With my new found notoriety comes additional responsibility, and, after much soul searching, I am afraid I have decided that I am not the man to shoulder that particular burden.
As my old showbiz pal Frank Sinatra said, there have been times when I bit off more than I could chew, and, now that those chickens are coming home to roost, I find I lack the moral fibre to face eating them up and spitting them out. Beautiful lyrics, those.
Frank would also certainly have understood all the talk there's been this week of concrete overcoats and propping up the Turner Centre, and heaven forbid that I should wake up one morning to find a seagull's head lying next to me.
So I must therefore thank you all for your brickbats and bouquets, and bid you adieu.
I'm off to Bournemouth. Now that's a place that really does understand millionaires.
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