Bertie’s little cuntlet has made a mint from the inanity that gushes from her hole like scutter from a scoury calf. A cynic might say it is a bit easier to get published when you’re the Prime Minister’s daughter. I say no, she got there on merit alone, having cleverly realised that there is an infinite supply of cretinous cunts who would lap up her effluent. No, those gullible cunts just cannot wait to further enrich the darlings of the cuntocracy. Poor Cecelia, despite being the Taoiseach’s daughter, still couldn’t get into a real university and instead had to settle for what money could buy but she didn’t let her lack of ability hold her back and, like a real life heroine, overcame all the obstacles life threw at her. You might respond that I am a jealous, sick, bitter and twisted cunt with frustrated literary ambitions: I am.