So, Jascinda de Donovan is finally cashing in and writing his no-holds-barred, ‘My Sun-In and bleached jeans cinched in with a cheap belt hell’ auto-biog, is he?
Don’t get me wrong or do me bad things, I love the famouses getting a poor underpaid hack to ghost their memoirs as much as the next punter on the Northern Line. But why is it that when the famouses divulge secrets about their relationships it’s celebrated as a touching memoir while when muggles do it, it’s called a reprehensible kiss ‘n’ tell? Same shit, double standards.
I mean, let’s face it, the only thing that separates Jascinda from any other 80s pop has-been is the fact that he enjoyed some juvenile fumblings with Kylie. If you don’t believe me, then would you care to explain why the man off Johnny Hates Jazz or Craig McLachlan with the perm aren’t getting one million pound book contracts waved under their noses?
And ain’t it just a mite hypocritical that when James Gooding so much as opens his mouth to breathe he’s vilified and condemned as disloyal, yet Jascinda’s forthcoming betrayal is considered entirely acceptable, simply because he hasn’t committed the heinous crime of being a mere civilian.
A love rat is a love rat is a love rat, now matter how golden his goddamn coat.