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Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Hi, fans. This week has been a bit of an odd one for me. When I opened my front door this morning, I was rather shocked to see that the world wasn’t on fire. I mean, it’s been at least three days since a journalist last asked my opinion on something, so naturally I assumed that something bad was happening. As it happens, the last time I experienced such a lull of interest was when Princess Diana’s spleen was being smeared halfway across a highway in Paris.
Actually, that reminds me: I’m sick and tired of seeing her sons living the high life at our expense. I’d love nothing more than to be able arrange for some scum-sucking parasites to chase my own mother down a French road in the middle of the night, if it meant I got to live in a big palace for the rest of my life. However, that’s not an option available to us ordinary, hard-working folk who don’t have the luxury of relying on our past glories to make a few quid every now and then.
The other day I stepped out into my back garden, and accidentally trod on a snail. Although he was technically trespassing, I actually felt sorry for the little blighter and I’ve decided to write a song in his memory. This is what I’ve got so far:
I treaded on a snail
He made a noisy squish
We could have been buddies
He went nicely with my tuna salad dish
It’s still early days, but you can feel the emotional trauma coming off it in waves already. I’m yet to commit to a name for it, as it’s all about getting the right balance between artistic integrity and the whole ‘Ooooh, me guts were squished on the floor and now I’m dead’ vibe.
I reckon I might settle with calling it Diana.
Hello there Earthlings, it’s the former Queen of Hearts here. First of all, can I just say that if anyone calls me Di, Diana, or uses any of my previous names and titles from my mortal era, I’ll be waiting for you at the Pearly Gates when you finally cop it. Although me and St. Peter got off to a rocky start we’ve become good pals so just watch your mouths now that I’ve got the head bouncer’s phone number – he lets me out for a cheeky fag and I let him fondle my tiara on the way back in. He gets all the good gossip and he has such a nice bum too! Anyway, just drop all the soppy names that the shitrag journalists thought up after they chased me down that French tunnel and everything will be just peachy. I tell you something though… those journos with their cocaine parties and witty headlines think they are the smartest people in the world, but boy have they got a shock coming to them when they come up here.
Initially life was tough up here in the sky with the big, invisible man constantly talking to me from under my bed. I tried to set up a charity dedicated to landmine victims so I could condescendingly pat them on the head before retiring back to my trailer for a white wine spritzer and a spray of Christian Dior; unfortunately, poverty and war don’t exist up here so I had to reinvent myself like that Spice Girl with the massive tits did when her career went to shit.
Money and time are practically infinite up here which is a damn good job because that £17 million divorce settlement is still holed up in some bank vault – I even went and forgot me bleedin’ PIN number as well! Sometimes I am such a ditzy!
No doubt you’ve all got a hundred questions for me… does Dodi look buff when stepping out of the shower… how many cotton buds Charlie needed to clean out those big ugly ears of his… and just what happened that night in Paris…? Well, as much as I would love to answer these questions I’m afraid that our time is getting short and I can already feel myself fading away.
Actually that’s bollocks. St Peter is making ‘honk honk’ signals with his hands again – it’s chinwag and fag time again, yippee!