Monday, 25 November 2013


THIS PICTURE OF MY NEW HAIR COLOUR was taken, without written permission, by my editor. Who will now have to be castrated. 

So many of you have gleefully inquired how my hair turned out after last night's alarming post that I can only conclude Jesus has schadenfreuded me as payback for all the schadenfreude I have meted out to others. Such as Snooki. And Lady Gaga. And Jennifer Aniston. Although in my defence, they deserved it whereas all I've ever done is ... and, marvelous, I'm arguing with Jesus now. You'll place flowers on my tombstone, won't you? Nothing's sadder than a tombstone with no flowers on it, isn't that right, Silvio Berlusconi? (Editor's note: He's still alive. My note: Well someone should tell that to his makeup artist.) Er, I see that my inner succubus has wrested the upper hand once again so I'm going to go and redye my hair for the third time in 24 hours while the rest of you resume your regularly scheduled snickering. Bastards. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: In an interesting aside, the good folks at Clairol saw her booze-fueled rant last night and tweeted: "If you're not happy, we're not happy. Call us at 1-800-Clairol so we can help!" Of course, I didn't tell her that, but I did write the number down in ballpoint pen on my scrotum. I may need it some time ...

MY NOTE: WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO, YOU GONORRHEAIC NINCOMPOOP? Get back here and help me rinse out this dye!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *sighs* Such as right now.