Further to my earlier post, I have just come off the phone to the producers of Diagnosis Murder. My conversation was somewhat curtailed by their refusal to believe in my stolen pajamas appearance, with threats being issued on both sides of a most boisterous nature. Since putting the phone down I have reflected on the career of Dick Van Dyke, and the money has has accrued, and am under no misconception when I say that the man intends to carry out his threats, many of which relate to my bottom.
To think this business may actually lead to my untimely death. It’s only a pair of pajamas I know, but it’s the principle of the thing; then the horror of the truth hit me.
Van Dyke had robbed my flat!
He has the power. He has the money. He has my pajamas. It all fits. I rang the local police station and informed them of my suspicions ; several times to several officers, all of whom passed me onto another officer to explain my theory. They assured me someone would come around tomorrow and speak to me about it.
But that is tomorrow! Tonight is the questionable time. If I am found dead in my bath, or deceased after some bizarre sex game then I can assure you that I did not kill myself, I had no intention of killing myself and frankly if I am found in a cupboard with jam on my genitals and a noose then it is definately not a sex game gone wrong. I cannot emphasize this enough.
If I am found with a tangerine in my mouth and a dog collard in ladies undergarments with a Henry hoover attached to my manhood then ignore the report - it will be murder.
And if I am discovered with a black mamba ‘adult toy’ rammed up my behind, blindfolded and tied up spread eagle and naked then I can assure you it was not of my doing.
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