Hi, my name isHenry Conway and I am a complete and utter tosser. Educated at Harrow and Cambridge, I am a prize tit who fully deserves to be taken out and subjected to a severe kick in the gonads.
Myfather, despite being a working class oik himself, managed to send my brother and myself to a top public school. Despite earning a pittance as a Conservative MP he managed to set aside enough money (helped by the £40,000 of taxpayers money he paid mamma to do fuck all as his 'personal assistant') to pay the exorbitant fees.
Since leaving school I have specialised in behaving like a total dick, hosting parties at top London nightclubs and generally jollying with my posh Oxbridge mates. The £20,000 per year taxpayers money my father has paid me for doing fuck all as his personal assistant has helped immeasurably.
When I grow up I don't want to do any work. Instead I plan to become a Conservative MP for a safe constituency. This should keep me in white loafers and ensure that I can afford to have my blonde locks blow dried twice weekly.
I'm sure most people would agree that ghastly 1980's pop svengalisStock, Aitken and Waterman were emissaries of Satan. Just thinking about Rick Astley dancing in a gormless fashion while belting out asinine lyrics is enough to prevent any erroneous pangs of nostalgia.
I do make an exception were Mel & Kim are concerned. 'Respectable' is a great pop song, even if it is as annoying as it is catchy.
Actually, if I'm being truthful, the best thing about it is watching Mels (now sadly deceased like MJ) bazoombas bouncing up and down like a pair of exuberant puppies. Jiggy jiggy ah.
MJ, aficianado of all that is pervy and salcious, has finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Her legion of bereft admirers are left with little more than fond memories of her seminal tour of Nebraskan whore houses.
At this sad juncture I think it only right that we set aside a little time for quiet reflection. Each of us bitches will, I am sure, choose to remember her in our own way. The tear wistfully wiped from our cheek will stand testament to this genius who once moved among us; an ethereal presence with a penchant for Victorian sado masochism.
I, for one, will be wearing a black armband on my todger for at least a month in honour of the dearly departed Canuck seal clubber.
Farewell then MJ. Those whom the gnomes love die young.
This is obviously a pizza, Italian cheese on toast which under no circumstances merits description as a pie. Why do the Americans refer to pizza (as in "that's a darn fine slice of pie") as pie when it obviously isn't?
This may seem like a trifling matter to some, but I feel strongly that standards in the English language should be defended vigorously. This misuse of the word pie may not be a cassus belli, but at the very least should result in the expulsion of the American Ambassador to the Court of St James.
Given that we are nowofficially richer than the Yanks for the first time in a hundred years I think it's about time they showed some respect for our linguistic sensitivities.
The delights of the norovirus ensured that I enjoyed several days of projectile vomiting that would have made Linda Blair in the Exorcist green with envy (if she hadn't been green already). Even hot whisky, my surefire cure for all ailments, proved to be of no avail.
Viruses are evil bastards and conclusive proof of the non existence of God.
I didn't go to the doctor. I haven't been to the doctor for twenty years and I wasn't going to break my habit at the behest of a filthy little beneficiary of evolutionary mutation. Anyway, there wouldn't have been any point visiting the quack. She'd just have given me a sad look and informed me that I have terminal bone cancer.
I just love the health system in Britain. Wooden hip replacements, MRSA, and bone cancer diagnoses. That's all it's good for.