Researching the Pasty Magnate or my soon to be new husband

My editor says I been getting complaints. Apparently some bloggers have been whining about my comments about life in Newcastle. I told her that if I listened to all the people who wrote nasty letters about me or sent me anthrax in the post then I’d be suicidal all the time - as opposed to when it makes good column copy.

But, in these user generated times the reader is supposedly king, even those that write for free on the internet instead of being talented enough to be paid thousands by a newspaper. So to appease them I have been forced to go on a date with the richest, or soon to be, man in the North East.

Now like a good journalist I’ve been doing my research on the area and was surprised to discover, given his cultured lifestyle and command of the Queen’s English, that Sting was from the area. So maybe a dinner date with him? Or even maybe the one with more hair from Ant and Dec?

My editor however has gone one better, so she says, and set me up with the heir to the Greggs’ fortune. Well, if Gwyneth Paltrow could date that beans means Heinz guy for a bit maybe I could fall in love with a pasty magnate.

After googling him I discovered he has some far dated some of the North’s top notch catches including Cheryl Cole’s cousin; a tap dancer from Whitley Bay who got three “yes’s” on the first round of Britain’s Got Talent before being cruelly crushed by Amanda Holden and most recently “Our Joe” Mcelderry’s nan. I’m not too sure how accurate the last one was.

His longest relationship, and from what I can tell the woman who came close to taming him, was the girl known locally as Spuggy from Byker Grove. I can’t be bothered to find out her real name and it wasn’t on Wikipedia. But I gather that Byker Grove was a sort of poor man’s Hollyoaks with less attractive actors and mainly featured teenagers who were far too old to be going to a youth club hanging out with a bearded man called Jeff. If I were making a snap judgement, I’m not sure it was really suitable for children but who am I to stand in the way of the masses and their gogglebox.

Back to Spuggy, apparently she is a ginger, so no competition there and I’m feeling pretty confident that a well groomed, sophisticated lady from London with two credit cards and all her own hair will impress him easily.

I have been waiting for a text to set up the date and venue for our first outing and dear readers I’m starting to get excited about it. I don’t mind telling you - mainly because I’m paid oodles to do it - that it has been a good few years since I felt the touch of a man, and even longer since it was done on purpose. My shrink has told me on a number of occasions that paying an attractive man to pummel my thighs and wax my moustache twice a month does not constitute a meaningful sexual relationship.

But I have high hopes for this one.

Fingers crossed I get at least a week’s notice then I can indulge in my proper pre-date routine. Three seaweed wraps, daily body brushing, epilating head to toe (I know you ladies understand that one), a hair cut at my favourite salon in Paris, and at least two nights of sleeping on satin pillows to reduce the facial crease factor. Plus I need to visit some up and coming designers to blag the perfect outfit to make the right first impression.

Fingers crossed for me, I think we could be onto a winner. And just think of the accompanying book deal if I manage to tame a rough, uncultured Northerner, it would be like Educating Rita with me in the Michael Caine role.

Next week: I fly to America to give Angelina a hand with the children, at times like these Hollywood A listers always turn to me