It's time for a change - a new me. No longer do I have to put up with the bumbling mediocrity that is my life.

I can't do much about the hairstyle, or the crevasses carved on my cheeks by that relentless fellow, Time. I cannot grow into a young, fit six-footer, but I can become rich and famous and educated. On paper at least.

William Walter Mitty come forth. No, it has to be Sir William. And I - and you - can do it without a lottery win. All you need is Internet access, it seems.

North Yorkshire trading standards revealed last week how you can buy almost any qualification or identity you want over the worldwide web.

They even acquired a University of York degree for a teenager. Just state your requirements, pay a fee and you can buy any educational or professional qualification, driving licence, passport, you name it. If you have dreamed of it, you can have it.

So, I'm off on a new adventure.

First I shall award myself a double first at Oxford and Cambridge, and a masters from Harvard. I shall order myself a triple-platinum credit card from American Express, and a business card with the entire alphabet after my new name. Included in that alphabet, of course, will be MIP (Master of the Institute of Plumbers) so I can fix your blocked drain, after making you wait a month, charge a fortune and get really rich.

Better get myself a dolly bird too. So I shall order wedding photographs of me and Claudia Schiffer - and what happens after that is none of your business. When I get sick of her, there are plenty more where she came from.

Mind you, I need a decent address for my new identity. No 66 Railway Cottages will not do. What about Stinking Rich Manor, Goldshire?

The world is my oyster, it's there for the taking. Perhaps I'm aiming too low. I could become a Portuguese footballer and superimpose my manic, grinning face on to the body of a certain soccer hero scoring a winning penalty against England. That would go down well in the local pub. Perhaps I should not utter such thoughts of sacrilege and indecency. Judging by the reports, there are plenty of people daft enough to put my windows in for even breathing a sigh of relief that the football fever is over in this country.

I have always wanted to tread the red carpet at a Hollywood film premiere to the accompaniment of a million camera flashes, busty blonde on my arm. I could even order myself a shiny, gold Oscar and put it on the mantelpiece below the flying ducks.

Then there's the car, of course. Which one? Porsche, Maserati, Rolls Royce? Any one will do the trick, as long as it's flash enough to park in the boss's office parking spot so he cannot get his company Lada in there. And when he comes in raving, I will douse my Havana cigar in his morning cuppa as I hand in my one-minute's notice of resignation. "Sue me, pal. Here's my (fake) card. Speak to my solicitors because I'll be travelling round the world for the next couple of years."

Then I just order up my fake, first-class flight ticket on Virgin Tahiti and enjoy sumptuous ten-star luxury wherever I want to go.

I could even adopt the identity of President Bush and refuse to attack a country for once. Trouble is, I should have to pretend I don't know where the country is that I'm not attacking or people would see through me right away. And boy, would I give Blair a good talking to.

It's good this Internet stuff. If I do it right, I can create millions of pounds and move my stash around the globe so often they'll never catch up with me.

Who do you want to be, what do you want to be? Think about it, it's easy.

Ah well, for now I've got to dash. There are plates piling up in the sink, daughter needs running to town, wife wants to get to the garden centre. I've got to iron a shirt for work in the morning and make sure I've enough for a gallon of petrol. And I really must start scraping up enough coppers for access to the Internet.

Updated: 10:00 Tuesday, June 29, 2004