British coke-snorting celebrities, from all across the world of British celebrity coke-snorting were last night said to be joining forces to provide a Christmas treat for two young women jailed in Peru on cocaine smuggling charges
Yes, we are giving half of our fortunes to these two unfortunate young women. After all, if it wasn't for rich cokeheads like us they wouldn't be in jail for smuggling the shit in the first place. No, no need for thanks. It's the least we can do.
With this ring I thee fist. Sorry, wed.
Yes, me too, and my wifehusband, David, we're giving half of our fortune, although it's mine really, as everyone knows, to these two totties. I musta snorted hundredfuckingweights of that shit in my time.
And if it wasn't for rich cunts like me, who never get arrested, these poor sluts wouldn't be in jail now.
Well, ...sniff....let's be....sniff.... clear about this.
Although I am a great fan of Nigella I have never done coke with her. Nor with Ms Brooks. Or Mr Coulson. Or Mr Osborne. Or the Mayor.
And let's be more clear, what rich kids, such as myself, do with cocaine is not a matter for the police, much less for the electorate. These two young women, however, are setting a very bad example, importing drugs for people like me to snort up our noses.
Not that I'm saying I ever did.
I say, hang on a minute, old chap, I think you'll find that the drug laws don't apply to people like me.
What-ho, readers, and a jolly, happy, fornicating, coked-up Yulemas to you all. Yes, give the two tarts a few quid from my Special Mayor's Allowance. I mean, cogito ergo snortum.
It has bugged me for most of my life - the way that poor junkies go to jail and rich junkies go to soirees in Downing Street. The repulsive, bloated pansy, Reg Dwight, a man who endlessly recycles the same three songs - a slow, a mid-tempo and a fast one - is not only vastly, intolerably over-rated as a musician but his criminal as well as his moral lapses are not only overlooked but hosannahed from MediaMinster's rooftops. I read an interview with him/her in Q magazine, years and years ago, in which he bragged of his misery on egomania, brandy, boys and cocaine. Seemed like only five minutes later and he was knighted by the Blairs
There used to be a time in the UK when, regardless of his offence, the worst punishment a bent copper could expect was to be allowed to retire early, fully pensioned, on health grounds. This actually was a punishment inasmuch as DC Filth wouldn't be able to continue running whores, fencing bent gear and dealing in drugs and porn, although his brethren would probably keep him in the loop for a while, at least, until he could hoover-up some security industry work - selling police intelligence to criminals and the like. Where ordinary people would face charges and time in custody for offences of assault, wounding, attempted murder, conspiracy to pervert and everything in-between, members of the thin blue line would generally manage to get a commendation for gallantry or a promotion. Only in the light of the most conspicuous, taking-the-piss rottennes would the nuclear, early retirement option be triggered. MediaMinster, of course, went along with this charade, sombrely reporting the loss of the unblemished career of this hitherto distinguished officer, cops and press both draining into the same national sewer, then, as now.
The past twenty years or so have seen a similar, distorting prism refracting the crimes of the Great, especially with regard to the consumption of what are called dangerous drugs. It is now widely accepted that rich people, famous people, creative people and sporty people do cocaine in large amounts and although this is an outlawed practice few are ever punished, their penalty is to go into Re-Hab, bless. Poor people, on the other hand, are tabloided half-to-death and slung in jail, especially those, like these two bints in Peru, stupid enough or poor enough to be talked into transporting cocaine to the dinner tables and pisscorners of the likes of the Saatchis, people who, regardless of their crimes will never see the inside of a cell. Doesn't seem right, somehow, specially at Christmas. Maybe Nigella bake a cake for them or something