Glamorama

"Dear Plebs, it's Sophie Ellis-Bextor here!

Let's be kissy right off, I love being glamorous. It's just so fucking glamourous. When people think of 'Sexy Bexy' (that's what my local builders call me as I flash them through the window of my moving Citreon Saxo) - my expensive budget videos, the exotic studio locations, glamorous hair, glamorous make-up - they probably imagine I writhe in glamorous agony in my double bed all day, wearing one of my one-in-every-colour Monsoon dressing gowns whilst sipping Tesco's 'healthy option' hot chocolate, in a mug! I just think to myself whilst tilting my head at one of those akward angles I dislocate my jaw to create "why shatter the illusion Soph?"

Now I said I would write about my lifestyle here, so here goes. My darling husband is in a daring MOR indie band fronted by a fruit called The Feeling and I just love those filthy little indie boys, they are so delish and grimy. I adore a bit of rough. Like every posh English girl does I suppose. I also promised I would share some of my beloved beauty secrets - even though my crows feet look like someone has been at my face with a garden rake I do know a thing or two about kidding myself you know!

Number 1) A girl must always be glamorous in order to be glamorous, 8 days a week if she has to. When I run out of nail varnish I use my son's felt tip pens for a quick and easy application - yesterday I had yellow, blue, green and one nail that was just a bit minging from an infection I caught whilst rummaging through my neighbours bins for some vintage dresses I sometimes find to wear in my music videos, that is until I go to the shops and actually buy some fucking nail varnish of course.

Number 2) Never poo. Being glamorous has nothing to do with pushing anything out - in fact, I go under the knife to have my posh poo removed by posh doctors who wear gloves whilst operating. After I stop screaming, it is so easy for me to cease my faeces, and after Murder became a massive #2 single I knew I could never top it. Just yesterday, again, I was delighted to dislodge a comment that my song If I Can't Dance was a "great big pile of poo" from my very own messageboard - maybe they simply saw the room I get operated on. My fans like to keep track of my movement, in more ways than one.

Right I must be off, I seem to have sat on a Galaxy Ripple that has melted. It sure doesn't smell like Galaxy though..

Pah, mwah and blah,

Sophie Ellis B. xxxxxxx"

If I Can't Dance
Murder On The Dancefloor
If You Go