Thursday, September 7


Walking back to my boyfriend's flat from Gloucester Road station, after a cross-London jaunt from dropping my car off in Crouch End (the only place, it seems, in this fucking city where you can park a car for free) I saw infamous womaniser Darren Day run past me. I must admit I was surprised that his highly-trained nostrils didn't sniff out my female hormones and cause him to gravitate towards me. He must have been in a real hurry to pass up the opportunity of a casual shag (I do not want to shag him, I just think that his body is incapable of passing female bodies without causing him to stop and try and put his penis inside them). He was wearing flip flops and ripped jeans and looked a bit like Jason Donavan circa 1988. As I watched him sprint down the street, dirty feet running awkwardly to conteract the flipping and flopping occuring through an ill choice of footwear, I thought of all the poor women that have laid their hands upon his backside; Anna Friel, Maxine off Coronation Street, Isla Fisher, her out of Hearsay...

What did shagging him ever do for their self-confidence, or their careers? Nothing. Yet they still fall for him, these blonde idiotic nymphettes... when will they ever learn?

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