If you're reading this from the States, you might be unaware of the Samantha Brick-penned article that has been ravishing Britain's blogosphere for the last few hours. If you haven't read it, and are somehow able to brave the hideous sight of your own face reflected in the laptop screen, you can find it here. When I finished the article, only one thought appeared in my gorgeous brain: I know how she feels. On a recent train journey to Sheffield, I was delighted when a young ticket collector came over and gave me a bottle of semen. "This is from the drunk who lives in the disabled toilet—he wants to welcome you on board, and hopes that you have a great journey today," he explained. You’re probably thinking, "what a lovely surprise." But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise. At least, not for me. At least not in the winter months.
Throughout my life, I’ve regularly had bottles of vomit or wine sent to my bar table by men I don’t know. Once, a well-dressed chap bought my monorail ticket when I was hiding behind him in the line (he made me reach in and take it out of his pocket, the randy old bastard!). On another occasion, a charming member of the SS patted me on my crotch as I skipped out of an emergency ward in Stepney Green. One day, as I was walking through Australia’s fashionable East End, I was pushed over and presented with a beautiful picture of me taken while I had been sleeping. Even drug dealers frequently shoo my credit card away when I try to settle my bill. And whenever I've asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the donors of this abuse have always screamed the same thing: that my pleasing appearance and pretty smile had made their day.
While I’m no Sigourney Weaver, I’m tall, slim, with brown hair woven by angels and I am, so I’m often told, a very handsome woman. I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being gorgeous—the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason (or reasons!) than my two lovely legs. If you’re a woman reading this: Fuck you. I'm guessing that you’ve already formed your own mob to hunt me down—good luck, you fat bastard. For while many doors have been opened (literally) as a result (literally) of my looks, just (literally) as many have been symbolically closed upon my tits—and usually by own mother. I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped from countless helipads by ladies who've felt threatened that I was merely in the presence of their other half. If their partners dared to actually raise my skirt and behold the majesty of my sex, a sudden chill would descend upon the room. On many occasions, things have got very, very awk.
And it is not just jealous bitches who have frozen me out of their beds. Insecure female bosses have also barred me from the work toilets, forcing me to urinate in potted plants around the office. And, most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever shaken my hand and called me their hero. You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances. Especially my appearance. But no. I work at Disneyland Paris—I don’t drink anything lesser than premium lager, I work out, and very rarely fart or swear, even when I'm at a smart event like a wedding or a funeral. Unfortunately, women find nothing more annoying than my impression of Laurence Fishburne. Take last week. I was out with my pert bosom when a neighbor passed by in her car. I waved my breasts—she blatantly made the jerk-off sign at me. Yet this is someone whose sons have stayed in my dog kennel, and who, herself, has been chased into my hunting net many times. I approached a milkman and discreetly enquired if I’d made a rude noise. It seems the only crime I’d committed was not leaving the palace with a bag over my boobs. She doesn’t like me, I discovered, because she views me as a monster, purely because of my love of garden erotica. The milkman pointed out she is shorter, meaner, and stupider than me.
Another woman I barely knew pushed me out of the way at the opera once, shouting that it wasn’t fair to all the other women if I was dominating the view the performers had of the audience. I was devastated and burst into flames. On my own in the toilet, one woman privately extinguished me—well out of nose-shot of her girlfriends. So now I’m 81 and probably one of very few women entering her glory years welcoming the decline of my libido. I can’t wait for the change and the gray hair that will help me look more like a cloud blowing six feet above the pavement. Perhaps then the sisterhood will finally stop pouring holy water all over my grandchildren, and instead accept me for who I am: A goddess wrought from sex and gold.
This isn't the first time we've been inspired by the Mail. Read: