Jenny Williams

left the UK for America in 2006, armed only with a jar of marmite, 4 mini-cans of Baked Beans and my dreams. Forced to leave my spacious Notting Hill flat, after finding my lover Hugh Grant in our queen-size – mid-shag with his lover Keira Knightley, I hopped a double-decker to the airport with my mother’s (Kristen Scott-Thomas’) words ringing in my ears: “He’s a wanker, a total bloody wanker and you’re best shot of him love”. Alone in my grimy studio apartment in Bed-sty, I stood weeping in my big pants, necking Earl Grey straight from the pot, with only my monocle and the framed picture of Dame Judi Dench for comfort. I thought of the Queen. I felt bad. Then I thought of Prince William. I felt worse. Then I thought of Prince Harry, and continued to think of him for a good 3 and a half minutes, until I felt better. Good enough to stomach a big meat pie, get lashed up on pints of warm lager and look to the future with the stoicism inherent in my nature. Look to your own lives. When you’re down I’m there, cracking one of my brilliant ironic jokes.