You've probably been wondering where I've been. But while you've been fretting about the value of your pissy little pensions, I've been risking my life.
When Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi invited me to Sirte last month, he insisted that the city was heavily fortified and totally loyal. So, with characteristic selfless courage, off I jetted to participate in Gaddafi's last stand.
He was in good spirits when I arrived, slaughtering a camel for our pre-dinner snack. But I was in no mood to waste time with such niceties - I was there to cut a deal.Muammar may have been a wild-eyed maniac, but he wasn't stupid. He knew he had to get out of Libya PDQ. But he was
fast running out of friends. Even Tony Blair had abandoned him. Alan B'Stard is more loyal than that - especially to a man who plundered approximately $100,000,000,000,000 from his nation's treasury.
Muammar had tried to escape once already, into Niger (I didn't know we were even allowed to say Niger), only to be turned back at the border by the Nigerians. (Is that right? Wikipedia says so.)
Enter the Alan. My plan was quite simple. In exchange for a percentage of his loot - 90 per cent, to be precise - I would smuggle Muammar into England. After that I would try to persuade Martin McGuinness to put him up, for old time's sake.
But time was of the essence. We had to make our move before the rebels broke into Sirte. Muammar agreed and, pausing only to pack 57 pieces of Lousy Vuitton luggage (very convincing knock-offs from Tripoli Market), he was about to board my helicopter when the downdraught from the rotors dislodged his hair weave, revealing a ghastly comb-over.
Screaming, "I can't go out looking like this," Muammar scuttled back to his bunker to await his trichologist. Unfortunately, his trichologist was indeed on his way, leading a column of rebel commandos.
Which is why, five days later, I was cowering in a storm drain alongside Gaddafi and his bodyguard. I thought my end was extremely nigh. Then I heard a familiar booming voice, and a tall jovial figure in a poorly cut Hong Kong suit crawled towards us. “What are you doing here, Adam?" I cried. "I'll tell you what I'm not doing," retorted Werritty. "I'm not conducting a separate covert defence policy, paid for by some shady neocons. And I haven't got an escape submarine waiting in the harbour, to which I'm not going right now."
“In that case, I'm not coming with you," I replied.
And so I left poor Gaddafi to his fate, secure in the knowledge that I had already electronically transferred his fortune into my account at the
Co-operative Bank, Cayman Islands branch. So I don't think I'll bother writing this column any more. I'm simply far too rich.