AS a globe-trotting celebrity megastar, one of my passions is local museums. But here are just five examples where my visit has resulted in a lifetime ban from the assholes that run the place.
I love Paris. The arrogance, the smoking, the dog shit. I don’t like The Louvre though. Long story short, I tried to get a selfie with the Mona Lisa but didn’t like the lighting in that part of the gallery. So I had my security team take the painting down for just a minute. No biggie.
Well, the douchebags there all started screaming and within a few seconds I’d had my incredible ass kicked right out onto the Rue de Rivoli. Didn’t even get to browse the gift shop. I tried to DM Leonardo da Vinci to speak to the boss man, but I don’t think he’s on Instagram. Weird.
The Natural History Museum
I love London but don’t even get me started on those jerk-offs from the Natural History Museum. I hired out the entire place for a sleepover with my maladjusted kids and extended family. North and Psalm loved the bird foetuses in jars. They’re like little aliens. But the staff were so rude!
All Kanye did was dismantle some dinosaur bones and play them like a xylophone like he’d seen in The Flintstones and they went ballistic. I mean, how valuable can bones be? They found them in the ground. Covered in dirt. Stupid zoologists.
Derwent Pencil Museum
I love Keswick. The geology, the Sunday market, the steak pie at The Bank Tavern. Everything except the f**king Derwent Pencil Museum. Our visit was going well, we coughed up the £4.95 entry fee, but when I mentioned the Germans were mass-producing pencils in Nuremberg as early as the 1660s, the curator, Alan, got quite aggressive.
Ranting about how Cumbria’s proud history of graphite mining dated back to 1550, he called me a ‘typical, ignorant Yank’. Then when we asked for the free wifi code and tried to order 12 chai lattes from the coffee counter he made it clear he wanted us to leave. Two words, Alan: customer service. Asshole.
The Icelandic Phallological Museum
Once, our private jet had to stop and refuel in Reykjavik. So the whole Kardashian clan visited this charming museum. Don’t worry – we left the kids outside with the nannies. What a place. Just like my dating history it features a huge bunch of dicks. All shapes and sizes, from tiny peckers to bull penises to big, old whale schlongs. It really is very educational.
The problem arose when I accidentally snapped a walrus dick off while demonstrating what I’d like to do to that cheating asshole Kanye. Boy, did they overreact in Icelandish! Chill, guys, the walrus was dead anyway and I offered to glue it back on.
Yes, I understand it’s not strictly a ‘museum’. But where else do you get to hang out with Beyonce, Barack Obama and The Rock in one afternoon? Normally I’d have to text them all individually and see what their schedules were looking like.
To me everything screamed celebrity glamour – the Queen, the Beckhams, Nelson Mandela. So imagine my horror when I discovered my own waxwork and the perverts had made me look like some kind of artificial sex doll. I demanded it was melted down on the spot and caused a bit of a scene. So me and my spectacular ass aren’t welcome there anymore. Their loss.