Well I don't think much to the British paparazzi! I am still here, locked up in the gulag with the ghastly kelb, who actually seems to be quite enjoying himself. He has taken to inciting riots against the neighbouring kelb, a pitiful creature called Henry. The kelb spends all day tormenting him and yelling abuse over the prison wall. Henry sounds rather like an asthmatic version of Darth Vader, I fear he may keel over at any second judging by the rasping sounds coming from his cell!
The paparazzi photographer that came several weeks ago left us with a small token of his appreciation. We were both given a toy with a squeaker inside. The kelb being a buffoon ran up and down the cell wall showing off to Henry, goading the poor creature to the edge of madness. Needless to say as soon as the gormless one discovered it annoyed his mortal enemy I have been forced to endure a fortnight of him repeating this asinine exercise. This has greatly annoyed Henry, and strangely enough I have often felt the urge to insert said squeaker into various parts of the kelb's anatomy!
I reached breaking point a couple of days ago and was forced to confine him to his quarters upon pain of death or at least the threat of excruciating pain should he continue. The gulag staff did not seem to appreciate my taking matters into my own hands and have carried out a snatch raid of his crate so I am no longer able to intimidate him. I have now been classed as a dangerous inmate and a category A prisoner, instead of the poor victim of a bubbleheaded buffoon! They should try being cooped up for 24 hours with someone whose idea of fun is drooling incessantly and sniffing ones own farts! Is it me?