Sucking Toes on the French Riveria

Surprisingly, Her Least Embarrassing Moment

Bangers and mash. Lots of curry. Chips, chips, and more chips. I also need an IV to mainline this clotted cream. Screw the diet today–I’m shoving as much spotted dick in my mouth as I can to take away the pain of the day.

I cannot believe I wasn’t invited to Will’s wedding–I’m still the friggin’ Duchess of York–and now I’m being “advised” to make myself scarce? I’m not to be caught moping about or photographed in a skimpy bikini on the beach during the big day? Lizzy can take Andrew and his little dinghy because none of them can handle this anyway. Then again, that warning does give me a good idea–besides the one I just had about refilling my bucket of fried chicken–it’s time to hit the beach again.

Of course, the Côte d’Azur is my favorite place to be caught in my skivvies–the sand’s so lovely there, it even tastes great when you suck it off an American’s toes. The grandest part is it’s a short way from the most regal football club around–OGC Nice. Sometimes it’s tough to catch a match when I’m on the coast–having to wend my way through the ego smog emanating from Cannes when Hollywood’s in town, but you can find Le Gym perennially toiling near the bottom of Ligue Uhhn and since they’ve taken former United player David Bellion on loan this season, I’ve found myself paying the entrance fees to get into the stadium to watch the club. Also, they have the best spotted dick around but it can get pricey–why else do you think I’d been acting like FIFA Exco and taking bribes for promises I couldn’t keep?

And while my beloved Nice hasn’t been playing very nice this season, I must say it’s because they loaned out the wrong Traore for the season. Oh Eric Roy, we needed to have kept Mahamane Traore rather than take on Abdou Traore–our midfield wouldn’t have been shredded by Eden Hazard and Gervinho in the Coupe de France with mah Man rather than Abdou–he’s the slowest of the Traores and spends too much time arguing with the Ayew brothers over who has the best secret handshake.

Abdou. Mahamane. Sounds like, “I do, my, uh…something.” Wedding–banned. Tears again. Hold it together Fergie, just a bit longer. Big girls don’t cry–they put on their fantastic Nice shirt, wash those dozen croissants down with some Mad Croc, and head to Stade Municipal to boo down those losers Caen. This Sunday is a must win–we’re only 3 points above Caen to avoid a relegation spot and Ospina’s goalkeeping has almost caused me to dip into my Hamburger Fund to encourage some of my douchey of York friends from Hull to say greet him like a couple Escobars.

Was that too much? Sorry–I’m very sad, angry, nervous, and hungry all at the same time. Mmmm, York–peppermint patties. Makes me think about Tom Huddlestone. He’s a tasty butterfinger and if I ask him to meet me in Saint Tropez, I know he’ll be bringing some extra meatball sandwiches too. Spurs don’t have anything else to play for this season anyway–I think ‘Arry can spare him to help me stay “scarce.” That flappy-jowled wanker seems so concerned with England and English-ness anyway–he’ll let Thudd take leave to comfort me with those chocolate toes for the sake of the nation.

And for the sake of a cheeseburger.

I bet while he’s here I could get him transferred to Nice this summer–goodness knows we need a strong midfielder and he’ll be surplus to requirements for Spurs now that Sandro’s come on so strong during that Champions League run. Then, I could finally achieve my dream of making a Thudd-Traore ice cream sandwich with my vanilla creaminess in the middle.

Ice cream. Oreo cookies. Wash ‘em all down with Mad Croc. That’d be Nice.