Whence the silence?

Yes. Sometimes being a celebun has its downsides.


There is no such thing as quietly applying oneself to self-improvement through penning one’s autobiography without the blogosphere noticing and Twitterati speculating. But for those in the know, a self-imposed social media ban to focus on The Arts is a rule every artiste must obey.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, non?


So, while Katrijn and Haas are fending off the paps once more – ’tis the season of the sun-soaked sun lounger celebrity snog after all – I am keeping my upcoming tell-all carrots-to-celebrity tale under wraps a little while longer to double-check on my waitress’s accuracy.

As if dictating my rollercoaster of a life story so far hasn’t been hard enough, she turns out to require constant supervision after I discovered she has a way of twisting the truth, transforming the salacious details of my life into a mundane shopping list of lagomorph preferences and activities.

I happen to know my fanbase does want to know I give myself ripple bottom when I serve myself a fresh caecotroph for brekkers. I will not have my autobiography censored by my waitress.

There is also the minor snag that a few of my former acquaintances are threatening to sue for character assassination after someone-who-shall-remain-nameless accidentallyonpurpose leaked a copy of my manuscript to Sarkozy, Berlusconi and a few others, in a bid to delay my book. But you know me, Putin’s heavies do not impress me, even though Vlad is the only world leader sueing me for emotional damages. He must be in pretty bad shape about it. Besides I have got my own heavy in Haas.

So I am having to delay publication pending a few legal actions which could take a while. It’s all very tedious if I am perfectly honest.


Katrijn says hello, by the way. She would do it herself but she’s hanging out in Mick Jagger’s yurt apparently this weekend. She probably was the one article on the rider Michael Eavis didn’t flinch at.

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