Diana and Burrell

Is there no end to the indignities that poor Princess Diana must suffer?

It’s bad enough that she is being portrayed as a slapper whose ex husband is cavorting around with an elderly horse-faced woman. Now we are told that her butler has been knicking all her best gear.

First of all, just because the lovely Diana had personal relations with various members of the armed forces, society high-flyers and the England Rugby Union team doesn’t make her a slapper. It wasn’t the whole team.

Secondly, Mr Paul Burrell has not yet been convicted in a court of law so he remains innocent until proven guilty. The thieving git has yet to be judged by a jury of his betters and we need to wait till he’s banged up till we officially shout The Butler Did It. But I ask you, what kind of man would take 284 bits of gear from the blessed Diana’s house and make off with them into the night. A thief that’s what kind. A desperate thief with little taste in fact. Among the stuff he half-inched was a Leo Sayer album and a Cliff Richard cassette. That poor woman.

Being a plumber you get to access all areas when the client lets you in for a job. Who amongst us hasn’t taken a peek in the cupboards or had a look under the duvet. Or is that just me? But I’ve never pinched anything. Well apart from Mrs McDougall in Glebe Street and she didn’t complain.

If I’d got the call to plug Diana’s cistern then she could have rested easy in her grave that her Chris de Burgh CDs would have lain untouched. It’s all a matter of trust. As I always say, there’s no point in having a good washer fitted by a bad plumber. And if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life. You can’t just go round lifting Versace dresses when you feel like it. Where would plumbers be if they helped themselves to a Cartier clock or a Sassoon coat every time they fitted an s-bend? It would be bad for business. Treason is still a capital offence so they should hang the traitor Burrell. String him up while playing Leo Sayers Endless Flight and make him listen to the whole thing before they open the trapdoor.

If he’s guilty.

Plumb On

One Law for the Rich

There’s an old newspaper saying that Man Bites Dog is not a story. Dog Bites Man, now that’s different. So why is it when an out of control bull terrier belonging to our beloved Princess Anne savages two young children is it suddenly news? It’s just another example of media bias against our Royal Family that’s what.

Now they are demanding that the Princess Royal and the honourable Commodore Tim Laurence appear in court. In court! A public court is the place for the unwashed asylum seekers and drug-frenzied youth of this fallen nation – not the noble, blue-blooded stock which put the Great into United Kingdom.

I’m only a simple plumber and apart from a misunderstanding about a consignment of mixer taps I have never had a brush with the constabulary. Yet I know that public court is inevitably the place for the likes of me. I tell my apprentices, you can take the piss out of the toilet but you can’t take the scum out of the gutter. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life.

But sadly it seems that Tony Blair’s town council, cloth-capped, champagne cronies have control of our sacred judiciary as well as every other sector of this once hallowed land.

How else can you explain the inexplicable decision to have the lovely Anne and the decent Tim dirty their brogues in the undignified squalor of the magistrates court. It is a slap in the face to the family which has led this country through two world wars and the Royal It’s a Knockout Tournament.

What on earth were those children doing gamboling in Windsor Great Park in the first place? They were just asking to be savaged. Personally, I blame the parents.

Moreover the incident in question took place only two days after the death of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, God rest her soul. The poor dog was almost certainly out its mind with grief and could not be expected to be thinking straight.

Sadly the savaging, however innocent, has only served to feed the frenzy of the anti-monarchist rabble who claim our splendid Royals are merely descendants of robber barons and take money from the mouths of impoverished foundlings to fund skiing weekends in Kloisters.

Don’t you find that people’s views on the Royals are matched by their bathroom facilities? Your decent working class type with matching pan and basin know their place and worship the ground that Diana slept on. Then there’s your upwardly mobiles that keep pot plants in their bidets – they can be a bit bolshie but aspire to a bit of four-poster themselves. The real rabble-rousers are your middle class intellectuals who actually use their bidets for their bits and bobs. They’re the troublemakers.

So I say no your honour. Magistrates court is not for the likes of Anne and Tim. Don’t give in to the republican rabble. Free the Windsor two.

Plumb on.

Major Major

Old John Major, eh? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more.

Who would have believed that the old grey man and the egg lady had been going through the yes lobby together all these years? Mrs Thatcher must be turning in her grave.

And yet Mr Major’s episode of shame could so easily have been avoided if he had remembered the plumber’s code.

If I have one golden rule it’s never lend someone your tool unless you are sure they will look after it. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing, it’s true in life.

Mr Major clearly forgot this rule and gave Ms Edwina his tool without a thought to the consequences.

Now his reputation’s gone down the plughole. Or has it?

I reckon if he decided to run again as Tory leader then he’d be a skoosh to get back into Number 10. Phoney Tony’s cap would be on a shoogly cistern if there was any half decent opposition. That clearly doesn’t apply to Ian Duncan Thingy but the new dynamic Johnny Major would be right in there. Okay, the Downing Street caterers would have to run for cover but that’s a small price to pay.

As for Ms Edwina, well she’s a womanly wench isn’t she? Or should that be a womanly wrench? The kind that once it gets a good grip on your nuts it never lets go.

We all know her type. Gold taps and no washers as my old gaffer would say. She’s the kind who you would give a good deal on fitting a new bidet as long as she kept it quiet and then before you know it she’s told the whole street.

How Johnny must regret all those nights he told Norma not to bother with dinner because he’d be getting stuck into a curry at the office.

Plumb on.

Strike It Lucky

I’ve been called out to fix a few swimming pools in my time. Rich nobs with more money than sense leave something floating in their pools that gum up the works. Lilos, towels, hair, rubber items of various uses, you name it I’ve had to retrieve it from the filtration system.

But I have to admit in all my days I’ve never found a dead body bunging up the drain. How unlucky is that. That poor Michael Barrymore. He didn’t exactly strike it lucky, did he?

You invite a few friends around for a swim and a cup of tea and next thing you know the police are ruining your lawn. How was Barrymore to know that young man couldn’t swim while unconscious?

I’m sure Michael called out “All right?” a few times and would have responded immediately if told help was required. He couldn’t have jumped in to save him though because, as Mr Barrymore says,
he can’t swim. We just have to accept that he is telling the truth about that. Michael, president of his local swimming club, has no reason to lie.

Other than the fear of going to jail for a very long time. It strikes me that people are giving Barrymore a hard time just because he is manosexual. They really should get off his back.

Although I must admit to being confused when Barrymore talks about “My kind of people”. Does he mean woofters or drug addicts? My only gripe with Mr Barrymore is not that he is a friend of Dorothy but that he is a shite entertainer. He always reminded me of that early review of Fred Astaire. “Can’t act. Can’t sing. Balding. Can dance a little.” The only difference is that Mr Barrymore can’t dance. My other grumble is that no-one is thinking of the poor plumber in all this. Sure they are sorry for the boy and his family and there’s a few tears for Michael but who has worried about the tradesman? He’s the one who has to backwash the filter. I wish people would learn that there is no only so much strain that a strainer basket can take. They are just not designed to handle corpses.

What was needed here was a bit of forward planning. The good homeowner calls in his plumber before there’s a problem. The bad homeowner calls the plumber in after it’s all gone to buggery. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Next time Michael, call in the plumber before the body clogs up your pool. The strainer basket will be eternally grateful.

Plumb on.