by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem

As one who is held, and quite rightly, if I am to be entirely honest and forthcoming, to a higher standard than the common man, as a natural consequence of my eminence bestowed upon me both by noble birth and also through my altogether extraordinary adventures vis a vis private industry, I am not unaffected by the notariety and, indeed, fame that comes with such an exalted public visibility. Yes, quite so. As such, I find myself in the not altogether unique, but nevertheless privileged, position of having the experience and wherewithall to discourse cogently upon the subject of celebrity, said discussion necessarily touching upon topics of rather sensitive nature, for instance involving the routine filming of one’s self engaging in acts of wanton carnality, and said film’s inevitable emergence upon the Internet, such that I must compel the reader to take it upon himself to excercise discretion when reading and, of course, discussing it with loved ones over tea and scones. Right, excellent.

Now, as many young actors and singers of some notariety have no-doubt encountered, there exists a breed of journalist who, harkening back to the golden days of yellow journalism, will stop at nothing to provide a so-called “scoop” to their readers, regardless of the actual verisimilatude or indeed existence of said stories. In recent days, journalists of this stripe have come to be known by the jarring appellation “papparazzi”, whose Italian-sounding syllables bring to mind not quiet, sunlit days in the Tuscan countryside, enjoying a delicate chilled grappa with a selection of buxom, not to say busty, local woman of ill-repute, but rather the filthy, rat-infested streets of the lower slums of Roma, whence the very worst of lower humanity bursts forth in vermin-like plagues to spoil all that is good and right with the world, prompting even the devout and altogether saintly to question the very existence of God. Yes, well, hmm.

As regards the aforementioned “papparazzi”, whose membership apparently has no particular litmus test for Italian provenance, not to say greasiness, we now turn our attention to the often advesarial, but it must be said additionally paradoxically symbotic, relationship between said so-called journalists and those in whom they invest their time stalking. Quite so.

Ah! The lovely Lady Edwina Bryll informs me that, in accordance with our meticulously organized weekly schedule, it is time for me to push myself away from my typing device and engage in the marital act, the details of which I shall leave to your imagination, owing to Lady Bryll’s reluctance to having our rigorous, not to say adventurous, boudoir activities shared with the outside world, though I must admit to dropping a few spicy tales at the gentleman’s club on occassion. Farewell my friends! I shall return to this topic anon!

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