I hate you, you fatuous fucking charm-void. You don't even DO anything.
You've not been seen without shades since 2001 because your eyes exploded after a record three weeks spent staring at yourself in the mirror. A decade of being on your guard at being papped has left you scarred with a perma-pout. You don't look dangerous and sexy. You look like a dead fish.
You've never made a good record. In fact, the only songs of yours I remember sampled Led Zeppelin or the Police. 'Musician' my circumcised cock. You accrued all your wealth thanks to the talent of a fat, dead ugly rapper who was better looking and more intelligent than you. And now your days are spent reclining on a bed of money while you chink a glass of something conspicuously expensive to his memory.
I could be out of line here. I might be judging you too harshly. But I get the feeling you'd judge me on the kind of clothes I'd be wearing and how much respect I bestowed upon you. And I base that on everything I've read, seen and heard.
In Britain, 'Diddy' means small. And a recent court order prevents you from even calling yourself that here.
So may I suggest P Cunt.