Lady Panjammers Diary


I am in mourning this morning sweeties. Lady P’s fragile little heart has been split into more pieces than Ulrika Jonnson has had football players. My darlingest little Hernando, the best hairdresser this side of heaven, has passed on into that great salon in the sky. I am truly devastated — I’ve got the premier of Chicago on Friday night and my split ends are ghastly.

Apparently Hernando and his friend Alf were playing some game involving domestic pets and a particularly strong hallucinogen when poor Hernie took a heart attack to himself and popped his heated rollers. Such a loss to the world of hair couture. Such a loss to me darlings. At least I can console myself with the thought that lovely Marilyn Monroe can get her celestial roots done by an expert.

Henny Throckmorton has recommended her stylist — a frightful fellow by the name of Bilbo. I told her that I’d certainly give him a tinkle. That is, if I ever fancied having my hair looking like it could accommodate a family of not too fussy sparrows. I swear sweeties, that woman has all the style of Anne Widdecombe but without the shapely hips. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Of course I have drunk a toast to my noble Hernando. And a toast to his hamster which sadly took fright at his master’s demise and burrowed his way towards eternal suffocation. And a toast too to his poor friend Alf who had to face the indignity of accompanying the constabulary to their station while wearing a pair of last year’s shoes. How awful.

Yes darlings, the brutal shock of having Hernando taken so cruelly from me so near to meeting Richard Gere has driven me into the comforting arms of Great Uncle Bollinger. I have drank so much shampoo that I’ve been druck-steaming since last Tuesday. Off me pickle as Marge, the lady who does for me, likes to say.

Aristotle, that handsome old millionaire mongrel of a husband of mine, has seen fit to take advantage of the situation to resume marital relations. I was so spangled the other night that his train entered the station for the first time since Dr Beeching closed the line. Don’t worry though sweeties, as soon as the shampoo wears off he’ll be back to riding in the guards van on his own.

But in the meantime I needed to find a crimper extraordinaire to look after the Pan Jammer locks. I was offered Velasquez, the Danish-Algerian who does Vanessa Felz but he isn’t even gay. And anyway if he’s used to tending to La Felz then he’ll be expecting black puddings and cream cakes and I’m simply not prepared to tolerate such excess during the day.

Think of me sweeties, think of poor Pandora as the prospect of Richard Gere’s loins looms large in my horizon and my follicles remain unloved. What a cruel world in which we must live.


Lady P

Plumb Line

Asylum Seekers

It makes my blood boil, it really does. Who do these people think they are?

You give them the English language, teach them cricket and football, put shoes on their feet and all they want to do is come to Britain and blow us up. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they want to take money from the social while they are at it.

They call them asylum seekers but as far as I can see they are asylum assassins, towrag terrorists, traitors with tea towels, lethal leeches in our legal system. Come on, don’t tell me I’m the only one who thinks that way.

I’ve been reading my Daily Express and I know that every single one of them is a potential terrorist. I’m not suggesting that every corner shop has bombs beside the bonbons but all the Johnny-Foreigners-come-lately are likely to have semtex in their satchels.

What about this mad cleric fellow, this Abu Hamza from the Finsbury Park Mosque? You only have to look at him to see he’s a couple of warheads short of a nuclear holocaust. I’ve watched enough James Bond films to know that anyone with one eye and one hand has to be a danger to the western world. Especially if they are not white.

The mad mullah has been coining in 20 grand a year in benefits as well. Disgraceful. Just because he is a British citizen, has committed no crime and is technically entitled to these benefits, that is no reason why he should actually get them. It’s a scandal.

No wonder this country is going to the dogs when one-eyed, one-handed terrorists can put two-fingers up to the flag and get away with it.

The Express tells me that Hamza stands accused of being a terrorist, a serial rapist, being rude to nuns, not washing his hand after going to the toilet, kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, killing Maxine Healey and grievously wounding Emily Bishop, cheating at snap and of being black. None of these charges have been proven yet — except him being black — but it’s only a matter of time.

An old boss of mine used to say that if a pipe was going to break, and you knew it was going to break then there was no harm in giving it a wee twist until it snaps. Okay so you have to charge the punter £100 for a new pipe but it saves them money in the long run. If you wait until everything goes to pot then you’ll have all sorts of crap on your hands. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Lock up the traitors with tea towels now, I say. Don’t wait till they blow up the House of Commons first. Well, okay maybe let them do that but not anything else.

We’ve already lost the Empire, let’s not lose the corner shops as well.

Plumb on.

Lady Panjammers Diary

Christmas Lights

Well so that was Christmas and what did you do? Another year older, 20 bottles of shampoo.

Thank Gucci that’s the end of another season of comfort and joy darlings. I have been to more openings, closings, celebrations and no-excuse parties than Jimmy Choo has seats in heaven. I have been ankled, I have been boogalooed and I have been well and truly cabbaged. Old man Bollinger has opened another orphanage for starving Biafrans and I damn well expect a plaque on the wall.

I know you want the skinny on the festive fiesta but you have to understand that some of the names, times and places have not so much been changed to protect the innocent as become somewhat tangled in Lady P’s Bollie-addled little mind. Sorry sweeties. I did see the irkesomely lovely Katie Winslett play a novel form of backgammon with podgy-faced Welsh newsreader Huw Edwards. I witnessed trampette Amanda Holden do a brutal little parody of poor Les Dennis trying to put his socks on. And I saw Angela Rippon go an entire half-hour without trying to make a man out of Henny Throckmorton’s nephew. Actually, I may have imagined that last one. I think it was only ten minutes.

I went to Nice and the Isles of Greece and I sipped champagne on a yacht but I never managed to go to a single bash without Richard Branson trying to introduce me to the delights of Virgin travel. If that man is not on the blessed V then Manolo Blahnik can’t make shoes.

I think it was at Octavius Markham’s soiree in aid of alcohol where I saw that Ulrika Jonsson woman. Mutton dressed as dog if you ask me.

My footballing contacts assure me that the average boot has eight studs but from what I could see Ulrikaka had 14.

I am told they were collectively known as Coventry City Football Club. Meiow.

I am hardly one to cast judgement on a fellow girlie and her interaction with the opposite genderatalia but mark my words sweeties, the Scandanavian strumpet is drinking at the last chance wine bar.

Other Christmalian highlights included Lesley Ash getting so liquorished that her new lips burst and covered the ghastly Neil Morrisey in the fat of some long-dead cow. No change there then.

But Christmas is not Christmas without thinking of our Lord. And I hear there was quite the firework display at Jeffrey’s house. It wasn’t exactly planned but just after midnight the fragrant Mary discovered that Little Lord Jeff had “I love Bubba” tattooed on his right buttock. Such a little buttock too.

Oh did I say that out loud?