The Trouble With Fergie
For the past few weeks, ever since I read that the Duchess of York was searching for the lotus flower within, I’ve taken the precaution of keeping a sickbag to hand. Whatever else she’s been up to between the shopping malls of St Maarten and the ski slopes of Verbier she has certainly done her psycho-twaddle homework. I believe she may also have described herself as her own bestest (sic) friend. Or was she talking about her ex husband, for whom she is willing to throw herself under a bus? Don’t you wonder a) why such a well-matched pair ever divorced? and b)which member of the Royal Family might now be dusting off their HGV licence?
Anyway, there she is again today, on the front page of the paper and this time I’ve had enough. She has woken Laurie’s Inner Komodo Dragon. I want to cut up her credit cards. I want to see her stay at a Travelodge. And, yes, I want to make her fly Ryanair. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Moving swiftly on from her (latest) grave error of judgment, she has announced that she is free of debt for the first time ever, EVER in her life. To which one can only say, ‘hunh?’ And then spare a thought for her creditors who have had to settle for 25p in the pound.
Fergie, I know you’re a sucker for a guru. Here is my advice to you. You seem to be careering through life’s candy store cramming your mouth with jelly beans. See, the jargon isn’t hard to pick up? You must stop going to nightclubs with your daughters. It’s sad and pathetic. They love you too much to break this news to you, but I don’t. I’d say I now actively dislike you. You’re up there, with Madonna and Paul McCartney.
If you truly wish to find that inner lotus flower, or even become just a regular middle-aged woman who pays her bills, you should cover up your crinkled decolletage and go quietly into Surrey. Kew Gardens might be a good place to start.
Then there’s the problem of your bestest friend… But I’ll leave his majestical mother to deal with him.
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