SO I’ve been reading the papers, giving it all this about my boy Andrew and I was all set to get in the car and go down to that Fleet Street and ask some of them editors outside.
Some of the things they said he got up to was disgusting. Tells you a lot more about the dirty minds of the people who think up this stuff than it does my boy. C’mon, you slags, let’s have this out on the f**king pavement. That’s what I’d have said to them.
And these girls, what about their parents? Them’s who I blame. Letting them out, going all round the world, parading themselves, trying to marry up. Well not with my Andrew!
Anyway, he says he don’t remember nuffink ‘cos he was having pizza at the time and them photos, well it was probably one of those lookalikes like that old bird who pretends to be me.
He deserves the Victoria Cross for what he done getting our Falklands back off the Argies. Blood, sweat and tears he gave. Well, not sweat, obviously. Imagine not being able to f**king sweat! Poor little lad must be hot all the time.
A mum’s not supposed to have favourites but when you’ve got such a lovely, handsome, brave boy like my Andrew, well, it’s impossible, innit?
So lay off him. I’ll clout you with my f**king crown if you start messing. He’s still a bachelor boy holding out for a nice suitable girl so hands off.