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Woman instinctively hates girl her boyfriend would fancy

A WOMAN has developed an immediate fiery hatred for another woman purely on the basis that her boyfriend would 100 per cent fancy her. 

26-year-old Charlotte Phelps loathed Grace Wood-Morris as soon as she saw her because if her partner Tom Logan, who was 18 miles away and entirely unaware, had seen her his ‘eyes would be on f**king stalks’. 

Phelps continued: “Bitch. Strutting about dressed up like a tart. If he hadn’t been at home on PlayStation he’d be all over the brazen cow. 

“If he’d been here, instead of in his pants playing Football Manager 26, I know he’d keep looking over, pretend he wasn’t, sigh that he was only taking a glance and we’d have a row in the Uber on the way home, all because she can’t wear a bra. 

“I might have got too far into it because I muttered ‘this is Claire from salsa all over again, you f**king insensitive prick’ to the barman, but it’s true. And he’d be thinking of her when we had sex. 

“When Grace came over to introduce herself, acting the innocent, it was all I could do not to claw the slag’s eyes out. But I managed to stay polite and lie about where I lived in case she comes on the prowl.” 

Logan said: “Must have been a shit do. Lottie got back in a right mood, wouldn’t speak to me and said I had to sleep on the couch.” 

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I tried living on just £1m a year with free accommodation like Andrew, and it was hell

By staff reporter Tom Logan

THE rules were clear. I would live in a large country cottage rent-free with an income equivalent to £1 million a year. Easy, I thought. Never imagining the living hell I would enter.

The first few days were straightforward. I ate only the most expensive takeaways and binged nightly on good quality wine. Even after buying a new wardrobe, the latest iPhone and a pedigree Labrador, I still had £80,132.25 to get to the end of the month.

But as time went on, certain basic essentials began to ruin my careful budgeting. A top hat, £300. A horse, £6,000. A brace of Purdeys, £14,000. What was I supposed to do, just enjoy walking around the large, beautiful grounds without blowing a squirrel’s head off?

I also needed servants. An agency supplied a valet, Oliver. Our first professional interaction went well. ‘NO YOU F**KING IMBECILE NOT COLGATE TRIPLE ACTION I WANT COLGATE SENSITIVE ON MY TOOTHBRUSH!’ I screamed at him.

However my bank account was still looking pretty healthy. Which was just as well, because have you seen how much escorts cost when you’re paying for them yourself? £250 an hour! And at five a day, that adds up.

Worse was to come. I’d ordered Oliver to arrange a lavish sex party, as one does. ‘I’m not sure we can afford this, what with the sex workers, the champagne and Beluga caviar canapés,’ he said. ‘Can we make do with Prosecco and own-brand lube?’

Furious, I stormed out of the cottage and proceeded to a country pub. ‘Are you British taxpayers?’ I asked the assembled customers. ‘Yes,’ they said. ‘Give me all your money, I need it to satisfy my unsavoury sexual urges,’ I said. ‘Come on, hand it over, chop chop!’ Their response showed a disappointing lack of respect, and the party had to be cancelled.

And that was the end of my lifestyle experiment, but it taught me a lot. Not least that an entitled prick like Andrew is probably having a miserable time of it right now, and I’m sure that makes us all very sad.

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