Sigh. It’s so lonely at the top. I get vertigo looking down at everyone at the bottom. But it’s very reassuring to be in England where everyone I meet is an aristocrat. Ah but you wouldn’t know what an aristocrat is, dear reader, you poor Brown Sahib. Let me explain. Aristocrats are the noble class, breeding only between themselves and thus slowly degenerating. And if you’re asking do they suffer from mental illness, the answer is no, they all seem to enjoy it.
I’m in England to sort out this right royal mess between my ex-wife and my present wife. You must of course have memorized every teeny weeny detail of the war of words between the two ladies, such is their importance by their proximity to greatness, ie me. In case you haven’t, let me remind you. The first salvo was fired by Jemima according to Reham, who, Jemima not Reham, got a friend of hers, Jemima’s not Reham’s, to write a terrible story about her, Reham not Jemima, in the Daily Mail, quoting her ex-husband, Reham’s not Jemima’s. Sorry, let me say that again. The first salvo was fired by Jemima according to Reham who got a friend of hers to write a terrible story about her in the Daily Mail, quoting Reham’s ex-husband.
The next salvo was fired by Reham who got a cousin of hers to leak a terrible story to the Daily Mail saying Jemima was behind that earlier terrible story about Reham and that she, Jemima not Reham, didn’t want her marriage, Reham’s not Jemima’s, to succeed.
Sorry, let me say that again. Er ok, I won’t.
Anyway, I got on the phone just in time to prevent Reham from firing off a furious tweet about Jemima and her aristocratic accent and snobbish ways, lest it send shockwaves through the entire universe of Whocaresville.
Between politics and this War of the Roses, meaning my leading ladies, I sometimes feel like giving it all up and going back to Oxford for a Masters degree in International Affairs. That’s always been my subject: dating foreign women.
I’m in England to sort out this right royal mess between my ex-wife and my present wife. You must of course have memorized every teeny weeny detail of the war of words between the two ladies, such is their importance by their proximity to greatness, ie me. In case you haven’t, let me remind you. The first salvo was fired by Jemima according to Reham, who, Jemima not Reham, got a friend of hers, Jemima’s not Reham’s, to write a terrible story about her, Reham not Jemima, in the Daily Mail, quoting her ex-husband, Reham’s not Jemima’s. Sorry, let me say that again. The first salvo was fired by Jemima according to Reham who got a friend of hers to write a terrible story about her in the Daily Mail, quoting Reham’s ex-husband.
The next salvo was fired by Reham who got a cousin of hers to leak a terrible story to the Daily Mail saying Jemima was behind that earlier terrible story about Reham and that she, Jemima not Reham, didn’t want her marriage, Reham’s not Jemima’s, to succeed.
Sorry, let me say that again. Er ok, I won’t.
Anyway, I got on the phone just in time to prevent Reham from firing off a furious tweet about Jemima and her aristocratic accent and snobbish ways, lest it send shockwaves through the entire universe of Whocaresville.
Between politics and this War of the Roses, meaning my leading ladies, I sometimes feel like giving it all up and going back to Oxford for a Masters degree in International Affairs. That’s always been my subject: dating foreign women.
Im the Dim