What a pleasure to welcome back into our newspapers that grasping porcine ginger trollop, Sarah Ferguson. It is money, of course, which has seen her return to media prominence; perpetually skint as a consequence of her fabulously extravagant lifestyle and sense of entitlement, she allowed her incalculably thick ex-husband, Prince Andrew, to fix up a loan for £15,000 to help clear her debts, money which came from a convicted paedophile, the US businessman Jeffrey Epstein.
Jeff was one of Andy’s roster of mates — a magnificent cabal, incidentally, which comprises almost everybody foul in the world, almost everybody who you would least like to sit next to at dinner, kiddie fiddlers, relatives of Cap’n Bob Maxwell, growling hummus-breathed Arabic despots, arms dealers etc. I am not convinced that £15,000 will keep Fergie in pies and Gstaad for very long, anyway, but that is not the point. Now that the press have found out about the loan, Fergie is cloaking herself with that most modern of adornments, faux contrition.
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