes and said “no, Florence is all about art and artists”. I said, “show me” and in order to keep me off the other “F”, they googled Florence and sure enough it’s full of paintings of immodest women and shameless men with their private parts carved in stone. Perhaps I’ll go to Florence for my next holiday, I told my aides, where I’ll catch up with that other old lady, Madonna, holidaying in Italy with her new boyfriend and new children. Like me, she also likes to hit on people half her age.
Oh dear, groaned my aides, we’ve come full circle again. Then they started talking frantically about whether Nawaz will get a full bench to hear his petition for restoration. I said, “no way”, he’ll get a full bench if he files a petition for refrigeration, not restoration.
Im the Dim