This morning, I saw a red envelope on the doormat, addressed to me. "Ah," thought I. "How nice, the missus has got me a Valentine's card already", at exactly the same time a burden of guilt dropped on me as I realised I've done precisely nothing in gearing up for this year's annual Reason For Florists To Get The Rounds In.
Thing is, the envelope's writing was not that of my girlfriend's. What could it be? Someone playing a cruel hoax to make it look like I'm cheating on her? Someone doing a wind-up on me? Or even possibly a real actual Valentine from someone who doesn't know I'm attached?
Well, there was a real proper Valentine's card inside. It was from a businessman called Rupert. Now, I'm not that way inclined, but this bloke I do know about, and he is loaded. Was this a strange Indecent Proposal? Hey, I could do with the money. I would sleep with a guy for a few million pounds, oh yes. (I'd have to make sure the money is on the table first, I'm not falling for that trick again.)
Sadly, he wasn't offering his wealth of riches to me, but a different service. That of his satellite television business. It was actually an advertising shot from Sky. I've led quite a riddle here, with "Rupert" being that famous antipodeon billionaire with a huge stake in BSkyB.
No point taking up such an offer of romance from Mr Murdoch even if it did exist, because with the above-inflation price increases I had to accept in Sky's contract last year, I feel that Rupert has already screwed me.
As for the envelope, that was printed in a handwriting-like font, and has probably gone out to the seven million other Sky susbcribers out there.
Rupert, you're such a slut...