Lily Allen's starting to get on my still pert tits - especially after the whinger knocked Her Madgesty lately - so here's a little tale about her rapscallion actor daddy Keith. Sometime back, at the London media Rover's Return, The Groucho, the married scamp was having an "affair" with a laydee novelist of a certain accomplishment - I say "affair": what it amounted to was copious nightly drinking followed by wall-banging sex upstairs in one of the clubs guest rooms which you can book for about £120 a night. No flowers; no diurnal, breathless love chat between fucks. But my writer reports that his libido had become so jaded by boozing and drugging with the likes of Damien Hirst et al that the only way he could get it up was with the aid of charlie blown full up his anal passage through a straw - the laydee novelist providing the blow, so to speak.
The effect, I am told, is exquisite; though I hope the straw was safely disposed of after use.