Diana In Heaven

I put a bag of my hair shavings on eBay this week – genuine stuff, and although I’m not saying where it came from, you can probably make an educated guess. Five days later and the top bid was 20p. Shocking.

So I pulled the auction – if that’s the best you lot can do you can fucking swivel on it. They flogged one of my scabby old dresses for almost £200k last week but a bag of freshly-trimmed Diana short and curlies doesn’t even rake in the price of a finger of Cadbury’s Fudge.

If you’d made an effort and put some serious bids in there’d be some landmine AIDS kids larking about on a new see-saw now, paid for by the proceeds of my hair sale. Sleep tight, fuckers.

Gary Coleman’s been turning up the heat as he tries to woo yours truly. He’s got himself a shopping mall security guard uniform like he used to wear on Earth and has been hanging around outside my gaff, directing the traffic and bollocking litterbugs.

It’s not all impressive stuff though – I caught him in the garden, standing on the wheelie bin to reach my washing line and wearing one of my bras like it was a pair of glasses. When I asked him what he was doing, he said he thought he’d seen an injured sparrow.

Still, I’m pretty desperate these days so I’ll probably string him along for a bit and then give him a night he’ll never get over…

Egon Ronay is here, and he got himself into a punch-up with Keith Floyd within an hour of pitching up. They were arguing over whether a Weetabix with jam on top is an acceptable starter – Floyd said yes while the new lad disagreed.

Giant Haystacks was on hand to calm them both down and couple of hours (and bottles of brandy) later, they were best mates, getting stuck into a big plate of rusks covered in squirty cream.

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