What, no jazz hands? No razzle-dazzle? No cartwheels for light relief? No interval for cocktails and celebrity cock-watch down the urinals?
But really, what sort of world do we live in where someone has to come on tellyboxvision, in front of a live crowd of carefully selected friends, family and a bloke we recognise off-of Cam4, to publicly apologise for fucking a bunch of hookers? Honestly, this country’s gone to the dogs.
*interval; sucks the sherbet out of a Refresher bar; gets a head rush*
So Tiger poses the quandary: ‘People want to know how I could’ve done these things to my wife Elan (we’re just assuming that’s how it’s spelt. We can’t be arsed checking. Why would we? There’s no prize in it) and to my children.’
Wait a minute… that’s a trick question, right? Is it… your penis?
ps. Tiger? Grrrrrrr.
Look, moving pictures…!