Oh my lord, Nigella’s going to go to jail! She lost the court case. So now, instead of serving pig’s belly wrapped in a chocolate jus, with crustacean sauce, snail-shells and lark’s vomit, she’ll serve 3 to 5 for… for… for…

No, wait a minute, she wasn’t actually on trial. Not at all. She was merely a witness. Phew. What a relief to all concerned. Particularly to Nigella, probably.

Yet it felt like she was on trial. For drug abuse, for smoking, toking, snorting, spliffing, ingesting, powdering, inhaling and drugging herself up to those gorgeous, dark eyeballs (though agreed; not quite so gorgeous when all red and slitty), being a wanton woman, an unfit mother, a total slapper, a crack whore, gutter slag, child abuser, necrophiliac, pornographer, thief, carjacker, mugger, racist and Tory voter. Everything except being a Chelsea fan. So there’s hope for everyone, however low they may appear to have fallen.

There’s winners and losers in everything. And the real winners in this case are the Grillo sisters, who’s life became one big lottery win after another, every week, as they spent hundreds of thousands of Saachi’s money. And the courts said; fine, take all ya want.

Yet in a way Nigella emerges in a very odd way, a winner too. Because in the battle of the public image and support we stood by her. The fucking Prime Minister stood by her, even though it was a stupid thing for him to do. Not that he’s a stranger to ‘stupid’. He works with Nick Clegg, for god’s sake.

The moment Charles Saachi’s evil, dirty, hooked, wrinkled, claw-like, gnarled hands wrapped round Nigella’s soft, delicate little throat, she won our hearts and he became The Evil One, the Devil, Beelzebub, Fagin but with more money, Quasimodo without the French accent, Elephant Man without the trunk, pathos and sympathy. He is The Bastard. Who, having failed at murdering his (then) wife, set out to destroy her in the court of public opinion. And that failed massively.

Because we all still love Nigella. Even when she’s high on skunk with white powder all over he noise that definitely is NOT icing sugar.

Who reads biographies? Or worse still, autobiographies?? Justin (fucking) Bieber has published his second memoir and he is 18 years old and has done precisely nothing of any merit except having lots of tatoos and buying a shit-load of expensive cars, showing that you can indeed take the boy out of the trailer park but…

I’m not a big fan of the entire biographical genre, but if I have to read a bio, it will probably be a sporting one. And now, it would appear, I’m not alone in this.

Alex Ferguson’s autobigraphy (yeah, I’m sure he wrote it all by himself, right) sold 560 thousand copies. Maggie Thatcher’s sold 25 thousand. Mo Farrah’s 30 thousand and Salmon Rushdie’s just 14 hundred. For a man who lived 10 years in hiding under a ‘fatwa’ and married four times. How fucking boring is that?

Piers Morgan’s autobiography was definitely self-written and is described as ‘not a book but a boast’. How uncharacteristic of the world’s biggest and most annoyingly moronic ego. Who happens to be an Arsenal fan. Apropos of nothing.

Almost 2000 people bought it. Or He bought 2000 himself to outdo Rushdie.

So before I write my own memoir (volume 1, of 19), I’m going to play some more tennis. If it ever stops raining. Then it can be a sporting memoir.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx