Well, we were hoping to give you another helping of advice from our ever-popular agony aunt Mariella Frostrup but, guess what? She's just rung in to say that - yup, you guessed it, she can't come to work for the next three months as she's - to quote her - "heavy with child" and faxed this photo in "to prove it"....
Now howdaya like that? The broad sits on here overpaid rump all day wagging her overpaid pinkie at teenage harlots who've got themselves up the duffer at 12 after one too many alcopops at the local Conservative club - and now I gotta stump up 6 months worth of maternity payments and get her back, dowdy and plump and stinking out the office with the reek of sour milk and baby vom, a tired wreck of her former self...
Anyways, we rang around a few folks we figured might be at a loose end and fortunately, help was at hand in the sleek, lithe, elegantly smalled and defiantly non-fecund form of our old favourite - Miss Dita von Teese!!
Dita kindly agreed to take Mariella's seat - after we'd cleared away the crumbs, stains and various preganancy testers and fertility enhancing appliances wedged down the back of it, obviously - and here's her first tilt at advising the confused and vulnerable of the parish - take it away Dita!
Charles from Balmoral/Windsor/Cornwall/Highgrove writes:
One is frightfully miffed at the way one's correspondence is being leaked to those bastard newspapermen at every turn. Nick bleeding Witchell is bad enough, coming around one's holiday gaff at all hours when one is trying to levitate. But this lot from the fourth estate really are a frightful shower. One just can't abide the thought of one's deeply held and sincerely argued opinions - on every subject from GM foods to re-introducing some of the lesser known old Royal Navy traditions such as the daisy chain beard weave or She-man corsetry - becoming public property. One ends up bracing oneself for a barrage of innuendo and mockery. Remember, one is the heir apparent - apparently - so one shouldn't be held up to the cynical scrutiny of every sink estate philosopher from Penge to Cricklewood. Besides, don't they know it's a lonely old life at sea? One implores you - can't anything be done about this absolute travesty. Can't one put 'em in the tower?
Needle Nardle Noo,
Aaah come oif it ya cockamamie credin. Whaddaya expec'? Mailin' ya 'privade' ledders ta every Tom, Dick an' Henriedda an' den moanin' an' bitchin' cos dey en' up in da papers! Ged real jug ears and ged back ta ya organic hair weaves an' quid whingin' willya??
Love on y'all,
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