Written by Steddyeddy
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Friday, 16 May 2008

image for An Article from Tara Palmer Dumbkinson, so Sadly Missed at the Sunday Times Tara Palmer-Dumbkinson

I raised myself from my Gucci bed and looked out of my tinted windows (from Dolland and Aitcheson) at my beautiful Mazda car (from Acme Cars on King's Road in Chelsea) this morning. I was going to take a shower by walking in my Jimmi Choo slippers into the bathroom, but thought I'd wait for my new bestest friend, Lewis Hamilton to give me a lift.

I didn't know actually, until my best friend Tony Toady told me, that Lewis Hamilton's dad is Murray Walker. It's the fact they both speak so differently that made me wonder if they really were dad and son.

I'd been at a party last night in the Iron Bar for Peaches Geldolf to celebrate her father's new bottle of liquid soap (from the new range of Nina Ricci soaps for scruffs in Harvey Nicks) with my best friends Annabel Airhead and Louise Ligger.

I'm due on television tonight, you know, that box in the corner of one's den. Of course, the working class don't have dens. And many don't actually have televisions, preferring things called plasma screens. Mine's a Sony Trinnyvision 58 inch, from Selfridges. My best friend Wanda Waste bought one and I so had to have one myself.

I'm due for lunch at Krap Bar with my best friends Linda Lounger and Tanya Twit, who are both upper class. My daddy knows their daddies (my daddy also knows the Prince of Wales) and we often, at least once every three years, have them over for dinner. Mummy cooks a full five-course dinner all by herself that she gets the home-help to prepare for her, and my best friend, Tamara Beckwith (Jeremy Clarkson calls her an even bigger waste of space than me - he can be soooooo unkind) who has a masters degree in Socialising that she obtained from the University of Stupidity in Sterling, or it might have been the University of Sterling in Stupidity - anyway, I know it's Sterling because she likes money, and Sterling is money, even though she's never ever had to earn any herself. She did have a paper shop once, but it blew away.

Anyway, I soooo must go and write a review about my bestest friend Davina Dreadful's new bar in Soho. Me plugging it will guarantee it will be busy and the place to be seen in for months to come, even though it's a dingy hole in a back street serving the same if not worse stuff than the average Wetherspoons. It's just that they use Clarice Cliffe crockery from my best friend Barry Boring's shop on King's Road in Chelsea. Clarice Cliff is so Art Deco, don't you know.

I don't know what the fuss is though, because all the plates are different which means it's sooooo a nightmare to always find that the plates don't match.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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