The Paps

There was a distinct lack of paparazzi camped out on my front lawn this morning. I woke up early and tentatively threw open the curtains as wide as I could - shielding my eyes from the glare of their flashes - but there was nobody out there. Not even one little camera man. Then I walked around the house in nowt but a towel, lingering by the windows as often as I could, and: nothing. I even went to the shops to buy a lolly in my pyjamas, covered in paint (I've been redecorating, not that the public know that because nobody has had the foresight to report this to the papers), and not one person followed me. My over-sized sunglasses, frankly, were completely wasted. The lady at the newsagents clearly just thought I had had a nose job (which would be pointless because I have the world's most insignificant nose. It barely counts as one).

It's a disgrace, that's what it is. I'm going to ring up Heat and tell them how unimpressed I am by the media's downright refusal to invade my privacy. "I've got loads of secrets," I plan on telling them: "loads. And you only need to knock on my front door and I'll tell you all of them."

Journalists are lazy: we PRs all know this. But my God, I'm very nearly on a documentary on telly! A minute and a half on BBC Bristol already achieved, I tell you! It beggars belief. What do you have to do to get stalked round here: actually achieve something?

Tomorrow, luckily, the BBC are coming round. I shall tell them to stay outside and do a bit of filming through the 10 centimetre gap in the hedge that I shall make five minutes before they arrive. I didn't come this far to sink back down into obscurity and actually have to work for a living.

 

Not when I went online only yesterday and bought a fake moustache especially.