Well, let's face it The Girl in the F****ing Café is one long advertorial.
We know what happened. The Chief Rabbit Geldof was having brunch in Notting Hill with His Royal RomComness Richard, and was tearing his hair out about not being to save the earth, and as soon as you could say tall-skinny-caramel-machiatto, Richard had said he had just the idea, and Bob had said I'll bike over the little £2 book and the press releases and you can rustle it up before cocktails. Daahling.
Here's how I see it: luvvies should act and musos should take drugs and make music, and politicians should sleep with their researchers. These things are all mutually exclsuive, and the fact someone made a lot of money from their creative endevours doesn't necessarily mean they're an amabssador.
And also, Lord Curtis-stan, we're not stupid. If you make crass gags and knock us over the head with gimicks and the same facts again and again, we don't feel lightbulb-moment, we think who-is-this-prat-and-why-is-he-winding-us-up.
Nuff said. I've said it before: get back in your box, Richard. You've lost it. The messiah, you ain't. You're not even just a very naughty boy.
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