(function() { (function(){function c(a){this.t={};this.tick=function(a,c,b){var d=void 0!=b?b:(new Date).getTime();this.t[a]=[d,c];if(void 0==b)try{window.console.timeStamp("CSI/"+a)}catch(l){}};this.tick("start",null,a)}var a;if(window.performance)var e=(a=window.performance.timing)&&a.responseStart;var h=0=b&&(window.jstiming.srt=e-b)}if(a){var d=window.jstiming.load;0=b&&(d.tick("_wtsrt",void 0,b),d.tick("wtsrt_","_wtsrt", e),d.tick("tbsd_","wtsrt_"))}try{a=null,window.chrome&&window.chrome.csi&&(a=Math.floor(window.chrome.csi().pageT),d&&0=c&&window.jstiming.load.tick("aft")};var f=!1;function g(){f||(f=!0,window.jstiming.load.tick("firstScrollTime"))}window.addEventListener?window.addEventListener("scroll",g,!1):window.attachEvent("onscroll",g); })(); lowculture: HEY-HO, AUNTIE MO!

HEY-HO, AUNTIE MO!

Where on earth has Auntie Mo been, we hear you cry*?
Well, it's quite simple. Ladies of a certain age (i.e. Mo's) can find the British winter a touch harsh, and instead opt to spend them in the warmer climes, where communication with the home shores can be limited, but the sangria flows like tap water.
Anyway, our favourite agony aunt would usually be away from Britain till at least March, but the cries of help she continues to receive have seen her switch channels faster than anyone watching a Linda Barker advert. Over to Mo:



Greetings, dear readers!
And may I take this opportunity to wish you all a happy new year. Mine was spent by the poolside with a jug of margarita and the latest Jessica Fletcher novel (entitled "How My Unassuming Neighbour Killed His Uncle With a Holepunch Simply Because He'd Offended His Wife-To-Be, Or Something").
But as the sun slowly set, something deep within told me things weren't quite right. Perhaps it was the worm from the tequila bottle or the banana liqueur, but nevertheless I felt the need to check my emails as a matter of urgency.
And thus, I caught the first flight back to Blighty after receiving a string of messages about a young blonde, whose adventures in the bedroom have led to no end of exposure. And plenty of exposure of her end.
I was intrigued to receive one message in particular, from Dusty Redmond, who spoke of "visual posh material which stimulates men's organs".
Once I had clarified it wasn't another promotional appearance by Victoria Beckham, I proceeded to investigate the rest of the email, which told the sordid tale of a young girl by the name of Paris.
A clearly distressed Dusty could only manage to tell me: "Unbelievable scenes! The big thing about this video is that Paris sustains that the woman in the sex romp is not her! Who do you think the actress is?"Well, as the only way to find out was to "Click on the link below!!!!", I did as I was instructed, and all of a sudden my media player popped up.
I was met with some grainy footage, featuring two young people with hollow eyes, moaning and groaning in the darkness. It sent a shiver up my spine, I can tell you - it was like The Blair Witch come to life.
But then again, you don't get to my age without sniffing something rank in the air, and I have since come to the conclusion that this piece of digital filth is nothing more than a shameful act of self-publicity.
Now, I'm fairly sure none of you out there will have been offered a snatch of this tape, but let me remind you that the only time you should see the words "Hot" and "Paris" are on a menu for croissants.
It only remains for me to say that I hope no other young blondes are tempted to follow this young lady's example. Yes, Geri, I mean you. Step away from the video camera, dear.
Till next time,

Auntie Mo x

* yes, both of you.

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According to Marxist theory, cultural forms such as opera, classical music and the literary works of Shakespeare all fall under the heading of high culture. Low culture refers to a wide variety of cultural themes that are characterised by their consumption by the masses. We might not be Marxists, but we do know we loved Footballers Wives. If you do too, you'll know what this is all about.

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