Short Live The Queen!!

Nothing says "f*ck you, bitch" quite like a clandestine glass of french "champers" and a bit fat smoke right in the middle of Her Majesty's living room at 12.04am on one's last night.

Thank god that's over. I can't even talk about it, it makes me queasy. The important thing is that i've left, i never have to see the bitch again and i shan't need to look at the sh*t-encrusted butt crack of a chicken ever again in my life.

Somebody hook up my IV to a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Ta.