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The Cropstar whose writing can only be worse than his whipping - cropscar of self deprecation. Diaries or journals of a Londoner of foreign European origin living at walking distance from Portobello Road with little better to do in life than walk there alone almost daily often several times a day, with the oxygen giving his little brain some creativity to write - main excuse or defence for writing being humour to improve on some moaning and groaning - lamenting how the world has moved from Fabergé to Farage - how enormous a difference there can be between one Huguenot family to another in one century. Fabergé was of the fine Belle Époque while the latter now is... a feeling of redundancy with disillusionment and disappointment and a feeling of failure in life with ambition largely if not quite completely gone maybe.

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