Memoirs of a nutter
How was it for you? Did the earth move? No? Then you're all in big, big trouble. It's carnage out there, and I'm not part of it. I'm referring, of course, to the fallout from Valentine's Day. Last week I asked for any of you lonely hearters out there to write to me. I offered you love, affection, simple carnal pleasures*, and did any of you lousystinking lot write to me? No. Well, actually one person did, and my advice to you, Mr. Johnny Tyldesley (if that is your name) is that if you insist on buying your girlfriend something that disgusting you must expect to be called a 'bloody freak'. And why you thought the fact it had flashing lights would help is quite beyond me.
Anyway. Given that no one replied, and no one has yet sent me abuse (other than the editors, of course - they think I don't notice what they do to my column...), I shall assume that, as anticipated, there actually are only two people who read this column. Thus, as it can offend few, I shall use my remaining 63 words to tell you of the epilating, masturbating nun, discovered in the choir-stalls at St. Ignatius this week**. But, no... looks like you're just going to have to wait. (Rebecca Smith is out of time...)
*actually, that might be a lie.
** note for men and other aliens: an 'epilator' is the most evil of modern torture devices. It looks like an electric razor, but in fact plucks each individual hair from the chosen area with the maximum of pain, whilst reassuring you that, when the redness and swelling has gone down, you will have the legs of a goddess. This is, of course, A Big Fat Lie.
21st Feb 2002