The Secret Diary of . . . Sally Ridge
A weekly satirical column about the week's eventsSTEVE BRAUNIAS
OPINION: At the end of the day I'm just a normal person but in the morning, afternoon, and evening, I'm a celebrity.
Over the years I've learned to take bad publicity in my stride. It doesn't worry me any more. People will write what they want to write. I don't care, to be honest.
Like last night, I couldn't sleep, and so I got up and went into Jaime's bedroom and said, "You know, I don't care what's said about me in the media, to be honest."
She giggled, and said, "Neither do I, if I'm being honest with you."
We talked about it all night, and I brought the subject up again when we met for lunch at SPQR on Ponsonby Rd.
I said, "You know, I don't care what's said about me in the media, to be honest."
Jaime roared with laughter, and said, "Neither do I, if I'm being honest with you."
We got out our phones and checked Google Alert. Three people bagged us on Twitter, one person defended us on Facebook, there was something snide said about us on someone's blog, and Dom Harvey bagged us on his radio show on The Edge.
Dom's such a loser. A little bird tells me that only three people turned up to a book signing he gave in Wellington. How pathetic is that?
But that's what you get when you're a hater. No-one loves a hater. Haters die lonely and painful deaths, and then their remains are dug up and spat on.
I don't know what Dom's problem is.
"Neither do I, if I'm being honest with you," said Jaime, who laughed so hard that a passing paramedic held her down, opened her mouth, and put a sock in it.
I was up on the ladder and cleaning the guttering on the roof this morning when I found a couple of tabloid journalists.
"We're from a very respectable newspaper," said the girl.
"We just happened to be in the neighbourhood," said the boy.
"We're here because the public has a right to know," she said.
"We had no idea this was your house," he said.
"We're following up a rumour on Twitter about your private life," she said.
"Please don't tell my mum," he said.
We all gathered around tonight to watch the final episode of our TV series. Amanda was there, and so was Helene. Monty was there, and so was Grayson. Bill was there, and so was Janet. Jaime wasn't all there, and neither was I. How we laughed! How we screamed! How we cried! How we booed! How we hurrahed! How we screamed even louder! And then the show started.
Good ratings for last night's show led to TV3 calling us in for a meeting to discuss the possibility of a second series.
They said they couldn't promise anything, and warned us that we were up against a lot of other exciting proposals.
Paul Henry is probably returning to live in New Zealand, and is interested in hosting a series about nothing much.
Petra Bagust is on the verge of leaving Breakfast, and could probably be persuaded to return to TV3 and host a series about nothing at all.
And the rat which appeared in the first episode of our series is being groomed to host a series about tabloid journalism.
Called my celebrity agent, Sara Tetro, and asked her to arrange for me to give a book signing. She explained that I have to write a book. Discussed it with Jaime over lunch at SPQR on Ponsonby Rd, but told her that I don't have the faintest idea.
"Neither do I, if I'm being honest with you," she said, and was about to burst out laughing when she saw her father Matthew cross the road to avoid us.
He was pushing her baby brother London in a buggy.
"I wonder what he looks like now," she said.
"I hear he's a very cute baby," I said.
"I meant Dad," she said.
- Taranaki Daily News
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