A man tapped on the window of my limousine to ask if he could have my autograph. "Where shall I sign?" I said, batting my eyelids in false modesty and hungrily licking my lips. I'm such a fame-whore, I love all the attention! I was waiting for him to hand me an autograph book, or better still, to expose a part of his body for me to sign with my gold fountain pen stolen from the stationery counter at Harrods. I love it when a young man wants my signature on his thigh, or better still, his groin or even further south. However, he just shrugged and handed me an empty packet of pork scratchings. Imagine that! It felt like a slap round the face to be asked to sign my autograph on an packet of pork scratchings.
The consumption of pork scratchings is a bizarre British trait which I've never fully understood or appreciated: in certain quarters, they're consumed in large quantities. They consist of hairy bits of pig-rind, slick with fat; sometimes they're hard and could crack your teeth. Every corner shop and every pub sells them and they're loaded with nutrients (100,000 calories per bite). I shudder at the thought of having to eat one. The smell reminds me of Belladonna.
