It really wasn’t him

I knew nothing about Centworth’s trip to New York; it was completely of his own volition, as he has an apartment out there – on 22nd Avenue, a rather nice one actually, shame something bad is going to happen to it – and so I certainly cannot be implicated in the explosion of his car with him unfortunately inside.

I’m glad that’s cleared up.

In other news, I’ve spent the last week in New York, having a lovely time. I mean, the people are rather crass, and the culture’s pretty much nonexistent, but as cities go, the Big Apple is the big one. I met my old friend, Colonel Hatters Hattersley, for a night of raucous entertainment. We started in The Bronx and drank our way all the way down to Brooklyn. A marvellous night: I met some of the Colonel’s old army mates, I caught up with a few of my associates from my Mafia – uh, I mean, ‘organised dance’ – days, and we all had a jolly-good laugh. And there was absolutely no discussion of cars, explosions, or how best one might marry these two concepts.

So, voting tomorrow. It’s a very good job I stand as my own candidate these days, because I can honestly say, none of these modern parties cater for my unique brand of hard-line libero-conservo-smash-the-immigrants-and-the-scroungers-into-the-ground-ism. So, remember, a vote for Cuddles is a vote for a hard-ass police state. Vote Cuddles.

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