In Competition No. 3276, you were invited to supply an extract from the memoir of a celebrity with some unfortunate misprints.

Step forward, Nick MacKinnon’s Matt Hancock: ‘I was sorry that “bushtucker trials” wasn’t a typo, as I am expert at handling pubic heath during box-tickling exercises on hidden cameras’; Basil Ransome-Davies’s Nigel Farage: ‘I proudly affirm that Make Britain Grate is the slogan of a go-ahead, viral nation. Believe me, as president of the Deform UK Party, I swear that Britain comes above all…’; and, last but not least, Brian Murdoch’s Prince Harry, whose panic–inducing tell-all was the inspiration for this challenge: ‘Living with the pressures of loyalty didn’t agree with us, and we decided to lie in California.’

The winners below earn £25 each.

I came back after Paul died by doing Strictly, but I had to do some pirates to regain my puff. When you don’t exercise your pelvic flaw, you can miss out on winning prizes, and I so wanted atrophy. We tired hard but came second!
These days I also appear in pants, oh yes I do! I love it when the audience jeers the villain, and when I’m offstage, I always join in with my Behind. You see, life is about having fun, and every day I wake up with a smile in my heart, a gin on my lips, and a bright spark inside me.
But I miss being the lonely assistant, watching Paul pull habits out of rats, or letting him make me varnish in a box (those were sticky moments!). What a farce of nature he was! Together we were the perfect comic dud.
Bill Greenwell/Debbie McGee

From my earliest days I abhorred nature. In my long life I have deplored the planet, experiencing the great pains of Africa, immense turds of zebra, and cat-infested raves. I have studied the behaviour of birds frying on migration, flaunting their glossy leathers, and delighting in their snogs. Today, after years of travelling through mosquito-ridden tramps and baking desserts, I fear for our delicious marine life. Filming sardines off the toast, mass turtle egg-slaying, and hermit craps on the beach, I have seen the effects of insanity. Our planet’s wildlife is inedible, there is still so much to spurn. I have sown huge amounts of plastic in the ocean. We have lost many marbles, but we can still fake a difference. With vapid changes we can neglect this vulnerable ecosystem. Our fish populations batter so much, and we cannot overcook them. We want a world our grandchildren can destroy.
Janine Beacham/David Attenborough

Growing up in a close-knit family among the steamy Louisiana bayous, I was never without a can of incest repellent. We struggled: my Pa always preferred the inside of a bra to the outside, though he loved to play Satan at Christmas, and we lived on Ma’s special pee and ham soup. It was a long road from there to the iconic red fatsuit, but I’m giving a shoot-out to Dwayne, my first, gardener boyfiend, a manure man, whom I stole from my sister. He’d send me messages from LA: ‘Wish you were her!’ Meeting him, it was like a steroid fell to Earth. One day I found myself in a local café, under the sign ‘Free Wife’, with my first (used) laptop. When it was time to go, the message ‘Are you sure you want to exist?’ made me take a fresh bath. After that, rabid progress!
Frank Upton/Britney Spears

I abandoned my bid for paltry leadership after gaining only twenty votes. But the outbreak of the pandemonium found me responsible for the nation’s health and 180,000 deaths. I thought the plan for sensual distancing, contained in my briefs, might be a problem, but I found myself groping remarkably well. However, I was unfairly forced to resign, as a disgraced health monster.
After my vapid rise to blame so far, what next? I’ve signed up for ‘I’m a Calamity, get me out of your hair!’ The Consumptive party has dismembered me; I shall represent West Suffolk as an independable member. And, talking of members, I’ve contracted the landlord of the Cock Inn to traduce some takeaway cartoons to share with my campmates. I’m sure all my gropees will jeer me on! I’m the celeb most likely to secede. Prick of the bunch, they’re saying.
Sylvia Fairley/Matt Hancock

It’s not easy being Crime Minister, especially during rockdown. My list of cuties seems to grow by the day. For a start there are the endless Cabernet meetings. There can be disagreements, but you have to pick your bottles: what’s needed is clarety of thought and fino judgement – it’s no good relying on brut force. But it’s all port and parcel of the job, and everything usually turns out Tokay in the end.
Then there are the daily brie flings – the responsibility for those is wine too, and I take it very seriously. After all, it’s about raving wives. There have been accusations of unprofessionalism, but let me tell you I rum a pretty tight sip. Yes, we’ve had to party with one or two colleagues, but it’s unfair to mark everyone with the same brandy. All in all I’m satisfied with our champaign. Job done. Rish. Bash. Posh.
David Shields/Boris Johnson

By the early 1970s we were the biggest wreck band in the world, but tensions were high. Mick and I went for a ‘clean the hair’ meeting at a fancy Chinese place in Beverley Hills. I just wanted a quick smack so I chose beef and needles. Mick asked the waitress if she could rustle up his usual poking dick. Before long we were laughing and toking like the old times. We finished and hit the nearest bar. In no time we were surrounded by a posse of attractive young gropies. Muck was in his element, but I wanted to talk about the title of our next album. After Buggars Banquet and Stocky Fingers it needed to be something equally catchy. Out the window I spied a truck with the name of a carpet company on the side. ‘I’ve got it,’ I said. ‘Textile on Main Street’.
Joe Houlihan/Keith Richards

No. 3279: Bah! humbug!

You are invited to submit an extract from a contemporary reimagining of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 2 December. The early deadline is because of seasonal production schedules.

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