Plumb Line

Tories in Trouble

I’ve been having a good think about the state of the Conservative Party in Britain. Two minutes it took me. Shower of flamin’ losers.

Lady Thatcher would be turning in her grave if she could see the mess this lot was in. If she was dead. To think that the party she led to three General Election wins can’t even organise a day’s outing to a distillery. Disgraceful.

There’s Iain Duncan-Thingy, the biggest loser since the last one. I can’t even bring myself to call him leader of the party because he wouldn’t make a lead for a dog. What was the point of getting rid of the baldy wee Yorkshire boy and replacing him with a double-barrelled baldy wet blanket? If they had just changed him over and kept the same name no-one would have noticed.

If anything, this one is even more boring than the last. Mrs Campbell in Harding Street had the telly on last week when I was backing up her waste pipe and Duncan-Thingy was droaning on and on about something or other. Next thing I knew I’d fallen asleep on the job and Mrs Campbell was far from happy. The man’s a bloody menace.

I see the Spaniard is causing trouble again. Why this Portillo bloke can’t just go back to Magaluf and be a waiter is beyond me. I’m sure he’d make a perfectly good waiter, if a little light on his feet. But oh no, first chance he gets he has to stir up the effluence. Any apprentice worth his solvent weld will tell you that if you continually stir the excrement then sooner or later you will get covered in the stuff. The sooner the better in the Spaniard’s case.

Then there’s this Theresa May who I used to think was one of those bits of tottie that the lads like looking at on page three of the Sun. Turns out this one’s a different sort altogether and we’d happily have a whip round for her to keep her gear on. Mind you, she is usually seen with some right tits. There’s that little Liam Fox chap. Five foot nothing and dandruff like a blizzard. There’s Michael Ancram. Six foot tall and dandruff like a blizzard. Then there’s… Well there’s bound to be others but I just can’t think of them. They need to bring back some of the old guard and give Blair and his cronies a kick in the Commons.

Bring back Maggie and Stormin Norman, Howard and Parkinson. Bring back Selwyn-Gummer and … okay let’s not go too far. But if something works once it will work again. If I had a pound for every time I’d sorted a leaking tap with a dod of chewing gum then I’d be plumbing in the Bahamas. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Bring back Maggie. You know it makes sense. Even if she doesn’t.

Plumb on.

Lady Panjammers Diary


Hello sweeties, here’s the skinny on the social scene. And the big news is…. it might be moving out to the sticks.

Tristram Parker-Wayne invited me down to his place in Sussex at the weekend to discuss what was going to happen when this dreadful war starts. Not just the two of us, you understand. Goodness no. Polly P-W would have had my garters for guts if she thought it was just me and Lord Scrummy of Stud Muffington. No, this was a gathering of the gliterrati, a summit of the select, a congregation of the cream of the cropola.

Anyone who was anyone and a few who weren’t anyone but knew someone who was someone descended on Bashington Hall to sort out the social order of things for however long it takes to obliterate Iraq and anywhere else that Mr Bush doesn’t like the look of. You see, it’s all very well him bombing the bejeezus out of Baghdad but the belles still have to go to the ball do they not?

Henny Throckmorton’s little moppet Finella has her coming out on March 8, just seven days after the war starts — at least that’s what Tristram says and his uncle Roger is some Field Marshall or other — and the dear girl would be heartbroken if it had to be cancelled. The party that is, not the war. Her debut marks her emergence into the world of womanhood — not withstanding that little sordidity with three members of Westlife and Nigel Havers — and is much more important than some rammy in Africa. Marguerite Patten-Cooker says she will happily turn her home into a bunker for poor little Finella’s bash, complete with anti-missile warning system and a chap on the door to keep Havers out.

There was also the issue of the Boat Race Party at Jeffrey’s. If the war thingy lasts a month — although Uncle Roger swears it’ll be over by Easter — then the Oxbridge oarfest will have to be postponed. No-one really saw that as much of a problem as we’re never very interested in the canoes anyway. But the Archers’ Annual Shepherd’s Pie and Champagne Post-Race Party is an absolute must. It looks like this year we’ll be without Jeffrey, his horrid pie, and the boats, but at least we’ll have the bally Bolly and that’s the main thing. It’ll even be worth putting up with Mary whining about slopping out and the loss of conjugal rights. You’d have thought she’d be delighted. Mieow.

Tara Parker-Tomlinson said we should cancel the Army-Navy football match at her pa’s place because not enough of the troops would be able to come and watch. That caused a few giggles among the girlies I can tell you because we all knew that Tara TP had a hot date with the 3rd battalion of the Black Watch. Apparently someone had told her they were called the Black Watch because they were hung like colonials. Really, the only thing looser than that girl’s grasp of reality is her knicker elastic. Oh, did I say that out loud?

So there you have it darlings. The social set are moving out to the country to enjoy the delights of wide open spaces — no I’m not talking about Tara TP again. It will soon be spring and we’ll be sipping on shampoo, smelling freshly cut grass and listening to the sound of willow on buttock. Oh, what a lovely war!


Lady Pan Jammer

Plumb Line

Simply Not Cricket

This Cricket World Cup in South Africa is really confusing me. Well, it’s just not cricket is it?

It’s politics, it’s death threats, it’s drug taking, it’s racial slurs. It’s everything except flaming cricket.

I don’t really know what the problem is with these English lads not wanting to play in Zimbabwe. Are they afraid of getting beat or are they just a bunch of nancy boys? Okay so there’s a bit of poverty and a few people are dying but it’s Africa for God’s sake, what do they expect?

This Nasser Hussein (is he related to Saddam?) needs a good shake. You wouldn’t have had this problem if Sir Geoffrey Boycott were captain. He’d have them out there in two ticks and take whatever spears they threw at him. Of course if they had some right quick fast bowlers that would be a different matter. He’d send Gooch in first and wait till they got knackered.

All this fuss just because a few farmers are moaning about being chucked off their land. Farmers are always flaming moaning about something! If it’s not the price of milk then it’s their house being set on fire and a black man running off with their cabbages. They’re never happy.

All right so this Mugabe bloke isn’t very nice, I’ll grant you that. But the nancy boys only have to go there to play cricket not to vote for him. If they want to be all save-the-whale about it, they might as well go the whole hog and make Bob Geldof captain instead of Hussein. He’d probably get more runs anyway.

The New Zealanders are just as bad, being all girl’s blouse about going to Kenya just because they’re going to shoot them. No wonder they never won any world wars. My old gaffer always said if you took on a contract for a job then you finished it. Even if it turned out they had a dog and a granny who smelled of pee and biscuits. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Between these conshies and fat Shane Warne taking his old dear’s water tablets to lose some of that beer gut, there’s been precious little word about any actual cricket. Which is good news for any England supporters.

But there has been one little ray of sunshine. Canada beat Bangladesh in the biggest upset since I had a chicken vindaloo from Greasy Alec’s Cowboy Curry House. The Canadians won mainly thanks to fast bowler Austin Codrington who took 5 for 27.

Codrington isn’t even a full-time cricketer. He’s a plumber. Sometimes I think it’s only a matter of time before the noblest profession of all inherits the earth.

Plumb on.