Despite the fact so many of you creepy fucks insist on calling me Daddy, I haven’t awoken to a single card or gift.

My blood pressure begs to differ, Julie. PS - don’t be a dick, it’s my birthday.

I have learned a great deal in my 78 years on this planet. Approx 74 years ago I discovered people live in different time zones. Eat a bag of dicks, Alessandro, you’re killing my vibe.

Perhaps see a therapist? Touch grass? Idk, anyways - thx gurl x

Anyways. That’s QUITE enough of all that. I’m heading out to celebrate in style by eating my own bodyweight in garlic bread. Be kind to each other, fuckheads ❤️

No one likes you ❤️

Just found out I was trending yesterday. Am I dead? Again? Ffs.

Please. I beg. I.

I’m finally ready to tell the world about my private life. This has taken a lot of courage and a lot of thought. But here we go. shorturl.at/nENOY

Good Morning, Babies! If you loved reading my story from last night you’re going to simply adore this one from 2020. The link under the tweet has since expired so I have uploaded it here: tinyurl.com/4fvy5jjt

💅💅😈

Your friend’s girl sounds DELECTABLE.

Ew. Cringe.

Oh darling, you’ve not been told to fuck off enough and it shows ❤️

😂😂 aye, course he did hun.

Eric. What ever happened to what happens in Camelot staaaaays in Camelot!? #busted

Darlings, what ever happened to minding your own fucking business? Have you considered reading a book? Going outside? Eating an apple? Just like, shutting the fuck up? Chrissssst.

Surprise, fuckos!

If someone claims to first remember me from The Evening Standard dated 23/01/74 wearing a Saint Laurent black velvet jacket that cost £81, with a £10.50 shirt from Johnson & Johnson on Kensington Market and a moss-green velvet bow as photographed by Roy Jones. Call the police.