Sharp-eyed readers will have noticed a prominent name missing from the list of pilfering politicians grilling gently on the skewer. This might be seen as something of an anomaly, given that 'flipping' my second home allowance like a Morrisons burger has allowed me to acquire a sizeable chunk of Chelsea to supplement the rolling acres of Pumsey Towers.
I'm afraid the methods I have used to square away the parliamentary auditors must remain strictly between me and a rather delicious and corruptible Westminster accounting popsy. Suffice to say that my financial spreads have all been subjected to an in-depth probe.
Coincidentally, some of my more innovative sources of funding originate from my swelling dossier of dirty deeds (allegedly) committed by the colourful characters that populate this beloved industry of ours. Clearly it would not be appropriate to divulge details here, but to give you a flavour of the piece, there's a reason King Justin can no longer afford the rent on his Holborn Coliseum, and it's not 'Sir' Philip Hampton's gargantuan payoff.
Cheshunt, too, is eternally in my debt for a variety of planning approvals granted on former donkey farms and orphanages, and indeed for the strange reluctance of the Commission for the Long Grass to implement its own wretched competition test. Trouble is, the culture of supplier-bashing at the Deathstar is so ingrained they occasionally forget to finance the pension arrangements of some of their closest friends. Tragically, and in a move entirely unconnected to an easily compromised techie pal at the Leahybunker, this can lead to occasional catastrophic EPoS failures in some of Tel's top stores.
But before you conclude that Uncle Don is all up to no good, witness my leadership in getting the big four to rock up to the GLA meeting on the knotty issue of worker exploitation. I did feel that they all got the wrong end of the stick, though. The idea was to make things better for the workers, lads, not for you.
I'm afraid the methods I have used to square away the parliamentary auditors must remain strictly between me and a rather delicious and corruptible Westminster accounting popsy. Suffice to say that my financial spreads have all been subjected to an in-depth probe.
Coincidentally, some of my more innovative sources of funding originate from my swelling dossier of dirty deeds (allegedly) committed by the colourful characters that populate this beloved industry of ours. Clearly it would not be appropriate to divulge details here, but to give you a flavour of the piece, there's a reason King Justin can no longer afford the rent on his Holborn Coliseum, and it's not 'Sir' Philip Hampton's gargantuan payoff.
Cheshunt, too, is eternally in my debt for a variety of planning approvals granted on former donkey farms and orphanages, and indeed for the strange reluctance of the Commission for the Long Grass to implement its own wretched competition test. Trouble is, the culture of supplier-bashing at the Deathstar is so ingrained they occasionally forget to finance the pension arrangements of some of their closest friends. Tragically, and in a move entirely unconnected to an easily compromised techie pal at the Leahybunker, this can lead to occasional catastrophic EPoS failures in some of Tel's top stores.
But before you conclude that Uncle Don is all up to no good, witness my leadership in getting the big four to rock up to the GLA meeting on the knotty issue of worker exploitation. I did feel that they all got the wrong end of the stick, though. The idea was to make things better for the workers, lads, not for you.
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