Cat-astrophe

She Who Controls the Can Opener has installed Herself in front of the television and is forcing me to watch the Eurovision Song Contest. I'm a pedigree, for goodness sake. I shouldn't have to put up with such chavvy, low-life trash. At least the Irish commentator is amusing, but really I'd rather watch something more classy.

I do enjoy a good film. I like that Bond one with Blofeld's Persian cat - she is fit. I'd date her. She has breeding. I'm thinking of auditioning for the next Bond film myself and why not. I live in the same town as Daniel Craig was born, I am a Shorthair, just like Lewis Carroll's Cheshire Cat (right county, too!), and I can act.

Just watch my dramatic performances first thing in the morning - I can convince even the meanest Scrooge that I haven't eaten for a whole month, even though I was probably snacking just an hour before She got out of Her bed. I can turn on the emotions when required. And, of course, I'm handsome and therefore leading man material. In fact, I'm expecting that Broccoli person to turn up on my doorstep any day now, waving a contract worth millions and offering me a rider clause that will provide a stunt cat and a year's supply of Whiskas Premium and smoked salmon.

Once I'm an A-list film star, I shall pay some minion to write my blog for all my adoring fans to read.