You are walking through London’s Soho. If you are not an Albanian gangster or a sex trafficked Romanian 15-year-old, chances are you are some sort of media wanker. You also seem to have a Belarusian granny’s head-scarf tied around your midriff. Your Chernobyl waist fashion is not cutting it. Pondering these depressing facts, you suddenly spy pop star, Lily Allen, bloody resplendent in expensive dress and fancy black Louboutins trotting out of the Groucho club. She is arm in arm with Miquita Oliver. Obviously, they’ve just been drinking twelve quid cocktails and growing smug. You’ve had a bad day and your head is hurting. You see red. To hell with the 20 balding men brandishing cameras nearby waiting to get their weekly dose of Lily’s left breast as she gets into her car. You want a bitch fight, Tarantino style, on Dean Street and goddamn it, you’re going to get it. You open your mouth and let loose a torrent of abuse in seven different languages. It works. Lily goes NUTS. She punches you in the face, a face bathed in celestial light. She swings at you four times. You laugh villainously and feel better about your life. Face it, someone’s got to.

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