Cheesed Off!

So, there we were, idling our way through yet another episode of Car Booty, one of us distracted by a stubborn hangnail, the other daydreaming of tweaky-nippled cricketers, when the doorbell rang. Yes, it was George Clooney, once again angling for ‘a go’, armed with the latest weapon in his amorous arsenal. Having learned that one Planet Saddo is biologically half-mouse and the other is partial to a baked Époisses, he'd hatched a fiendish plot. Gone was his customary velvety purple monstrosity. And in its place…?

Our news contacts at HRT TV later informed us – amid much excited squeeing – that ‘Gorgeous’ had spent the morning at an upmarket dairy, where he’d cynically employed his easy charm and wit. Each female member of staff was made to feel like she was ‘the only woman in the universe when he looked at me with those eyes’, while the males developed man-crushes so intense that Russell T Davies and John Barrowman, who just happened to be present at the time, were heard to remark, ‘Steady on, chaps…’ Enraptured, the hapless salespeople were then persuaded to gather together every morsel of Montgomery Cheddar in stock and fashion it into one mighty truckle. From which was sliced a cheese sex ramp.

We, however, are made of sterner stuff. And so, when the Oscar winner turned up on our doorstep clutching his Curds & Wahey!™, we told him, ‘No, George Clooney, begone. We do not want “a go”. Look at the state of it, all ripe and sweating with a salty white bloom forming at the blunt end. The cheddar looks lovely, though, so hack us off a chunk before you get lost.’ At this point, Davies and Barrowman chanced to walk by, muttering phrases like ‘tired, crowbarred-in innuendoes’, ‘laboured, misfiring attempts at humour based on implausible coincidence’ and ‘it's only a proper tartiflette if you use Reblochon’. You gotta love The Gays, eh?

Clooney took advantage of the interruption to turn his liquescent brown gaze on us, in one final, desperate attempt to secure that elusive ‘go’. But Demi-Mouse, unwavering, pointed a tiny, delicate index finger towards a nearby bus stop, and ordered him to depart and ‘bash his Stinking Bishop’ alone.

As he retreated, he said he wasn’t ‘the sort of guy who’d vent his fury at rejection on a member of the clergy’. Was this a knowing jest? Alas, his arse wasn’t telling, no matter how much we stared at it as he trudged away. Then Demi-Mouse murmured something about toasties and Diagnosis Murder, and we knew we’d made the right decision once again.