Backstage at The Tonight Show With Jay Leno, I didn’t get to meet Barack Obama properly. He was standing too far away from me and there were about 2,000 far more important people in suits and moustaches standing between us.
Some woman with a big blond barnet and coral lipstick turned round to me and said, “Do you belong here?” I said, “Yes, it’s where I was always meant to be.”
She then shoved me against the fridge and shouted, “Mr Obama, Mr Obama.” I said, “It’s Mr President, actually.” She then trod on my big toe, like that was going to make me go away.
If she hadn’t been as large as she was I would have shoved her head in the fridge and slammed the door. It’s not good to judge people but sometimes it’s necessary. She was definitely a Monica Lewinsky type; she smelled as if she hadn’t changed her dress in years.
Considering the portfolio of houses our MPs have, I wish they’d make use of them. I read that Nigel Griffiths MP couldn’t wait until he got home, so he had sex with some woman on the furniture of his ground-floor office in the House of Commons – then said he could hardly remember the session. That’s strange, considering it took place on Remembrance Sunday. If I were him, I’d never forget it.
It’s also nice to see that our MPs have interests outside politics. Many of them are keen photographers who don’t just like to have sex with women in their office, they also like to photograph them and download the pictures on to their computer to remind them of their bravery.
I don’t really understand it. These women who choose to have sex with MPs are obviously not fussy. If I could choose to be photographed anywhere in the world, the last place I would pick would be next to some antique side table smelling of Brut, surrounded by tacky office ornaments, wearing a pair of Primark suspenders.
Nigel Griffiths should have just stayed at home, watched a couple of videos and got his wife to pay for them. It would have saved a lot of hassle.
Britain has a binge drinking problem and it starts with MPs. Is there no door policy at the House of Commons? We need some big, burly, tattooed bouncers on the doors to stop drunken MPs with cameras and loose women in cheap G-strings from entering the building. The only thing MPs should be taking into the Commons is a wheelbarrow of receipts. I can’t imagine Betty Boothroyd, smashed off her face, smuggling ina young man wearing a pair of tatty Y-fronts, whipping him over a table, giving him what for, and then taking some snapshots of him for later viewing. Women are far better planners and would never get caught.
Sometimes talking about sex is more dangerous than actually doing it. On Saturday night I performed at a function in a London hotel, for 300 high-profile doctors and surgeons. Before I went on stage it was reinforced many times – “Talk about anything you like, just don’t talk about sex.” Really? Do doctors and surgeons not have sex? Are they all virgins?
Of all the people to warn about doing sex jokes, the last person should be me. I don’t know anything. It’s like asking the Pope for advice on condoms. And these are people who specialise in penises and vaginas. They handle them, discuss them, extend them, make them look better – surely they’d like to see the funny side? All my jokes are about not having sex, but surely they could see the funny side of that, too?
Conformity is the death of any kind of good entertainment.
I should have just stood there and drawn a picture of a scrotum – using a crayon and my imagination – and then I’m sure everyone would have been happy.