I am another now and yet the same.
He has a point, although, to be fair, I did mention this at the beginning, when I called Proust a ponce. I wonder if he thought I meant nonce, not ponce? Too late now. And this isn’t an argument about 1984; it’s about sun and air. And suffocation.
No sour grapes on my part when I say that the gatekeepers to literary stardom in this country would be incapable of judging who is the most cunning between Joey Essex and the Duchess of Sussex.
I’ll lose my audience if I give them much more of the poor me. -You don’t want to sound like Meghan Markle, do you? Look how nauseating all that is.
Dickie White's Diary 
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