When I look in the mirror – which, contrary to what many of may believe, doesn’t happen all that often – I no longer see Lizzie Grant, daddy’s little girl. No, I see Lana Del Rey, a cross between Tupac Shakur and Zsa Zsa Gabor. The baddest bitch – but also a very sensitive soul. A delicate flower that is wilting under the unforgiving spotlight of unwanted attention. A scared newborn kitten drowning in the fame drain where it tumbled forth from its mother’s womb.

The 16th of October, 1980. That was the first day that word was thrust in my face. I remember it clearly because it was the day after Gentleman Jim Callaghan, my then idol (and also the name of my first pet gerbil), was ousted as leader of the Labour Party. I was ten years old – or should I say ten years young, since I certainly wasn’t old, considering I was only ten – and, unable to suppress my anguish any longer, I sobbed uncontrollably throughout a 55-minute afterschool recorder lesson at Primrose Hill Primary School. Griselda Thirion was the culprit. “You look incredibly ugly, Edward,” she spat, as tears dripped down onto the sheet music for “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. David, standing by my side, didn’t prevent himself from chuckling at me, as he so often did back then, leading others to follow. Who’s laughing now, Dave?

A week last Tuesday I was at the checkout in Whole Foods – the Kensington branch – when something very much awry occurred. I’d like to point out at this juncture that I was just going about my very normal, everyday life – I was even wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Everything seemed fine until I handed the middle-aged lady at the till my Coutts Gold Card and I noticed her suddenly glancing at a message that had flashed up on the computer screen in front of her. Then she asked me the most bizarre question. “Would you like cashback, Mr Grant?” she said, trying desperately to effect an air of normality.

There’s nothing that gives me more pleasure when I come home on a cold winter evening than the sight of a fat, succulent bird splayed out on my kitchen table. (That’s not to say I’m a fan of coq au vin – that’s always been more Michel Roux Jr’s kind of thing, the fruity devil.) The mere thought of a piping hot lump of white (or brown) meat for me to devour is enough to send me into raptures. Sometimes it’s hard to stop myself taking a running jump onto the beast when I burst through the kitchen door.

We fought them in the fields of Flanders, we fought them on the beaches of Dunkirk, we fought them in the skies over Dover, we fought them in the sands of Egypt, we fought them in the jungles of Malaya – and this week, we fought our most iniquitous foe yet, in the FIFA headquarters in Zurich. And we won. Score!

It can be easy to forget that very, very posh people still exist in London. Unless you spend a significant amount of time in the more well-to-do parts of west London you’re unlikely to see these frothing thoroughbreds swanning about. When you spot one it’s hard not to find yourself transfixed by every facet of their being. They appear frighteningly naive and cut off from the rest of the world; they’re so well-spoken and nasal it’s hard to fully understand what they’re saying; and they’re trapped in their own very traditional little fashion bubble, which hasn’t progressed one jot in at least the last three decades. Made in Chelsea, for me, is like a wildlife documentary show. Witnessing how these people interact I know how David Attenborough feels when he discovers the hunting habits of a rare form of mountain tiger. Here is a breakdown of this intriguing species.

I’m kind of, sort of, a big deal right now. National TV series – tick. Plenty of wonga in the vault – yes. Acres of fanny on my tail – naturally. And I’m fucking hilarious. Sucks to be everyone else in the world right now, losers. Only joking. Ha ha!

Mate, I’ve just heard that little Ed Sheeran’s had a type of peri peri sauce named after him by Nando’s. That’s made me want to work a million-and-one per cent harder to make it in this game. If a fat ginger – no disrespect, Ed, you’re a ledge, mate – can achieve that, then the sky is the limit for Frankie Cocozza. Just imagine: my own sausage roll at Greggs!?

It is said that if you live in London you are never more than ten feet from a rat; the proximity to a rudeboy is probably the same, if not less. It’s impossible to walk the streets of any major city in the UK without seeing these zombified dolts skulking about with a look on their face that combines disgust and perplexity – like they have just been told where babies come from. They appear to have nothing but complete contempt for everything around them and, unsurprisingly, terrify almost everyone over the age of 40. If you’re a middle-class teenager heavily into UK hip-hop and want to piss off your very pleasant parents, read below to find out how to get the look – but please don’t try and fake the accent.