An ode to Charley
Oh Charley, how do I loathe you, let me count the ways…
Is it the way you toss your acrylic hair around you like you’ve been genetically blessed with Jemima Khan’s locks when instead you have hair the consistency of a Sindy Doll’s from 1963?
Is it the way that you brag about your close personal footballing ‘friends’ who would doubtless have trouble identifying you in a police line-up and probably know you as ‘that skanky lap-dancer groupie’?
Or perhaps it’s the way you thought it was a compliment when Ziggy called you ‘high maintenance’ when actually he was diplomatically implying you were mentally unwell.
Charley, I hate you – don’t leave.