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Isnâ€™t it always the way? You wait ages for one purple flour-filled condom and then three come along at once. Of course the correct procedure for a chemical attack in the House of Commons would have been for MPs to remain in the chamber and remove all items of clothing. Iâ€™m not sure which is the more horrific vision: anthrax all over London or Nicholas Soames slipping out of his Y-fronts while chatting to a naked Ann Widdecombe. Here at last is the third and final collection of Guardian columns from John Oâ€™Farrell, award-winning comedy writer and compulsive liar. In this eye-watering journey from innocence to revelation, he discovers that Margaret Thatcher is actually his mother. Contained within these covers are a hundred funny, satirical essays on subjects as diverse as Manâ€™s ascent from the apes and the re-election of George W. Bush. Plus there is a full account of Oâ€™Farrellâ€™s heroic but doomed attempt to capture his Tory home town for socialism. Maidenhead has never been the same since. He also makes a number of preposterous claims, including that identity fraud has got so bad that an audacious impostor using the name A. L. Blair even managed to get himself a Labour Party card by posing as a left-wing champion of wealth distribution and civil rights. He asks why a Blackberry isnâ€™t compatible with an Apple. And finds out why the Queen didnâ€™t go to her own sonâ€™s wedding: â€What happened to that other girl you were seeing?â€™ â€Mother, we got divorced and then she died in a car crash, remember?â€™ â€Well, sometimes you have to work at these things, dear . . . â€™