Much better than a towel.
Being an MP is an important job. We’re beacons of the community. We’re looked up to by many. This is why it’s imperative to have good, strong hair. Fluffy, brushed and dandruff free. Although I will say: I don’t condition it, I don’t want it too fluffy. People would think I wanted to be a woman. I wash my hair almost daily. I allow myself a day off on Saturdays.
I keep this hairdryer in the car as I find by the time I’ve driven to the train station my hair is at the optimum dryness needed to obtain the desired, strong look. The dryer itself is a little diamond. Plugs right into the cigar lighter of my Jaguar and I’m able to store it in the glove compartment right in between my box of tissues and expenses book. The power output is everything needed to blow dry your bonce in a car park. People have walked past laughing before now, but why would I care what they think? I bet they all voted Labour anyway.
The dryer has its uses elsewhere, too. I spilt my coffee over myself as I was getting off the train late one night, and yes it was definitely coffee, not as the local rag reported, urine. I was sober and I stand by that fact, unequivocally. There is absolutely no truth in the story that I wet myself while asleep on the train. I wouldn’t have been near my car if that was the case. Anyway, enough of that, I found myself with the need to dry my trousers and this little diamond presented itself for the task. After ten or fifteen minutes of thoroughly drying my wet crotch I realised that my underpants were also sodden, as was a little of the shirt that was tucked in. As it always is — I’m smart in my presentation, not like some of these liberal pansies who flounce about in corduroy and claim they’re special because they’ve never had rubber soles in their flip flops.
Being a stickler in my quest to look good for the general public, I decided the only thing to do was whip off my trousers and dry my smalls — and I’m not including the little Dangly in that. * Massive Wink * The coffee was a large cup and had really soaked into the cotton, it took ages of waving the machine over the pants for them to dry. The heat that kicked out of this small machine was enough to heat up the liquid before it dried it. It got to the point where it was burning. I decided the best thing to do before putting on the golf trousers I had in the boot was to remove my hot, wet pants and dry them properly. I needed pants, there is no way I could have gone commando, I’m not French. I’m also not stupid, I wasn’t going to stand in the car park as naked as a new born, of course not. I climbed into the back of the Jag, removed my pants and started to dry myself liberally.
After a couple of minutes of feeling the refreshing heat in my nether regions, and just as I was really making sure that little Dangly was dry, the car filled up with what I first thought was a strobe light — like the kind you get at a roller disco. I couldn’t believe it and I was right not to. It was a bloody photographer. The swine must have been stalking me or something. Being the coward he was, the Pap ran off.
Not one to be crossed I gave chase. Unfortunately, I forgot that I was naked from the waist down. I’d taken my shoes off in order to remove the wet trousers. I soon remembered I was barefoot when I ran over the gravel at the edge of the car park. As I was doing that strange dance you do when you walk on sharp stones in bare feet, the flashes started again.
A double whammy of bad luck then ensued: I realised I’d still got my hairdryer in my hand and that I’d snapped the lead. I also realised that the blue lights behind me didn’t mean I’d wandered into a night club, but that the police had turned up. No problem, I thought, I own these guys, I have dinner with their chief inspector every other Friday. They’ll probably offer to arrest the photographer. I couldn’t have been further from the truth. They wouldn’t listen to a word I said and attempted to arrest me.
Daniel Dangly doesn’t go down without a fight in the House of Commons or anywhere else, and a train station car park is no different. Eventually, though, I was out of breath, and over powered. The officers wouldn’t listen to my threats of having their jobs. I couldn’t believe it. I’m not used to being treated like riff raff.
There were pictures being taken throughout. The paparazzi were there — cheering and calling out, never people to miss out on degrading someone better than them.
I grazed little Dangly on the gravel as I was hauled up. The poor little bugger was red raw. It hurt like hell. Not as much as the picture of me looking utterly ridiculous that appeared in the national papers the next day, though. The great Daniel Dangly standing there, crying, and only wearing the top half of a suit. That hurt more than any penis pain I may have been suffering from, or indeed any penis pain I think I could ever suffer. Even the kind that happens only in industrial accidents.
All charges: being drunk in charge of a vehicle, public indecency, and resisting arrest, were dropped, of course. My public image needed some serious work, though. It’s a good job that once the editor of ‘The Moon’, Ms Rivers, had earned a decent amount out of the story, she was onside to help to discredit the photographer, the passengers on the train and the police, and make them all out to be the liars that they truly are. There may have been a tiny bit of truth in what some of them were saying, but not in the main, they were all jumping on the gravy train and taking things out of context, trying to get five minutes of fame by telling their ‘story’.
Ms Rivers is good, though. She did an excellent job of hanging the photographer out to dry. He hasn’t worked for any of the red tops since. I think there were some naughty pictures found on his work computer, too. If that’s the type of person he was, it’s no wonder he had no problem with stalking me, stealing my clothes and then photographing me in my moment of distress. My public image has been restored, regardless of what a couple of policemen say in statements — they’ve all been pulped anyway.
The officers concerned will be too busy pushing pens to upset any more of the Tory party with silly little vendettas against the leader of their local council.
It’s a good Job the PM went to school with Rivers’ lesbian lover or it might have been hard to get the press on side with this one.
The judge in the photographer’s assault trial ordered him to pay damages for a new hairdryer. I bought the same model, as before it was rudely snatched from my hand and smashed it was a great little tool. The compensation is enough to keep me in new Jaguars for a few years to come.
I even use this model dryer to get myself dry after I’ve showered in my London office, too. It’s better and much more luxurious and comfortable than using a towel. I was able to put it through expenses, along with the plug adapter for a wall socket.
- Daniel Dangly
The Best Prank Book Ever! [Paperback]