Round here, people give me kickbacks in the universally accepted currency of chocolate.

They know that a man with no arse, a sweet tooth, a black heart and an FBI's Most Wanted rating can easily be bought.

I'm cradling a Mars bar, right now.
It's blood money for, just 30 minutes ago, divulging all my boss' failures secrets to her enemies associate managers.

Mmmm, sweet kickbacks.

I've long had a thing for Mars bars.

In the past I have been trusted to work in some very prestigious places. Because I am a very trustworthy person.

And, as one who takes responsibility very seriously indeed, I took it upon myself to leave fake "calling cards" in the corners of these prestigious places, such as royal palaces, millionaires' swimming pools and the bottom drawer of the desk of the head of programming at the BBC.

Basically, if you take one Mars bar, then put it in the microwave for 30 seconds on High, then gently squeeze the wrapper so the contents plop out in a straight line ... well you have something that gives new meaning to the phrase "chocolate log".

My only regret was that I was never there to see the shocked faces of the business executives, rich wankers and the Queen when they discovered those little chocolate presents.

Mmmmm, Mars bars turds.

What?

Oh, like you've all never fantasized about putting a chocolate turd in someone's drawer.

You disgust me.

Now if you don't mind, one of my COWorkers has just pissed me off and I am in possession of a Mars bar...