Mail Order Middleton

By God, I love the Royal Family and by hell do I love showing it. By wearing absurd clothing, waving meekly at strangers or having sex with my relatives, I’m perpetually displaying my deference to Her Maj’ and co for all that they do for this great nation that I call “England & Friends”.

So imagine my delight (think Boris Johnson’s cum face, but slightly thinner) whilst skimming through my favourite middle class television listings magazine Radio Times, when my beautiful pale blues fell upon the following advertisement.

Katie W: the new definition of a "posh wank".

Yeah. I mean, wow. What better chance would I ever get to signify my love for the Prince’s lawfully-wedded shag than with this ceramic not-in-any-way-creepy tribute to the “Nation’s Sweetheart”, a hand-crafted 16 inches of pleasure? And how lifelike? Her breasts looked good enough to spunk on. At only £134 (plus £6 postage) how could I afford not to?

Thinking not of my overdraft, loan repayments or starving children I hurried right away to fill in the form, sending all methods of payment just to be sure to bag this “one-of-a-kind” commemorative item. I wasn’t certain that my card details, cheque, cash, postal orders or banker’s draft would be enough to secure one so my wife was kind enough to donate her wedding ring just to be on the safe side (I’m sure they’ll have better luck getting it off her finger than I did. She hardly ever used her left hand anyway).

Well, days went by and I heard nothing. Nothing at all. Surely this was no scam? This was Radio Times for crying out loud, not TV Quick. Anguished, I had started to make enquiries into contacting television’s Watchdog but in my haste had mistakenly written to Mick Hucknall rather than Anne Robinsons (it turns out that he’s the automatic recipient of any post marked “Ginger Twat”, not her).

Noel Edmonds, shortly before Atkins.

Luckily, consumer affairs telly tedium wasn’t required and the package containing my beloved porcelain Princess finally shat into my life like a burglar with a wrench. So I carefully pulled at the packaging, my trembling hands peeling back the adhesive tape on the Weetabix packet in which it was sent, and gently pulled out my Middleton miniature with sweaty-palmed anticipation.

And here it is.

Erm...

It was at this point I thought to consult the small print.

Shit.