Jeffrey Archer released

Wasn’t it nice to see Lord Archer being released from prison on Monday? The poor man should never have been locked up with common criminals but at least now he can indulge in his own pleasure rather than her Majesty’s.

To put a proper lord like Lord Jeffrey away for trying to pervert the course of justice is an outrage.

Just because the man jumped a rather ugly prostitute doesn’t in itself make him a pervert. Clearly he has the sexual drive of a natural athlete and Lady Mary, being a proper Englishwoman, doesn’t think it right to cater for his every need. So where else is his lordship going to relieve himself other than his secretaries, social acquaintances, young party workers, prostitutes and the occasional roll with Iain Duncan Doughnut? He’s only human.

Then they try to give him a hard time for trying to make some money. He’s a millionaire —making money is his job. Imagine where I’d be if I went round fixing people’s plumbing for free. Actually don’t imagine it, it’s just too bleeding horrible. Okay so when Lord Jeffrey raises money for charity he keeps a few million quid for himself, so what? How do you think he got to be a squillionaire in the first place? Those moaning gits with cancer or no legs should be grateful that a man like Viscount Jeffrey spends his time raising hundreds of pounds for them.

The people who are hounding Baron Archer are just jealous and to be fair there’s a lot to be jealous about. He was an Olympic athlete and would almost certainly have won the 100 metres if they hadn’t insisted on him starting at the same time as everyone else. He was a fabulously successful businessman until some prat ruled embezzlement was illegal and he had to start again. He was irresistible to the most beautiful women that money or prescribed drugs could buy until their husbands or the national press found out. See what I mean, jealousy at every bleeding turn.

And his books, fantastic every one of them. Many a time I’ve locked someone out of their own bathroom while I read one of Sir Jeffrey’s books while occasionally hitting a wrench off something noisy. You can’t beat an Archer at £75 an hour. Sometimes I’ve even read them right to the end without skipping a few chapters or thinking that I’ve read this somewhere else before.

There really should be laws to stop the press talking about Earl Archer the way they do. To call him a liar, a cheat, a crook, a prossie jumping pervert, an oily little creep who you would happily see burning in eternity with an umbrella up his jacksie —it’s just wrong. How can they get away with saying he is a lying, pompous, shag-anything-that-doesn’t-move, arrogant little shit who should be stoned to death by nuns with bad breath? Surely some of that is libellous?

Imagine where I’d be if people could just write that I’d overcharged for fixing a tap, or took six days to fit a washing machine just because the lady of the house looked like she might offer more than a cup of tea, or said that I might occasionally have charged for fitting some nice new parts when actually I put in some fittings that I’d reclaimed from the job before? Actually don’t imagine it, it’s just too bleeding horrible.

Sir Jeffrey is now a free man and can now enjoy the things that the rest of us take for granted — like fresh air, a walk in the park or bending down in the shower without worry. Everyone should now get off his back.

I’ve always said that a rule of fitting a good shower is that you should be able to reach for the soap without fearing that you might be over-stretched. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Plumb on.

Tim Henman

Oh darlings, isn’t it so terribly sad? Poor little Timmy Henman has been foiled yet again in his quest to win Wimbers. Trust the flaming French to spoil things.

I was so sure that Timmy was going to do it this time that I had even cancelled my annual Roger Taylor memorial party that I had planned for Sunday evening. Once a year a group of us girlies get together and swap stories about our time with Britain’s last great tennister. Of course I couldn’t possibly tell you what we got up to with him but let’s just say he wasn’t called Roger for nothing.

Every year we have lashings of Pimms, remember those glorious strokes and dream of rain delays. Dear old Roger had a marvellous racquet with a particularly impressive shaft. He could lob his balls from the back of the court and return time after time. Love fifteen? I should cocoa.

Timmy on the other hand is far too much of a mummy’s boy to possibly be a grand slam. He always looks like he’s been caught dreaming about Anna Kournikova and is desperately trying to bring up the covers.

It’s still a dreadful shame though. If Timmy had won it would have been like the Last Night of the Proms, the Queen’s Jubilee and the sinking of the Belgrano all rolled into one. Imagine how pickled and patriotic we’d all have been once the shampoo began flowing. Darlings I’d have been so bluttered I’d have happily bonked old rubbery faced Sue Barker in the middle of centre court.

Talking of La Barker, there has been much scurrilous skinny about how she could have represented Lesbania in the Federation Cup thingy but I happen to know that at the very least she had dual nationality. Penny Piper-Evans’ brother Lance said that when he was 16 La Barker had him over the net. Hungrier than a marmoset in a trap by all accounts. Mieow.

Her animalistic urges is one reason why I could never understand the tattle about her and old Cliff Richard being an item. If those two were playing mixed doubles then I’ll wear last season’s shoes with a Gucci strapless. I’m sure sweet Cliffie has nothing against La Barker except that she is the wrong sex, about 34 years too old and won’t fit into a ball boy’s uniform. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Funny but even though there was lots of rain at Wimbers this year, they didn’t wheel out Sir Cliffie to sing to the troops. Charlie Throckmorton tells me it’s because he much prefers Queen’s these days. And Charlie should know — such a disappointment to a girl. I once canoodled up to him after getting Brahms on the Bolli, only to find he was limper than a Sainsbury lettuce. New balls please.

Toodlepip