I get bored easily. Last week I bought myself a pet blowfish. Three days later, it still hadn't blown. I tried everything to antagonise it; poking it, shaking its tank, reading it extracts from Richard Littlejohn's column in the Daily Mail, but nothing ever got to it, it was just too laid back.
Eventually, I grew tired of waiting and flushed it down the toilet, only for it to reappear the next day, alive and well, in the bowl of Simon Cowell. Enraptured by the blowfish's rousing rendition of Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring, Cowell offered it a five-album deal on his record label, as well as a tour with Leon, a rosy barb he rescued from a sewer.
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