He's a scummy man

Every time I see his preening, self-loving face on television I feel like tipping off the tabloids.

He's a celebrity chef now, though when I knew of him, way back when, he was just a chef. A scummy chef. The type of chef who would betray his wife by having an affair and then pressurise his mistress into having an abortion. The mistress, clearly not an innocent party herself, was a purely-platonic friend of mine. It was a nasty business.

I wouldn't tell the tabloids, obviously. She would suffer far more than him, and, if spun correctly, he could even come out of it looking like a smouldering sex god, so to speak. Which he's not. He's a scummy man, and I object to his irritating face popping up unexpectedly in my living room and fawning interviews with him dropping on my doormat. I just object to it.

She's not my friend any more, by the way. My purely-platonic friend froze me out once I fell in love with another woman. There's a Julia Roberts plot in all of this somewhere...