The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part I

I was very young when I was born. I remember distinctly (vividly even) the complete absence of anything. I was born into a lowly dustbin, I have since been told by my parents, who are now both, regrettably, dead. My mother was a Jaffa Cake manufacturer at the local factory - I recall the horrors of the assembly line, or so she related back to me: once, an unsuspecting old lady was inundated in a deluge of sugary death when one of the pumps malfunctioned. It was several hours before they were able to dig her out from the horrific collation, but they found nothing left, save a gelatinous mass of spongy orange paste and chocolate refuse. It was on account of these stories that I set out to bring back good flavor in the Jaffa Cake industry upon leaving home.

My father, sadly, was never able to hold down a permanent career. He had a spell as a Cricketer in one of the local leagues, but after becoming the first man to hold a negative winning streak, he decided it was time to move on. After failure as an assistant bouncer, sock shiner, door-to-door knickers salesman, Queen Victoria's Secret fashion model, and human bottle-cap opener, he resorted to a life of drunken stupor and bad breath. He was still a young man when he died, and my mother lived not much longer. If there is one pearl of wisdom I can recollect from the greatest man in my life, it was this (his dying words actually): "Whether you're born into a lower-class dustbin, a middle-class dustbin, or even a rather posh dustbin with its own indoor plumbing, never, ever, let that prevent you from pursuing your wildest dreams."

I have endeavored ever since to follow my father's advice, and thus begins the story of my present and continuing journey towards fame, fortune, and a posh dustbin. I will pick up with this climactic sentiment upon my next entry, but at the moment I must attend to my radio show, which is in dire need of some TLC. Cheerio, chaps!