’Twas just resting in my account. Honest

You never think these things will catch up with you. Do you? I mean, there I was in bed on Tuesday morning, just an ordinary Joe Soap, and I discover that I’ve all this money and belongings stashed away in the British Virgin Islands. (British and virgin, two words you don’t often see together ). So I says to herself “Herself, what did ya do with the money I gave ya to hold, to mind for me. Did ya give it to anyone?” And Herself, she says, “Himself, I did. I gave it to a fella in the bank who said he’d mind it for us.”

So up I shot, like the upshot I am and ran down the stairs in me pyjamas (not everyone has a stairs in their pyjamas ) and I run in and open the envelopes from the bank that I hadn’t opened ‘cos they never bring good news, those envelopes. And there lo and behold (and lower than I’ve ever been held ) was a rake of deeds and assets and share bonds and james bonds and keys to cars and yachts and private jets that somehow I’d managed to accidentally acquire just by Herself handing the few shillings we had to the guy in the bank to mind for us.

As they are ferreting their way through the 11 million documents from Mossack Fonseca Banque du Dodge from Panama they are bound to uncover my little dealings now any day. I reckon if they’re doing it in alphabetical order I’m good for a few weeks yet. I’ve some time to move things, to come up with some good excuses, to explain myself to you all.

Let me see. What can I say?

I blame it on my childhood, and the weather, and the general air of meanness into which we were all reared in the 1980s when it pissed rain for 400 days and 400 nights, only letting up to allow a little drizzle to fall, to dash any hope of a bit of sunshine. In those days, Peig Sayers was like Vogue Williams, such was our misery. It was into this environment that I was bred, so you can see how justified I am to have ferreted away all of my soft-earned, I mean hard-earned, wealth into dodgy acounts in the far flung Verging islands.

I mean, how was I to know that this would ever come out. I mean, I just handed the money to a guy who said “don’t worry now, Derek, don’t you worry. We have your best interests at heart.” Hmmm, I should have smelt a rat, but then you don’t know the smell of rats, do ya. Unless you’re into that kind of thing, I mean.

Should I not have known, I hear you ask suspiciously. I was young. And naive. (That’s good. Always works. Even for drugdealers ) Yes, I was naive.

I admit it was a bit strange when I received the deeds to a villa in France and Portugal and in the Seychelles in the post some time later, and yes it did feel strange that I had holidays in all of these villas several times a year for the past decade or so, but it never dawned on me at all, at all, that I might actually own them. And whoever did own them had an Aston Martin in the garage for my use when I arrived. And my name was on the ownership of that too. And on the number plate DV8. But not to deviate from the matter now, I have no idea how this happened, but you can see the predicament in which I find myself this week.

So how did it start. Well you know me and how I hate filling in forms. It’s the dodgy handwriting inherent after decades of using keyboards. So I just take all my vast cash and hand it on to people who say they will look after it for me. And no, I haven’t been on the take. I’m just a consultant. A contentment consultant. If you look after me, I’ll be content and you’ll be content, if you get my drift.

You know how it is when people who haven’t paid their TV licence fee and end up in court come to you and ask you to keep it out of the paper. So to spare them the shame, the humiliation they will suffer if you don’t, you oblige them, for the usual fee, in cash, in an envelope. And when Mary Jo comes in and says “can ya get my picture in the paper this week and can you make me look thinner and make me friend look fatter,“ I oblige them ‘cos I’m an obliging kind of guy. And people reward me for this largesse with their own larger largesse.

And so with the drawer full of these envelopes bulging with cash, you just have to hand it to someone who will mind it for you. And so I did. I gave it to the bank manager who said “good man Derek, good man.”

I mean what’s a guy to do. In due course, I will get onto my accountant and my legal briefs (bit tight around the hips ) and issue a full and Frank statement as to how this happened. How I became a victim of these bankers and their smart ways. Myself and Sigi Sigurssonnnsossonnn and Vlad Putin and Dave C and Lionel Messi, we’re all victims. Spare a thought for us and allow us the space and time to ensure that we can explain this away. Right, must dash. Have to get a new Charvet. The collar’s a bit wrinkled on this one.

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