What ho, my little chickabiddies. Wogan here.
You find me, alas, in a spot of bother. Been forcibly removed by the DG’s lackeys, y’see. Yours truly has been caught erring, live on national radio.
What, I hear you cry, is the nature of this high crime or misdemeanour? What, pray, could possibly have resulted in old Wogan being given the boot?
Ah me. Tis a sorry tale, and one I fear the present Mrs Wogan will not find to her palate. Twas during a particularly perspicacious broadcast, when I found myself craving a nibble. Mrs Wogan, y’see, has ordered her old man to shed a few pounds. I suggested a seafood diet: I see food, then I eat it. She was not amused.
So it was that my stomach was rumbling rather discontentedly during an especially quiet passage in a Eva Cassidy ballad. I was masticating furiously. There was nothing for it but to toddle along to the fifth floor and tuck into the DG’s personal store of fondant fancies.
You can guess what happened. Ne’er one crumb had passed my lips when I felt the long arm of the law feeling my collar. Two roister-doisterers frog-marched me out of the building, and now here I am, on the pavement.
The moral of this story is: never sink your teeth into one of the DG’s fancies, for fear of a cold hand on your exit.