The seemingly irresistible political rise of Dunfermline based self made millionaire, lap dancing expert and ‘Shavers Weekly’ publisher Mr Frank Sinpson continued apace last night with a press conference at The Maltings on St Leonard Street (Vodka 50p a pop every Wednesday from 7pm onwards).


Speaking before journalists from all five continents, Simpson began by scotching rumours that he had snubbed the recent royal wedding. “It is true, as reported in the Weekly, that I had a previous commitment to the Doms night at The Alhambra Bar on Leith walk (strictly over 25’s – id required),” he explained, but the postponement of the wedding to the Saturday meant that I could fit in both events, and I was only too happy to attend. “The only downside for me was that I was not able to make it over to Rome for the papal funeral. While me and his late holiness may have not seen eye to eye on every topic, I would have liked to have been there as a mark of respect for his hardline anti-condom stance. Like him I’ve always been more of a skinny-dipper than a wet suit man, but, by God, John Paul must have had balls of steel to stand up and say so in this day and age. I just hope that this big German laddie, now they’ve checked his studs and waved him onto the park, turns out to be cut from the same cloth.”

"Luxury: A cub reporter test drives his new company vechicle."


Turning his attention to wider global affairs, Simpson (59) then proceeded to outline the keynote address he is to give to delegates at the forthcoming G8 summit at Gleneagles. “Basically, there is a perception in some quarters that the G8 are out of touch with the ordinary man. To counter this they have asked me to offer a hard nosed critique of their policies from the standpoint of someone who – despite the helicopter(s), Vietnamese call girls and other trappings of wealth that I may enjoy today – still remembers that he started out with nothing, earning a meagre crust giving two bob handjobs to frustrated miners in the dingy midnight alleys of the old Fife coalfield.

“Take these proposals to alleviate world poverty by writing off debt, for example. Now that may be all very well on a governmental level, but what would it mean to an ordinary Joe like me? Well, lets just look at last week, a fairly typical week for me. There I am, Monday, Enjoying a pint with the lovely Kylie Minogue in Brecks Bar – Rose Street not really being my cup of tea, but Kylie well, she expects a certain level, so what can you do? A good time is had by all, but come closing time the antipodean nightingale is crying on my shoulder. She’s skint, apparently, all this illegal downloading having eaten away at her income, so yours truly has to fish out a crisp clean tenner to get the svelte songstress a kebab and a taxi home. Well you can’t see a lassie stuck can you? Next night, Tuesday, I’m at The Silver Wing out Sighthill way with my good friend Roman Abramovich, chatting of this and that, one tycoon to another about life, love, Jack McConnell’s appalling hairstyle etc. Only, when it’s Roman’s time to get the round in he starts acting all shifty. It turns out he’s done all his conkers in on that Chelsea mob of his and can I maybe sub him twenty sheets, just till his new gas pipeline through Uzbekistan comes onstream? Well, Roman’s an old pal, so I’m only too happy to oblige.

Wednesday I’m planning a quiet one but I get a call from motorsport maestro Michael Schumacher, wondering if I fancy a swiftie at The Quarter Gill up the Bridges. Thing is, though a poor start to the season hasn’t left the Schumacher bank balance looking any too chipper, and how’s about an advance on the fee for his forthcoming appearance at Cowdenbeath Racewall, where Michael will be returning to his first love, Stock car racing? Of course Michael, of course, take the fifteen quid and I’ll get the pints up!

"Tom Simpson (no relation) seen here cycling himself to death on Mount Ventoux in’67."


“Then Thursday I’m down at the Balfour on Leith walk when who should I run into but the snooker commentator John Virgo and Hollywood hunk Vin Diesel. Seems the lads have come unstuck a bit on the puggy, but that’s ok, they tell me, they’ll win it all back on the pool doubles flyer. Except that they don’t have a groat between them for the entry, so….So good old Frank antes up, two bucks a skull, only to watch them crash and burn in the first round after Virgo gets chinned from some local for trying to say that two shots carry – So where does that leave me? It’s not even the weekend, and I’m already 49 clams in the hole – plus drinks – and let me tell you, good friend though John, Vin, Michael, Roman and Kylie may be, if the G8 push through this cancellation of debt caper I won’t see the buggers for dust.


So, while alleviating world poverty might sound great in theory, I’m afraid in practice it don’t ketchup no beans for me. And that’s why I’m going to Gleneagles, for some straight talking and banging of heads together.“Oh, and also to stress the importance of full ratification of the Kyoto protocols on climate change. Obviously.”

This article originally appeared in Australian’s Women’s Weekly last weekend.

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