Talk Like an Egyptian

From today, I am Walter.

The future is bright, the future is orange...........and so incidentally is Mohammed Al Fayed, the subject of our story tonight, children.
Yes, the orange Egyptian transformed my life today and gave the future an oh so attractive hue. You see, I used to think that I was just plain, simple Reg Pither, a plain and simple man living a plain and simple life. How wrong I was.
The error of my ways became apparent when the Diana inquest jury was told how Little Mo could prove that his late son and the aforementioned neurotic clotheshorse were engaged to be married. Mo's reasoning goes like this:

There was CCTV footage of Dodi going into a jeweller's.
There was further footage of a minion from the shop coming out with a bag and taking it over to Dodi's hotel (well, his dad's hotel, actually) where it was locked in a strongroom.
There was documentary proof that Dodi had indeed bought a ring from the jeweller's.

Now we come to Little Mo's fantastic logic and the reason I have had to re-evaluate my life:

HE CLAIMED the ring was an engagement ring.
HE CLAIMED the couple were, therefore, engaged.

So, let's get this straight, shall we? Man dating Big Ears' ex-wife buys ring, yes? Ring is supposedly an engagement ring, yes? Man is therefore engaged to Big Ears' ex, yes?
Ok then. Today I went out an bought an engagement ring for Dolly Parton. Hey presto!! Pither is no longer a saddo on the verge of a divorce. He is, instead, a lucky man about to embark on a journey into marital bliss with an unfeasibly large breasted, 5ft-tall songbird with a mouth which suggests she could suck a golf ball up a vacuum cleaner hose!
Pither then had his hair cut in a silly way, got covered in tattoos and bought an L A Galaxy football strip. Low and behold, he is no longer an almost completely spherical, balding, 47-year-old, jobless, buffoon. No, he's now David Beckham!
Tomorrow I think I shall drive around town, waving gormlessly out of the window at people in the street, thereby becoming the Queen and so enjoying fabulous wealth and more crowns than I can eat. Then, at the weekend, I shall don a bedsheet and a pointy hat, carry a stick and so become Pope Gregory XIII to take advantage of all the booze, drugs and loose women on offer in the wider Catholic world.
I'm not sure if I've already sent Al Fayed to Grantham. You lose track when you're having such fun. Still, I'll send him there again, just to be on the safe side.