The C Word

Re 'Madam B here, actually I am C list...And that bitch Ms Charlton, as I now call her, has actually started seeing one of my conquests - cheeky mare.'



You see Madame B, I want to believe you, I really do. But:


1) You respond to hhn posts fairly early in the morning. If you are a celeb, shouldn't you be languishing in your suite at The Sanderson, recovering slowly from another heavy night at China White rather than up and about by 8.30am and reading hhn? Although, maybe you have been through rehab now, and are up by five, meditation with personal swami Vas Dali Bshitta done by six, colonic irrigation completed by seven, conference call with Madonna delayed, quick look through your property portfolio eightish, and on line and tucking into hhn by that 8.30?


2) In today's Either You Are In Or Out segregation of celebs and non celebs, I just can't - don't - get that a famous person would have any interest in my little old life. hhn is about badgers and sausages and the regular compromises of the little man. Not about where to get the best customised seats for your Hummer, or whether you should be blanking Sadie Frost this week, or which entrance to go into Selfridges to avoid/attract attention of the paps. Aren't you too busy reading Jordan's blog to have time for hhn?


3) How come you are going out with a gardener if you are so famou...shit maybe you really are famous, and have seen the light having gotten bored of being Kevin Spacey's beard in the late nineties, and having been treated so badly by Denis Rodman when he was over here for Celebrity Big Brother, and that whole are they aren't they speculation about you and Shane Warne can only have hurt.

In other news, anyone got any suggestions for how to have fun in Birmingham tomorrow? Am not looking forward to it, not least of all because I have to get a train at approx a thousand o'clock am in order to get to my meeting in time. And train travel is so grim in the UK now. Years ago, I remember going on trains with my mother, and it was rather glamorous. I remember sitting in the buffet carriage aged approx 10 with my mother on a train up to Glasgow, and ordering French Onion Soup. I never thought it was going to get any more glamorous than that. (In many ways it didn't.) On the train nowadays you are lucky to get a) a seat b) a sandwich that does not look like it was remaindered from a corner shop in Vauxhall [and it will cost you five and a half quid] and c) away without a beating from some train-raged commuter, and all for ridiculously inflated ticket prices. Privatisation? Smyvitisation.