Regular readers will know that I have been, for some time, recovering from the after-effects of my long drawn out and painful separation from newscaster and celebrity tap-dancer Natasha Kaplinsky. As you will probably know, it's been a difficult and traumatic process made all the harder for me by - among other things - Nat's very public profile, her recent marriage and the obsessive telephone calls she makes to our offices here at Swipe Towers demanding that I listen to her and her new husband while they are making horrendously uninhibited love - often at the most inconvenient of hours. (Although, just for the record, I have to say that, whilst there is obviously an issue here with the time difference, if you guys will choose inopportune moments to 'get it on' with one another then that's your own look out. Personally, I don't care what time you call as I'm always ready to record it on my mini-disc player should I fall asleep halfway through the staggeringly protracted nuptials. So, at the end of the day guys, I'm cool but if the timing's a problem for you then either tie a knot in it or put up and shut up....)
Kaplinsky and the other man: "bastards!"
However, despite the very public manner in which it was played out, what many of you may not be aware of is the initial cause of the chill in relations between Nat and myself. I've gone on record before to say that I prefer to keep my personal affairs out of the spotlight. I'd rather not drag the names through the mud of all those - the Penny Smiths, Mishal Hussains, Tamara Beckwiths; the Fearne Cottons, Joanna Lumleys and Rachel Wards; the Claudia Winklemanns, Claire Gooses and Angela Lansburys of this world - with whom I have been involved in tawdry and role-play dominated sexual liaisons before jettisoning them - snapped and broken in two, used and soiled - like wax-laden cotton buds to languish in the wire bin of the tabloid brokenhearts section. Not for me the public airing of the dirty laundry basket of my private life. (Although, while we're on the subject, if you're reading this - do you really think I have a Leather WPC outfit hanging in the closet purely for fun, huh Zoe? What is it with you? Scared of a little spot of sexual degradation and intrusive camera work are ya? You'll come begging me to be able to writhe suggestively at my feet wearing it one day, Lady - I promise you...) But as there is no way that this particular little problem can just be brushed under the carpet - I mean, that's gonna a pretty big bump and it's gonna take a bit of explaining - I feel that on this occasion I must come clean.
For the record, and despite my protestations to the contrary at the time, I have to confess that I was not entirely blameless in the matter of Nat & my split. For sometime before the end of our relationship, there was a third party involved. Much as I would like to keep her name out of this - especially given her current.....condition... - I feel that I have no option but to name her here and now. It's no secret that I have for some time publicly expressed a great fondness for cherubic TV property show host Kirstie Allsop and - from time to time - we have consulted with one another regarding the blossoming Swipe Enterprises property portfolio. Indeed, it was on one of our many business-related meetings - to, on this occasion, a particularly inticing 12 x 14 lock up on an industrial estate in Middlesbrough with great potential to double as a commercial maggot farm, as it goes - that Kirstie and I made the fatal mistake of crossing the line that separates two professionally involved and mutually concerned business associates from a pair of dementedly gyrating, PVC clad libertines, doused with baby oil and embarked on an amoral journey to the very bowels of human indecency. Heck - stuff happens...
Allsop: "...blue tights...red tights.... whatever next??"
So, to cut to the chase, it was inevitable given her propensity to have my every movement monitored by the mobile documentary film crew accompaning a specialist undercover private investigator she had hired to keep tabs on me, that one day sooner or later, Natasha would find out that I'd been doing the dirty on her behind her back. However, being caught inflagrante delecte by a film crew and gumshoe in the pay of a suspicious-minded TV news anchor is one thing. But having some trumped-up, flush-cheeked estate agent coming up to you with what is clearly a pillow shoved under their jumper demanding child support payments or else she's gonna tell the red tops all about how it got there (...not to mention the unsavoury and unsanitory uses to which I can put a disposable toothbrush and a yard of ale glass) ....I think you get the picture.
So, a public plea: Kirstie - please cause this insanity to end! You're not convincing anyone and you are gonna look sooooo silly when the midwife asks you to open wide and push real hard and gets a bump on the head from a 9 pound three ounce hunk of Dunlopillo....
Love on y'all,
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises