I've got this mental image of you opening the living room curtains only to stare in horror at the sight of Adele on the garden, disemboweling your pet dog.
Then as a solitary tear descends your left cheek and your body trembles with rage, she rips the organs out of the massacred corpse and rubs them over her face, laughing like a maniac and savagely eating poor laddie's heart.
She catches your eye, a dark grin develops on her face like a blot of ink on wet paper, and she tears off her clothes. Still maintaining eye contact she unleashes a brown Mr. Whippy onto the freshly cut grass, mouths 'I love you' and runs off between a gap in the shrubbery.
You both love her and hate her for it, she was your first bit of chunk and you ended it all because of the fear of what your parents might say. Now you know that every song she writes is about you, every pubic hair stuck to your car window each morning is hers, every word she writes is a direct reference to you.
You can't cope with this knowledge. You can't cope with her rising popularity and her friendship with Alan Carr. You'll bring them both down. You remind people she can't sing, her songs are forgettable and that Alan Carr is a camp git with bad teeth - but nobody listens.
The dog was buried where it was slain...
Right, I'm going to make a cup of tea
