I love Janet Street Porter, but I don't want Gok going on about her 'bangers'. Gok's Fashion Fix? No, no, no, this will never do. Where's the zero-esteemed pond-based creature weeping into her Hulk-sized fleece and streaking in a Debenhams window with her tits hidden coquettishly behind a deep fat fryer? Where's the crowd of big birds in white bras moaning about bronzing powder? And where's the cheap but cathartic denoument as our pond creature trudges up and down a catwalk in the Trafford Centre in her pants? 'Resort!' shouts Gok, excitedly. No, Gok, you know the rules. There can't be fashion on TV without humiliation, self-flaggelation and a journey. This is all way too civilised.
Followed by: 'I'm Alexandra Tolstoy and I've always been mad about horses.' Fuck off, love.
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that Tolstoy woman plumbs depths of cuntishness, unseen since the pogroms - although the reviews of her first book - something about a year long jolly on the silk road riding ponies and their trainers, were so universally bad that I though there might just be a God after all.
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