Bomb Baghdad and Back Our Boys

Hello Darlings

I am too unaccountably traumatised to give you any social skinny this week. Shocked as I am by the onset of war in this land of ours. Well, I suppose it isn’t actually here, it’s over there, so I can tell you about a super anti-war beano that I went to last night.

Yes I know you might be a tad surprised to see lady P line up beside some of the lentil crunchers and lefties that normally populate such frightful bashes but sometimes we all have to take a stand for what is right. And I heard they were serving up some splendid shampoo.

While I am quite happy to see that Hussein chap being defrocked, I would be desperately sad if the poor Iraquois children were hurt in the process. In fact I’ve got a good mind to send some of last season’s dresses to tend to their seeping wounds. They may have nothing other than dust to eat but surely it would lift their spirits to have their lesions bound in finely cut Armani strips. How their fellow urchins would envy them.

Among those banging their cans last night was that silly strumpet Liz Hurley. She seemed to think that sending a message of peace to the world was best articulated by wearing a dress that was simultaneously slashed to the navel, the thigh and her London derriere. I believe the expression is slut.

And yet the Hurley harlot’s “Versace safety pins and teeth” act is only for the craperazzi. I have never known her to be in the company of a real man unless she was in front of a lens. I’m not saying that she’s necessarily a vaginatarian but I’m rather sure she spends a lot of time alone reading The Diary of Anne Frank. If you know what I mean.

Yes I know she used to bunk up with dear old Hugh Grant but although the tufty-haired little sweetums is totally adorable, he is hardly what you would call testosterone-driven, now is he? He is even lighter on his loafers than he is on camera. Put it this way darlings, the only hairy centre parting that he is interested in is on top of own scrummy little head.

The big question of course is how La Liz got that child thing inside her. There is no way that it is la thing de La Bing as that would have meant smudging her make-up. So we are either talking about a horrid basting brush episode involving the juice of some indigent actor or else she forgot her lines and played the casting couch cherub once too often with some pawing director. Meiow.

Anyway, apart from burly Hurley and her pneumatic breasts, there were all sorts of celebs desperate to be the caring, sharing face of the peace corps. Although I am fairly sure I also saw darling little Kylie Minogue at a Bomb Baghdad, Back Our Boys rally I was at the night before. Some people are such awful hypocrites.

Vanessa Felz was at the anti-war thing of course. Not that she gives a parrot’s penis for peace but she did seem keen to do her bit for global harmony by eating every vol-au-vent in sight. Perhaps she was afraid they would be sent to feed our brave boys at the front. Or that they would be dropped on the poor Iraquois urchuins and they would choke on them.

Talking of choking, I couldn’t begin to tell you how the rascally Angus Deayton did his bit to stop the war. Just suffice to say that poor Charlotte Church was unable to speak out against Blair on account of her mouth being full. And he didn’t say no to Bush either. Oh did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

Cheese Eaters

As the constipated man says, it’s the waiting that’s the worst.

Well I’ve been waiting for flippin weeks for this war to start and there’s not been so much as an exocet fired by accident. Not even a bit of death by friendly fire. Call this a war?

Honest tradesmen like myself will obviously need to put our prices up if there is a war and we need a bit of notice to get the stationery changed. It’s a sad but inevitable consequence of global conflict but there’s always a price to be paid for freedom.

I just wish they’d hurry up and get started. We all know President Dubya is gagging to bomb the towel heads so why doesn’t he get on with it? All this pussy-footing about with the Untied Nations is just wasting time. Bomb Mustaffa Moustache and get it over with.

As for Blair, he is spending far too much time listening to the lentil-eating, cardigan-wearing, bleeding heart Guardianistas. Why listen to them when you can just run them over with tanks?

Then there’s the French. The frogs. Garlic-loving, soap-dodgers who have suddenly developed a conscience when the rest of the time they are quite happy to choke geese to death to make a starter. We bail them out of two world wars and they can’t even be bothered to let us go fight without them.

Britain and America want to make the world a safer place to buy oil and all the frogs can do is say Non. Typical, they can’t even say no properly.

We all know that the real reason they are scared to go fight in the Gulf is that the Iraqis will be able to smell them from miles away and they’d be sitting ducks a l’orange.

Okay, so the brown rice brigade want to give Saddam more time to prove that he’s evil? Fair enough. Let’s not attack him for a month or two and use the time in between to practice by fighting the French.

Dubya and Tony the Toady should declare the frogs as enemies and nuke the garlic out of them. If they ain’t for us they are agin us. Let them join the axis of evil along with Iraq, Sudan and that horrible wee Pekinese that won Crufts and bomb the bejeesus out of the lot.

It is pay back time for Sacha Distel, Allo Allo, Plastic Bertrand and Camembert cheese. Fry the French — except maybe Thierry Henry, who could then play for Scotland as he won’t have a country of his own. Pulverise Paris, obliterate the Onions Johnnies, destroy Disneyland Paris and put and end to those poncey poodles. Anyway, it’s much closer than Iraq and our boys won’t be away from home for so long.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Sort the pong and you sort the problem. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

In this case, the pong comes from the ponging French. Sort out that smell and then we can turn our attention to old Mustaffa. He’s probably a bit whiffy at the moment too.

Anthea Turner

Hello darlings. Lady Pan Jammer here, bringing you the low-down from the social hoe-down of the year at Brighams on the Strand. Well it is only March.

We were either saving the whale, raising money for missiles or celebrating Holly Vallance’s new ‘record’. Viva la difference, I say. The main thing is the place was positively dripping with names. Put it this way, the editor of Hello would have had the mother of all orgasms if he’d been able to get any of his grubby little craparazzi inside.

However every silver lining has its inevitable cloud and there were a coterie of b-list hangers on as well, desperately looking for cameras to pout at and shrimp canapés to guzzle. Or vice versa. Among this sad little shower was former Blue Peter strumpette Anthea Turner, a woman so tacky she makes velcro look slippery. Mieow.

She was railing off about Hello and OK, as if they’d be interested any more, and you could see the Beckhams and the Douglas Zeta-Jones’s positively squirming with enriched embarrassment. I didn’t mind her rambling on about throwing tramps off the steps of the theatre but I couldn’t believe my ears when the bitch said that Manolo Blahnik made horrid shoes.

I was so cross I nearly spilt my drink. Thankfully I remained in control; a lady at all times of course, and calmly told her and anyone listening how her husband had given syphilis to Pippi van Muflin. Oh, did I say that out loud? I certainly did.

She claimed I was fabricating the entire thing until I told her Pippi said he had a dangleberry the size of a chipolata, a mole shaped like Norway on his derriere and a trumpet full of germs.

The whole incident was dreadfully distressing darlings and I can only thank Gucci for the restorative and consoling powers of Dr Bollinger. Why that man hasn’t received the Nobel Prize for Medicine I will never know.

After a few glasses of shampoo I was feeling ever so much better — if a little Schindlers — and my only discontent was that I had scuffed a perfectly good pair of Via Spigas by kicking that horrid Turner woman on her ample rump. Harsh words are all very well but sometimes the only language her type understands is violence.

An unfortunate consequence of delivering the blow was that it seemed to stir something in the loins of Foreign Secretary Jack Straw. You would have thought the funny little man would have enough on his plate with all this war nonsense but oh no, he stills find time to play hide the weapon of mass destruction with anyone that takes his fancy. He managed to get a grab of my inspectors but I beat him off before he could get a UN resolution, if you know what I mean.

Oh what a night. Sweeties I barely have time left to tell you about the roguishly handsome Jonathan Ross slipping behind the curtains with Judi Dench and coming back out ten minutes later whistling There’s Nothing Like A Dame. Or time to spill the skinny about a certain royal personage named Edward who told Kenny Branagh he’d back his new production in return for a special part. Said he’d be behind him all the way. Silly bitch.

But maybe it’s just as well I don’t have the time to tell you about Stephen Fry and the special trick he performed with two pomegranates, a xylophone and a small man named Bert. Public schoolboys, really.

Toodlepip darlings.

Lady P