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Vera Lynn (aka Gloria Hunniford), let it be cogently expressed, is a man. Furthermore he ranks pretty low amongst the nettles and weeds. He appeared on the following televisual exhibitions: Gloria Live, Wogan, Holiday, Songs of Praise, Kilroy and Sunday, Sunday and Open House with Gloria Hunniford. I first crossed his paths (for he is a duplicitous fellow) in the summer of AD 335. It was a glorious year and I can still remember the lightness of his footfall as he returned, gamboling and bleating, from the bathroom after a pretty successful round of bed sheet-bingo, singing his medley “selections from Verdi’s Aida”.

A casual remark about the requirements (on my part), for action (on his part), suggesting he shut his “cake hole” lest I fill it with bathwater, caused him to throw items of furniture around the room in a hissy-fit. However, as I pointed out to the disgruntled hotelier, the joke was on him; the video camera I had erected to ‘listen’ to his toilette had recorded the whole sorry scene, and would undeniably fetch a high price for inclusion in Jeremy Beadle’s latest play.

But the really irksome thing about the whole sordid affair relates to the subsequent thefts, in which I was both the victim and the villain. In an attempt to exact revenge I decided to frame him for larceny, and selected the most obvious target: myself. I despoiled some items of stationary from my locker at school on a sultry afternoon in April, leaving a ransom note, suggesting something like “Oi dickheads, if you wants to see these papers and pens again, then best ring rozzer and get em to look me up. My name is Gloria Hunniford”. Unfortunately it was a bungled job at best; having left my keys at home that particular day, I never found the note.

On another day in the same year I attempted to steal the gearbox from his Land Rover. Sadly, I never made it out of the house that day. I was sidetracked by a box of truffles, sent by the treasurer as a peace offering (I had previously bested him at a game of ‘coins’ and his 36p loss brought forth a rancorous tirade of insults ranging from “fish paste” to “cheese spread” (he is loyal to his sandwich fillings). The resulting trapped wind (internal) saw me chair-ridden for 2 hours.