Tis the Season to be Jolie

So my dears it would appear Christmas is upon us. I would have blogged sooner but I've been busy, what with 4 spirits visiting me to highlight the error of my ways.

Ghost of Christmas Past was my first child Seraphina, who I sold for my first pair of kitten heels at the tender age of 18. She was whiney in the womb and she's whiney even now. It's always such a horrible feeling to outlive one's own child, it's even worse when the moaning cunt comes back and haunts one.

Ghost of Christmas Present was my recently dumped ex Broomhilda, she of the sturdy calves and sensible hair bun, who I drove to suicide last week after accidentally leaking photographs of her as a pre-op transexual online. How was I to know she was so damned sensitive? There she was rattling her chains and all I could say was 'Well you should have thought of that when you were throwing me around your caravan with gay abandon and a weeping wound!'

Ghost of Christmas Future is my matronly maid Muff, who I understand I do work into the ground despite her seven children stuck in that tiny masonette in Melling. So with that in mind I'm giving her Christmas off. Christmas day mind you. Well I won't be here! More of that later.

And the fourth spirit was good old Stolichnaya, a litre bottle which I polished off in an attempt to forget the preceding three!

Some of their words haunted me I have to say. I've never heard the word 'solipsistic' used in such quick succession, and on the one night. But that's one of the pluses of having had so much ECT in the 60s. A good shake and the thoughts fall away like a whore's clothes on payday.

So are we all looking forward to the festive season? I think I shall spend Christmas week with Brangelina and the kids. You know, little Maddox, and Shiloh, and Lilo, and Stitch, and Patches and Buttons, Flotsam, Jetsam Gigi, and the twins they just adopted, John and Edward. I do hope they keep up the Christmas tradition and send the little fuckers down to the soup kitchen to spread the Jolie-Pitt legacy of love and sharing. Whilst we're at the Chateau Marmont mainlining embalming fluid and raising the dead! Literally! This year we're bring Patrick Swayze back. He's booked 'Unchained Melody' on the Singstar.

Ah my Angelina. Long before she played that loveable scamp Tom Raider, she was my very own raider, of my lost arse. Our pleasure knew no bounds, but unfortunately her career did so in came the beards! Billy Joe Thornton, Jonny Windy Miller, and of course, my darling stepson Bradley. Of all of them I think I like Brad the most, not least because I was married to his father for a time. It's always a special moment when a mother can guide her stepson through the do's and don'ts of how to satisfy his woman. He now finds he can always hit the spot with Angelina with hardly any gagging at all.

I shall be dreaming of a white Christmas whilst baking in the Los Angeles sun. My dermatologist Poppy Panang will tan my hide when she sees how tanned my hide actually is. She knows what I'm like when I go to the Pitts. You lot will be freezing here like you're Soviets but spare a thought for a poor traditional girl like me who longs for the onset of December Depression, not debauchery and delving into the depths of the LA murk!

Now what would you all like from Lesbina? Shoved in your stocking when you're not looking!