“Someone tell Jack Monroe she has something in her hair!” someone tweeted me at 11pm last night. That would be sick then, or sicked-up shrimp, to be precise. A combination of television nerves and a not-quite-right pub lunch, but according to my Twitter feed, only three people noticed the glob of something indeterminate and pink looking in my fringe as I debated housing and racism with political heavyweights on BBC1 on Thursday night.
Someone else commented that I had great hair. Someone else said it was ‘two fingers to Edwina Currie’, possibly commenting on what my other half affectionately refers to as my ‘President’s wife look’. It’s not my fault, I have Greek Cypriot genes, and we are blessed with more hair follicles than most. All the better for catching regurgitated shrimp in, my dears.
Nobody commented on Tristram Hunt’s hair. Or Neil Hamilton’s. Or Chris Grayling’s lack thereof. Or…
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