I am a tall, dark handsome man. I am extremely rich, so I have always been irresistibly attractive to the girls. In fact, women beat a path to my door, many with demands for child support - but that's what the ex directory number, offshore bank account - and the Rottweillers on the grounds - are for. The Rotts are partial to to the odd mouthful of single mother with babe in arms. Each to his own, I suppose.
I live in a stately home in Chelsea. I hate the country. It's full of dangerous animals, ugly people with strange accents and spotty children with missing teeth - and it usually stinks. Don't get me wrong, I like a bit of grass around the pile, but anywhere I live has to conform to the H20 rule, ie no more than 20 minutes from Harrods.
I was once tempted to buy a cottage in the country, a bit of a departure from the usual rule, and not a mistake I will make again, but I had heard that a small place not far from London called Leeds Castle was up for sale. So, I put Leeds in the sat nav and thought it would take me straight there. After driving for hours, Robo-Cow (as I call the bossy female voice that emits from the sat nav) announced in a superior way: "you have reached your destination".
"No way", I thought. "This can't be right, Robo-Cow. You've got it wrong this time, old girl" So I stopped a passer-by, a strange, tattooed, blonde woman, muttering in a peculiar northern dialect. Where is the castle? I asked. Y' won't find wun ov them 'ere lad," she intoned in her almost impenetrable dialect.
"But I came here to buy a country cottage. Fancied this one, as the ad says it has a moat round it,"
"Well, lad, there's soom ex cownsell 'ouses and fluts fer sell down t' street. I live in wun ov em meself."
Well, this was too much, so I headed straight for the nearest airport, left the Ferrarri for JC, the current girl friend, to pick up and caught the first private jet back to civilisation. (She is called JC because she has a Jimmy Choo loyalty card).
Lately, JC has been trying to con me into buying the Dome for her as a dressing room. She says her wardrobe is full. If I hinted that this was possible, she would be straight on the next Lear up there and nurse the F430 home. So I called her up, and she was out the door like a fox-hunter running from the Labour Party. Fortunately I made it back to Sloane Square just before closing time, so I was able to purge the smell of black pudding and pigeons from my nostrils with a nice bottle of vintage Krug while I listened to normal speech patterns again. Such a relief! You have no idea!
Anyway, enough about me. I titled this diary entry "I hate blondes". Let me explain why. I used to date girls of all shapes, sizes and hair colours, just as long as they were stunningly beautiful nymphomaniacs, utterly smitten with me and not too bright. In fact, I was an equal opportunity employer. That all changed last year. One of the girls I was dating was a cute, but none too bright blonde - ex Roedean, lovely accent and dress sense, sex mad, and an IQ of about 40. Perfect.
One evening, I was disturbed by loud banging on the door and the sound of a female shouting. The Rotts had not got the person, so I assumed she was a regular and opened the door. There was my blonde bimbo, one side of her long blonde hair all black and singed. "What happened to you" I asked (I couldn't care less really, but one was brought up to be polite.) "It's all your fault." She screamed. You should know better than to phone me while I'm doing the ironing."
Well, that was it. I dumped her, right there on the doorstep. Not too worried about the hair. She could have done something with it and come back to see me when she looked presentable again. But what do I want with a woman who is too stupid to hire a housekeeper to iron her smalls? Far too socialist for my liking. Don't judge me too harshly. I pressed 200 quid into her hand for a wig and a taxi home, before I called the dogs to show her to the gate.
Anyway, I'm bored with this. Haven't written this much since I left Eton. Besides, I'm off to Cannes this evening. Now that all those smelly tourists for the Film Festival have left, the place will be back to normal. Tata for now.