But. I would like to make one, solitary point. And that is that we do re-evaluate the case of Richard Timney, husband of soon-to-step-down Home Secretary Jacqui Smith.
One weekend when left to his own devices, Dickie settles down to an evening of television, nachos and Vienetta. Jacqui is off playing Kerplunk and Buckaroo with Brown, Straw and the Millibands, so he can chillax without fear of the evening being shattered by his howling banshee of a wife.
Unfortunately, a few drams of whiskey later and Dickie has an inmistakable urge to give Dick Jr a run out from the stables. A jaunt around the paddock should suffice, no need for the full 16 furlongs, but it is a dilemma which needs to be addressed. Asap.
As hookers aren't as discreet as they used to be and going out on the pull in Redditch is, well, a fucking stupid idea, he peruses the naughty channels for any films which catch his eye. I imagine the brief was something like: anything which doesn't have Jacqui Smith in it. And thankfully for us all, the majority of porn ticks that box.
Approximately seven minutes later, post clean-up operation, our horny hero is back to watching Oceans 13 and Dick Jr has returned to the trouser kennel, lying dormant in satisfied slumber. Job done. Or so he thinks.
A few weeks later and it turns out we bought that film Dickie, not you. It was Taxpayers porn, and we want it back. Only we can't get it back. So we'll settle for letting the paparazzi hound you, send GMTV reporters to sit on your drive and get Andrew Marr to grill your wife (which incidentally, had you done in the first place we would not be in this fine mess).
But if I can appeal on his behalf, to the nation's better nature, to any sense of humanity for fellow man to let this small oversight slide, and to let Richard off the hook this time. Why? Well every night while you cuddle up to your wife/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend/full-size Gordon Ramsay doll from the internet, poor Dickie has to bed down with this.
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