Bah. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting seriously fed up with Christmas ads already. OK, the John Lewis one is cute, the Sainsbury’s one is moving, and the M&S one has got fairies and everything, but do they really have to air them on every bloody ad break?
Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas, and I simply can’t wait to be showered with gifts from all you lovely readers. Fortnum & Mason’s Windsor hamper looks as glorious as ever and Agent Provocateur’s festive range is guaranteed to turn me into a right little Christmas cracker. Then again you may want to go to Majestic Wine and buy me six bottles of Dom Pérignon 2004 for just under £800, while if money is tight you could always send me a chocolate Christmas Cottage from Choccywoccydoodah for a snip at £150.
Yet even I find it hard to come over all “Christmassy” in the second week of November. I mean, we haven’t even had the DMA Awards yet.
Talking of which, apparently tickets for this year’s bash are out-selling the next One Direction tour, so I’ve got to get down on my knees to the industry’s very own Harry Styles – the dashingly handsome Chris Combemale – to ensure I can rub shoulders with the good, the bad and the downright pig ugly of direct marketing.
Did I ever tell you what a marvellous job our Chris is doing? So much better than that James Kelly…and so much sexier too? He’s quite possibly the best executive director the industry body has ever had. After all, he’s got the looks and the brains, what more could a girl want? (Blimey, if that doesn’t get me a bloody ticket, nothing will).
But I can’t possibly bring up the subject of gorgeous men without giving a special and “very warm” mention to my all-time favourite fella, Marauding Mike. Now in case you hadn’t heard, our Mike has been feeling a little poorly of late. Makes a change, you may think, he’s normally feeling a young blonde. However, I’m pleased to report he’s back to his old mischievous self, and the glint in his eye has returned with style.
Of course my favourite story about Mike was when he got stung in an auction house in San Francisco and parted with thousands of pounds for what was claimed to be ‘Michael Jackson’s piano’, ‘Rod Stewart’s guitar’ and ‘King Louis XIV’s underpants’.
I know he had to return them when his then-missus find out, although I’m not too sure he can even play the piano or guitar. But one thing is certain, he’d fill those pants with aplomb (or two)…
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