The secret life of Sinead O'Connor
My open letter to the Pope is a brilliantly written piece of polemic. Except I forgot to mention that people are still totally jealous of my talent and my arse. Maybe Benedict’s jealous of my arse?
Shopping in Tesco is such a pointless exercise in patriarchal control. The fruit and veg section is filled with phallus-shaped items — like cucumbers — that clearly deliberately diminish the power of the feminine mystique. Anyway, I bet the Pope has someone to do his food shopping for him.
This week, I’ve decided to write an open letter to the second most powerful male figurehead in the world, after the Pope: Simon Cowell. I have a duty to all disenfranchised wannabe pop stars out there.
“Dear Simon, I have a much better arse than Cheryl. Just thought I’d point that out. Love, Sinead.” It still needs a bit of work, but there’s definitely a spark there.
Go into the studio and work on my new album. It’s much better than any subservient shite you’d hear Cheryl Cole miming to. It’s about power. It’s about love. It’s about my arse.
A Rasta evening at home is just the ticket after a stressful week fighting evil. I am a vessel of hope and forgiveness to all.
Time for X Factor. Looking at the contestants, I’m reminded of myself at 20 years of age, starting out. Except I had a lot more talent, obviously.
Or this is how it would be if we were Sinead O’Connor