I worried for my name for a moment this weekend in the knowledge that I would be forced to abandon my loyal men and women followers, but only for a moment.  The unavoidable trip to the donkey santuary left their mission wide open without my guidance, but as my loyal submarine commander told me upon my return;

“Often in war, lines of communication become cut off. That’s where you have to trust your cells of fighters to carry on without you. The first sign of a fine leader is that your people can carry on when you’re not there.  All Hail K8 the Gr8!” 

Okay, so I added that last bit but the surprise party went down a treat and conveyed the same message.  Such nice people.  In fact, it would seem that their dedication has inflamed them into epic tasks.  The uniform is fresh from production seven months ahead of schedule!  To see their faces… their triumph as they handed me the last uniform with plastered fingers and exclaimed: “We just love the smell of Napalm in Blogger.” I shed a tear. 

The blog bombings were inspirational. 

These brave soldiers defended me to the hilt in my absence against an unholy torrent of abuse and I am so proud to be their leader. They are true K8opian heroes.

What a mess my good name has become!!!

Brutal allegations of a grievious nature have been pinned upon me on the internet and I would hereby most defiantly like to tell you that these are all false.  To think that I would sell cigarettes to small children?!?  I merely teach them how to roll their own, thus cutting down on pocket money expenses and eliminating arsenic poisoning.  If they’re going to smoke, they might as well do it properly.

It is a sad fact that ‘He who must not be mentioned’… *sigh* link…  has based his entire defense on lies.  Such cheap tricks, such shameful tactics.

This is what I look like.  All the time, even when I’ve just squshed an increadibly large spider barefoot in the dark by mistake on a stumbling visit to the loo. 

All I can offer to you, my loyal people, is the truth.  We all know that the truth is far uglier thing than fiction, as you will soon find out.  Spies have been deployed all over the capital city of Maxiland in an effort to sample the taste of their regime, and they return feeling very ill indeed and carrying video tape footage that suprisingly didn’t burn to a crisp the very moment it was recorded.

The great leader of Maxiland is a wanker. 

I do not use the word in its derogatory sense, it is simply pure fact.  I offer to you some damning evidence as recorded by my faithful troops;

“I’ve wanked pretty much everywhere. If I’ve been to a place more than twice, chances are I’ve blown my beans in the surroundings … Every room of every house I’ve ever lived in, or visited. Every room of every place I’ve ever been employed in, or visited. A car. A bus. A phone box.”

“I remember a time I was walking past Ann Summers on O’Connell Street and there was an old dude outside the front door, and God love him he was trying to catch a glimpse of some girl changing into underwear or the salesgirl running through a demo of a new dildo and he had his hands hidden under his over coat. I would have judged, maybe even stopped him but I was on my way to Brown Thomas to whack off all over the Manolo Blahnik displays.”

Won’t somebody please think of the children?

—

Overheard at a bus-stop;

“And I left the shop, went and calmed myself down with a nice shot of crack.”

—

One brave soldier even had the nerve to engage this so-called ‘leader’ at the bookies and recorded the following perplexing information;

“Yeah, “I guess I turned to drugs and murder after I saw my drunken father mowed down by a devilishly handsome Ford Fiesta driver when I turned 5. He turned to look at me, and said “Happy birthday, sweetheart” and then turned to face his death.”"

A man with such weighty responsiblities who has learned his leadership skills in prison is not a pretty sight.  I fear for his people, I imagine an evolved landscape of Orks, poor pure elvenfolk who got caught up in the madness and are now forever damned.  I urge those people to step back, to have a proper look at this leader of theirs… a man who hates bank holidays, who enjoys having his privates gnawed on by zombified hamsters, who doesn’t actually have such an innate fear of tampax!

“In all the commotion I forgot my tissues, but as it turns out “feminine products” are much more absorbent for a runny nose than even the strongest tissue, and the smooth applicator does make a difference.”

My undercover interviewer almost passed out when this information was recorded, this golden piece of damning evidence.  She is now away in the Bahamas for some well earned R&R, but not before she found out that the Queen of Maxiland - the position I so politely requested in the days before this cruel war began – is an avid fan of Boyzone.   Boyzone.   While Keith Duffy is already in my army for his sensual comedic skills, I cannot condone the music.  He knows that.  We’re cool.

Would you really fancy ‘Love me for a reason’ playing in the cold interior of an army tank as you advance into battle?  Would it motivate you into killing yourself or the enemy?  I think you know the answer.

Do not be fooled by this leader’s big puppyblog eyes.  He is no innocent, I fear this past weekend’s infiltration is but the tip of the iceberg, that Maxiland is a scurrilous place and should be gravely avoided.

This is a rare photograph of the elusive character taken at a so-called ‘Peace’ rally yesterday (on the right, beside Baino’s oranges:

I think it fair to say that this man has issues.