The Fag Hag j’adores Duffy. Je really do. In fact, Murrh-eer-eer-eer-ceee is being permanently blasted out of her little ipodetta whilst she struts down the street in manner of girl from Ipanema (if girl from Ipanema came from Crouch End, was carrying a Tesco Metro bag and wearing an Ugg). But Duffy dearest, the whole Jane Austen downcast eyes thing is getting a liddle bit crappy in panties. Call the police there’s a madman around and he’s working in marketing!
Because in every photo and every poster, you’ll see the same bloody thing. Duffster is looking down throwing a demure number a la Terence Trent D’arby (or Sunny Delight or whatever he’s fucking called now), back in the day.
Duffster, do us a favour, show us them peepers and don’t listen to those record company types. It doesn’t look like you got mystery, it looks like you got cataracts.