And when they pulled her from the wreck, you know she still had on her shades

I've gotten one or two new readers the last couple of days, folks. But don't worry, we'll soon sort that out. The Yanks are going to be alienated and confused by two Ireland specific posts in a row and everyone else will have had their fill of me and my being full of me.

If one week ago you had tickled me with the following teaser, my answer would have been a resounding: 'Damn fucking straight. You betcha. Bring it on, and make it painful.' But now? With a situation full of reality and bedside vigilantes holding court? How do I respond to the repetitively self-posed question: 'Do I want Katy French to die?'

Does my hatred of this shallow slapper and her ilk allow me to get behind the concept of a young life, however vapid, prematurely ended? Am I so sickened by celebrity culture that I can live with the thought of a father waking up every day for the rest of his life without his darling daughter? How much of a self-righteous, self-important, self-regarding cunt am I?

Folks, I am fortunate to find myself with a ready-made cop out, a solution that allows me to hold my Hicksian head high without wishing death upon a relative innocent. If French were to die, the levels of affected hand-wringing, the weeks of tastefully tasteless headlines, the sight and sound of the meedja in full, gleeful mourning mode would be all but unbearable.

And so, I bestow my approval on the continued life of Katy French.

I am such a fucking softie.