I have not really wanted to bring up the subject of Sharon Osbourne but whenever she does spring to mind I do feel a lump coming back up the throat. I've never been keen, there is something a bit downmarket about a woman who seems so desperate to sell herself, splatter herself across the tabloids like pigeon sh*t on Lord Nelson. No, she's not my cup of mushroom tea. The Rebecca Loos fiasco was toe curling. It reminded me of situations I have found myself in when two women start having a go at each other (offices are a breeding ground for such sort of behaviour) in pubs when pints are hurled, outside school gates, in traffic jams, and every time I have looked on in startled disbelief. Hand bags at dawn, not on national tv.
Mrs Osbourne is as common as muck, she's the sort that 'go up that school' and sort out teachers who punish their children. That tart with a heart routine she pulls with the under priveliged and tone death is wearing a bit thin from where I'm standing. I had to slam shut the Daily Mail last week because she was pictured squeazing the junkie breath out of some spotty kid on heroin in that "I understand luv, I've been there darling" and with every snap of the camera shutter sales of her auto-biography go up and up.
I had her cards marked when she gave that diddy koy Tabby the run of the house, it wasn't long after that she became the face of ASBO, patting her backside at all that money she was pretending to save the Chavs at the checkout. Then followed the Sunday paper headlines orchestrated to boost her profile and all those bottles of Henna - urrgh, ghastly woman.
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