It’s enough to make me bleedin blood boil, it really is.
Three froggie paparazzi have just got away with taking pictures of our Princess Diana, God bless her, on the night she died. It’s flippin misbelievable.
These so-called photographers chase the poor, lovely woman to her death, hound her into an underground grave, and they don’t even get their cameras taken off them. Sick, that’s what it is. To make things worser they didn’t even show us the photos. Just makes the whole thing a waste of time, so it does.
Trust the flippin frogs to let the craparazzi away with this kind of intrusionism. Them judges probably did it just to noise up old Mr Al Fayed because he’s English-ish. If he’d been another frog they’d have locked them up and thrown away the secret password.
I mean to say, what’s the world coming to when a lovely lady like Di can’t go out for the night without some geezer shoving his long lens in her face? Did they expect her just to swallow that? Course not, she’s a lady. Well, she was.
These photographers, these snotarazzi, they just don’t care about people’s privacy. Diana never asked to be famous, she just wanted to marry a prince, go to film premieres, clear landmines and generally be an angel to the world. And maybe a saintess. She never asked anyone to take her photo. Well, not often.
But oh no. The craparazzi took her picture whether she liked it or not. And they didn’t always take her best side like she asked them to neither. Drove her to the grave they did. Well technically the blotto froggie chauffeurist drove her but you know what I mean.
They should have been up for first degree homicide if you ask me. Guilty as charged your honour, on with the black cap and off with their heads. Treason is still a bleedin hanging offence and that’s what it was. Don’t give me any rubbishness about them being Frenchies and so it doesn’t count. Our Royals is royals everywhere so treason it is.
Hang them up by their camera straps, gag them with one of James Hewitt’s old jockstraps and beat them about the back with a pair of Will Carling’s rugby boots. Let them dangle until they smell — they are Frenchies so it shouldn’t take long — then feed them to a pack of slavering foxhounds that haven’t had a good meal since the lefties banned hunting. Then shoot the buggers.
It may sound harsh but it’s no more or lesser than they deserve. You can’t go around taking pictures of everyday famous people and make their chauffeurist drunk so that they crash their car and not expect to get shot. Stands to reason.
Imagine if I was putting in a new sink for old Mrs Grant in Bell Street and decided just to take a photo of her as she was coming out of the shower wearing nothing more than a smear of shampoo. Actually don’t, it’s too bleedin horrible. But she wouldn’t be flippin happy would she? Nor me come to that, blimey.
But my old gaffer always told me that if I was going to stick my nose in somewhere it shouldn’t be then I was likely to get it covered in crap. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life. The snotarazzi have stuck their noses in where they shouldn’t be so they should get their apertures cut off. Stands to reason.
Diana for saintess. Photographers for the Bastille.