She can work on her tan, her Michael Jackson cleft chin, and have an hour each day for the best hairstylists and beauticians to make sure she doesn't look like the ugly sow she actually is.
You can imagine her putting it this way:
"Oh, well, luv, I am tired, tired, TIRED of common-as-muck matrons bothering me when I wheel a pram along. I don't need to hear "She's so humble, just like us," when I am NOT. I am the world's greatest songwriter. The world's greatest singer. I've got the awards and the $130 million SONY deal to prove it!
"So it's time I leave dreary England for Cal E. Fornia where the sun is ALWAYS shining and I don't have dampness bothering my precious throat. I can have all the finest foods and mingle with all the important fat cats!
"How many DAYS a year could I use a swimming pool in England? How many HOURS do I have for my own pleasures, without grubby people and the Daily Fail and all them nipping at my arse? A gated community, a spacious estate, and my choice of recording studios in which to bellow my revenge anthems and phony heartbreak melodramas! That's for ME!"
A dissenting voice comes from Robin Vurge: "Her singles chart. They are of no interest to me. I bought 347 records at the boot sale the last time I went. It is not as large as it once was but I got plenty of records so that is not so bad. I also had tea. Muffin had a big shit. It was in my tea. I do not mind. Muffin may have shit, but she did not fart."
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