The need to self-proclaim

In a similar vein to a currently-slim Kirstie Alley Cat, our Warnie has gone and made a right tart of himself by carrying on like a 15-year-old lap dog with his new lass Liz. Whether it’s him putting his tanned, line-evaporating face in front of the cameras, or it’s the media protruding on an otherwise quiet ‘ol life – well, that’s hard to say. But either way, a stop and check of the age clock and a little bit of shouldn’t you know better should surely have brought Warnie up stumps by now. Rather, there he trots, through the streets of old London Town and across the vast and ever-moving space of Twitter, a puppet to his new princess.

He may never have been known for his modesty (in hair tip, in smoke, in drink) but of late his penchant for ever-tanned and slim-lined glamour has caught him looking quite the fool. And alas, on the media circuit there it has been out-played.

While I wouldn’t want to suggest their union will not last, it really well may not. So why not put a few smoke screens between now and then, leave a little to the imagination, a little to the private life and a whole lot less to the general public who merely need to lap up more and ever more and then will shoot you down like you won’t see coming, when you don’t see it coming.

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