I tried to flee the country at night, little realising that people only notice when you don't want them to notice. Suddenly everyone was eyeing me up, dressing me down, working me out. So I had a bad feeling when I walked up to the check-in desk at the airport. Particularly as I had developed a rather painful erection.

To my utter dismay the check-in clerk informed my passport was invalid, in that it ran out a month hence. He would not be budged from his idiotic standpoint, even when I licked his earhole. As a result I was refused passage on to the airplane. I thus retired disconsolately to my luxury cardboard box to contemplate my next move.

Bright the next morning I turned up at the passport office. Again I had a turgid sensation in my undergarments. The reason soon became clear as the official informed me that my photographs were insufficiently clear, given the stainage thereon, and my identity documents were falling apart. I informed him that the stainage was actually upon my face, and therefore could not be removed easily. He refused to accept this explanation.

I was thus forced to insert my application form, complete with pictures, old passport and £114 in cash, into his rear passage. My boot was then deployed smartly on his backside. Almost immediately a brand new passport issued from his mouth. I grabbed it and kissed it with glee, paying particular attention to the Royal Crest.

No sooner had I got on the bus to the airport when I saw this one-eyed midget shouting the word 'Now.' I said: 'For what reason?' and he said: 'How?' And I said: 'What does this mean?' and he screamed back: 'You're a cow ... give me some milk or else go home.' And I knew something was happening here, but rather than investigate further I ran into the terminal to claim my aisle seat and complementary sick bag.

My groinbell tolled loudly as soon as I presented my documents to the staff on duty. I was immediately interrogated as to the purpose of my visit. It appeared that possessing brand new travel documents are indicative of terrorist urges. And it was indeed true that I had a strange compulsion to detonate an explosive of some sort in my trousers as I regarded the ape-like security guard don rubber gloves with aplomb. Not only was my baggage thoroughly raped but my person was also patted down with excessive vigour. I was only fortunate that he did not detect the tumescent growth between my legs.

I thus finally escaped from Britain bowed, broken and humiliated. Truly I was the hobnob biscuit upon which Kafka, Freud and Pavlov had profusely ejaculated.