Her ‘it-girl’ status was her own undoing, here was this privileged person snorting £400 worth of cocaine up her nostrils daily, indulging in crack and meth, until her septum nasi disappeared, seared by years of ravage to the white stuff. Tara Palmer-Tomkinson fucked like a rabbit and had an insatiable nymphomaniac appetite for debauchery, for this alone she should be inducted into the halls of the ever grinding loins, for it is to the service of Bacchus that she will be remembered.
Obviously Royal connections open doors, and many were opened for this hip gyrating mistress of carnal purgatory, as her chaotic membrane befuddled and torn skimmed through the societal walls much like excrement is pumped through bubbling sewer pipes furnished with well-paid ghost writers.
The higher echelons of English society can be as cruel as the lower, and here was this wild eyed maiden on cocaine looking for approval but would never find it. Such is the standoffish harsh nature of the English aristocratic class that parental affection is rarely shown to children leaving them in perpetual limbo for the rest of their sorry loveless lives. Tara was a lost child only looking for some kind of love which she never was to find, looked down upon by the higher ranks as an eccentric curiosity and laughed at by the grimy lower half.
Society should embrace the eccentrics but sadly these days they are scorned more than anything else. The spirit of Dionysian plenty can only follow this misunderstood creature to the depths of depravity and absolution.
And up upon yonder, Tara whooshes into the eternal universal maelstrom, perhaps to be denied entry into the VIP lounge will be the final insult for this tempestuous everlasting misfit.