One woman's week, with Karen Fenessey

I was disgusted by Cher Lloyd’s denunciation of her pop mentor, Cheryl Cole this week. I have always been the world’s greatest champion of younger women and, like Cheryl, have also suffered the inevitable betrayal.

Without wanting to name and shame my protege, let’s just say she’s ginger and appears on Eastenders (for the sake of argument, we’ll call her ‘Spatsy’). I had such big plans for her but instead of being a real woman, Spatsy ran off to have a string of babies and marry the father. She held a christening to which I wasn’t invited. In my rage, I showed up unexpectedly in a dazzling black and purple cloak, hexed the crib and then did my throaty laugh until everyone had gone home.

Under my tactical tutelage, it would have been Spatsy who lovingly carried Kate’s train up the aisle last summer, instead of some Avon lady off the street. But my efforts were thrown back in my face and frankly the whole event was shambolic.

I’m in awe of countries like Africa, who have a policy of not wasting education on buffoons like Spatsy and Cher. This is strategic planning of the kind that our own government woefully lacks – they insist on throwing literacy and numeracy at any old pondlife that wanders into a primary school. It’s a waste of my tax, your tax and Cheryl’s tax. Teaching Spatsy to read was about as useful as these D&G leatherette bed socks I bought last month for my close friend, Whitney.

Cheryl hit the nail right on the head when she tweeted “Be careful who you kick on the way up, they kick you twice as hard on your way back down”. She truly has a way with words and I commend the former Girl Aloud for dreaming up this particularly menacing threat . Physical violence would be totally justified given Cher’s recent allusion to Cheryl’s use of autotune when performing live and we can only hope the teenager is now living in constant fear for her safety.

Bullies like Cher Lloyd should always be kicked. I was so inspired after reading Cheryl’s tweet, I ran down to Albert Square and launched myself at Spatsy, only desisting after my Louboutin heel snapped off in her chin strap. I have never felt so alive.

So go on, girls, kick an eighteen year old today. Because you’re worth it.



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Your problems solved, with Holly Harper

Dear Holly,
Yesterday I was using my trusty binoculars to find out if old Mrs Valentine from number 53 had been stealing cuttings from my roses again, and was utterly shocked to witness her engaged in lewd activity with an unidentified gentleman, in full view of the cat. When I think of the horrors to which that poor animal has been exposed, I shudder. Should I call the RSPCA, the Police, or both?

Dear Letitia,
Why not channel your energies into something more worthwhile? I recently started up my own publication: the Justin Bieber Fanzine. The production team consists of me; my Barbie who’s going bald; my goldfish, Derek; and that’s it. In the first edition, there’s a double page spread picture of his evil girlfriend Selena Gomez being stabbed to death in the face, done with my best crayons. Justin himself features in the picture, crying tears of joy. There’s not much else yet, but that’s because we were busy for a few days writing death threats to Caroline Flack. Now that’s done, I’ll start chasing Barbie for her feature on what Justin Bieber has for tea (he prefers waffles to potato smiles: who knew?) and I’ll be going over Derek’s piece on how many percent I love Justin Bieber’s hair. Unfortunately, since Derek fell down the back of the piano, his writing hasn’t been up to much, so I will probably have to edit quite heavily. It’s a shame because he’s a good journalist, even if he did listen to my big sister’s voicemail when she was in the shower that time.
Hope that helps!