We've seen quite enough Middleton flesh oozing from the armpits of a £35 shift dress
One Woman’s Week, by Karen Fennessey
I think I can speak for everyone when I say “Kate, we are all sick of your skin.” We’ve seen quite enough Middleton flesh oozing from the armpits of a £35 shift dress from H&M or spreading licentiously over the Cote d’Azur.
We need to start asking the real question: just who the hell does she think she is?
Kate has always treated us with disdain, be it parading around in a massive hat or greedily hoovering up endangered UV rays. It’s an insult to the tax payer and a waste of our planet’s precious resources.
Like any person of low birth, she never stops to think about how her actions affect me. For example, when I was in the B&Q outdoor department at the weekend, everyone wanted to know why I wasn’t topless like Kate. I had to take to the tannoy to explain about how I’ve never been happy with my breasts after having the nipples replaced with Grolsch caps in the late ’80s. How was I to know this practice would be such a flash in the pan?
But it’s men I really feel for. Take any beachfaring gent – let’s say for the sake of argument it’s Julian Assange. One minute he’s listening to the lovely waves and planning his next momentous leak, the next some skinny lunatic duchess comes barreling towards him, mammaries flapping up and down in his face and that’s a whole new set of molestation charges coming his way.
She might protest “But I’m just cooling off” or “I don’t want to get tan lines in my many skimpy backless dresses”. But the truth is she is nothing better than a randy silverback gorilla, forcing his bosoms upon everyone he meets. She mocks those of us who – for whatever legal reasons – cannot enter the region of West London wearing a bandeau.
Kate needs to understand that there are people literally everywhere she goes, all of them vulnerable to her pompous displays. It’s a whole different world living at the palace, its corridors lined with portraits of dead monarchs whose eyes swivel to observe her indulgently tugging at a well-embedded wedgie or illicitly wiping a bogey on her bare thigh. An unsuspecting butler might be topping up the pot pourri in the royal WC only for Kate to swan in without a care and pull down her pants. How does the poor flunkey explain that to William?
They might all be doing it in France, Kate, but something else they’re all doing in France is marathon sessions of cocaine-fuelled analingus so just think about that the next time you’re unhooking yourself on the crowded tube.