In fact, it's been a guilt-riddled week so far for theweemo. She located a peanut of questionable vintage in the folds of the scarf she was wearing and ate it. She danced to Rancid at a '90s night - at which she comprised 89% of the dance-floor. She thoroughly enjoyed some beef jerky which - as we all know - is made from shavings off-of Katie Price's feet.
OK, nothing to really have anyone battering at the confessional box door, but a Holy Memo (tm) has been to sent to someone important somewhere and there will be repercussions in Paradise. For the jerky incident at least.
A large source of guilt, manifesting as a Perpetual Slightly Creepy Feeling is the on-tap access to the Leveson Enquiry; thanks to which, theweemo now knows more news scandalisation than she ever did before, because she never read the tabloids. The strange decision to 'make transparent' (AKA sensationalise) this remarkable investigation into press intrusion - it's all star-cast upstaging every issue of any worth - has left theweemo feeling grimier than she did when she ended up at a The Bronx concert in 2003, during which her date for the evening launched himself into the mosh pit and spat his chewing gum into the lead singer's mouth.
theweemo then went on to further besmirch conscience by placing her astonished eyes in front of Desperate Scousewives last night. Actually sitting down with a cup of tea and watching. As the old Buddhist saying goes
'If you linger in the doorway for forty minutes heaping abuse upon a low-quality reality show - but don't sit down - can you be accused of really watching it?'
To which of course, as we all agree, the answer is 'no.'
But when it came to DS, theweemo sat down because she just HAD TO KNOW. In the same way everyone just has to know what crackpot arsewittery the Daily Mail may have unearthed this morning, or what the whole of a pint of blue cocktail tastes like. Fortunately, last night's DS primary episode, which contained scenes of eyebrows that may have been distressing to some viewers, was so frightening theweemo really wants to go to Liverpool now. And she wants to go to find out for herself whether it truly is home to an aesthetically-limited female gene pool and whether that breed of young female truly spends her nights in, drinking champagne in her pants, face struggling under the weight of an entire Point of Sale's worth of Collection 2000, re-enacting poses from calendars and bleaching either (a) the palms of her hands or (b) her bumhole.
Guilt also accompanied the dropping of the C-bomb on two occasions. One: on hearing the news that 'The Government' is sending out a copy of the King James Bible to every school with a foreword from Education Secretary Michael Gove. If this expensive, pointless, self-aggrandising alone didn't make theweemo want to throw a kitten overarm, it was annoyance at yet another wet gesture on behalf of the Conservative Party. As every ailing government knows, when you get the Big G on your side (by which theweemo means God, not Gove), even if your country is in the depth of economic fuckery, you look good. But you also look like a bunch of C-words, which explains this momentary lapse in vernacular for theweemo, from the traditionally polite to the more industrial.
C-bomb number two fell upon the badlands of 'cl!ckcompare' * who have suddenly seen fit to place their search page in front of theweemo's face without so much as a by-your-leave when she is attempting to access a link to something important like youtube footage of #racisttramwoman. How does one stop this?
Answers on a bag of beef jerky please.
*Please excuse the exclamation mark, but do you really think theweemo is going to get these bastards MORE coverage?