Princess Diana and the Paparazzi

It’s enough to make me bleedin blood boil, it really is.

Three froggie paparazzi have just got away with taking pictures of our Princess Diana, God bless her, on the night she died. It’s flippin misbelievable.

These so-called photographers chase the poor, lovely woman to her death, hound her into an underground grave, and they don’t even get their cameras taken off them. Sick, that’s what it is. To make things worser they didn’t even show us the photos. Just makes the whole thing a waste of time, so it does.

Trust the flippin frogs to let the craparazzi away with this kind of intrusionism. Them judges probably did it just to noise up old Mr Al Fayed because he’s English-ish. If he’d been another frog they’d have locked them up and thrown away the secret password.

I mean to say, what’s the world coming to when a lovely lady like Di can’t go out for the night without some geezer shoving his long lens in her face? Did they expect her just to swallow that? Course not, she’s a lady. Well, she was.

These photographers, these snotarazzi, they just don’t care about people’s privacy. Diana never asked to be famous, she just wanted to marry a prince, go to film premieres, clear landmines and generally be an angel to the world. And maybe a saintess. She never asked anyone to take her photo. Well, not often.

But oh no. The craparazzi took her picture whether she liked it or not. And they didn’t always take her best side like she asked them to neither. Drove her to the grave they did. Well technically the blotto froggie chauffeurist drove her but you know what I mean.

They should have been up for first degree homicide if you ask me. Guilty as charged your honour, on with the black cap and off with their heads. Treason is still a bleedin hanging offence and that’s what it was. Don’t give me any rubbishness about them being Frenchies and so it doesn’t count. Our Royals is royals everywhere so treason it is.

Hang them up by their camera straps, gag them with one of James Hewitt’s old jockstraps and beat them about the back with a pair of Will Carling’s rugby boots. Let them dangle until they smell — they are Frenchies so it shouldn’t take long — then feed them to a pack of slavering foxhounds that haven’t had a good meal since the lefties banned hunting. Then shoot the buggers.

It may sound harsh but it’s no more or lesser than they deserve. You can’t go around taking pictures of everyday famous people and make their chauffeurist drunk so that they crash their car and not expect to get shot. Stands to reason.

Imagine if I was putting in a new sink for old Mrs Grant in Bell Street and decided just to take a photo of her as she was coming out of the shower wearing nothing more than a smear of shampoo. Actually don’t, it’s too bleedin horrible. But she wouldn’t be flippin happy would she? Nor me come to that, blimey.

But my old gaffer always told me that if I was going to stick my nose in somewhere it shouldn’t be then I was likely to get it covered in crap. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life. The snotarazzi have stuck their noses in where they shouldn’t be so they should get their apertures cut off. Stands to reason.

Diana for saintess. Photographers for the Bastille.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb.

George W Bush

Just yesterday I was fitting a new s-bend for a woman in Richmond Place. I say ‘new’ it was actually a bit second hand and had spent the previous ten years of its existence in a flat round the corner. I say ‘woman’ but I’m not completely bleedin sure it wasn’t her husband in an Irish jig and her best Dorothy Perkins frock. I was a bit suspectful from the off but the toilet seat was up and the room smelled like a Turkish whore had spent the previous night drinking Guinness. People these days.

Anyways, this customer — either Mrs Morgan or her light-loafered man — was telling me how it was a flippin disgrace that President George W was coming to have tea with the Queen. On account of him being a murdering, warmongering, cheating, lying son of a murdering, warmongering etc etc.

Now I wasn’t having any of that. The customer may always be right — that’s complete bollocks obviously — but I wasn’t going to sit there making a five minute job last just over an hour while someone slagged off the man who saved us from Saddam Hussein and his 45 minute boil-in-the-bag nuclear weapons.

All this bollocks about President George being a war mad daftie who doesn’t know his nuclear arsenal from his elbow is a bit unfair. Okay so he’s not Brain of Britain, well he couldn’t be could he, but he isn’t a complete idiot. Not really.

Okay so he’s not so hot on geography or history and he has a hard time speaking English proper but then it’s not his first language. He’s American, you know. But he’s not a complete buffoon. I bet he’d do really well on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Well, The Price is Right at the very least.

And the loopy lefties like Mr or Mrs Morgan can moan all they want about President George blowing the bejeezus out of Baghdad but where would they be today if he hadn’t? Well, okay they’d be in the same place and nothing would be different except a lot more people would be alive but that’s not the point. Sometimes democracy means you have to kill a lot of innocent people whether there is a reason or not.

So I told all this to Mrs Morgan — and probably to Mr Morgan as well — and she/he ranted on about how George had made up all that stuff about Saddam and his weapons. Well, so what? If he’d told the truth then obviously no-one would have wanted to go to war with the towel heads so he had to make it up. That’s what politics is all about. I’m afraid Mrs Morgan was just too stupid a man to understand all that though.

She kept banging on about democracy as if that was something available to the likes of him. But there’s always a price to be paid for democracy and in Mrs Morgan’s case it was a hundred quid surcharge for being a prat. That’s not quite how I phrased it on the invoice of course, cracked soldering or something.

You see what the likes of Mr Morgan doesn’t understand is that America is the greatest democracy in the world. And the 47 per cent of Americans who voted for President George will testify to that. So although Mr Morgan may say that size doesn’t matter (Mrs Morgan probably has a different view) it surely does. As my old gaffer used to say, never use a small mallet when a flippin great sledgehammer will do. It looks good, scares the crap out of anyone watching and you can charge five times the price for a clean-up operation. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Plumb on President George.

Plumb on.

Auntie Joanna

Hello sweeties

I speak to you this week as a woman shocked and angry. No, Fortnum and Mason haven’t messed up my Bolly order again, thank heaven. I am really quite peeved at this latest media kerfuffle about the Royals.

It’s bad enough when the ghastly guttersnipes among the red-tops try to spark revolution by bad-mouthing our Royal family but now we have a supposedly superior journal trying to do the same. The lentil crunching lefties that run the Guardian have scurried off to court, pleading to be allowed to print a tissue of scurrilous truths.

I know what you are thinking. It’s just Lady P sticking up for her own. And while that is very sweet of you, I am not, despite all appearances au contraire, actually bona fide royalty. We’re not exactly related but you know how it is, lots of their family have rogered lots of mine and we exchange Christmas cards with the ones we admit to.

However I do have delicious skinny by the gilded carriage load that I could share with you if I were the kind of gal that soiled other people’s finery in public. And, as you know, I am.

Pour exemple, Henny Throckmorton was at Buck House a couple of years back and says they were all sitting around watching the goggle box when Absolutely Fabulous came on. There was La Lumley flashing her leathery old tart skin and suddenly you could have cut the air with a ceremonial sword. Then up pips one of Fergie’s little retards, “Oh look, there’s Auntie Joanna on the television.”

Apparently Philip nearly choked on his ouzo while Her Maj had that look she always got when told that the dear old Queen Mum had wet the bed yet again. Henny says Philip disappeared to his club muttering about how he’d told Andrew he should have got that ginger slut sterilised when he had the chance.

The silly thing is that people think the Windsors are boring old fuddy-duddies but that’s utter tosh. There’s more jiggy-jiggy in the Palace than in the Playboy Mansion on viagra discount day. Put it this way sweeties, in well-informed circles Buck House is strictly rhyming slang.

If it’s not the family and each other then it’s the family and the staff, the staff and the guests, the Queen and visiting heads of state; they are at it like royal rabbits darlings. It’s hardly surprising there’s been one or two teensy-weensy mix-ups over the years — with so much seed flying about some of it was always likely to end up in the wrong bed. So just because Andrew was the product of a bit of employer-staff relations is no reason for Philip to love him any less than his real children — actually the Greek does hate Andy’s garters but only because he’s a fat-headed duffer not because he’s an equerry’s bastardling.

It’s the same with this latest nonsense about “a senior royal and a member of the household staff”. Such a horrid hullabaloo about a bit of harmless fun designed to maintain harmonious relations between a future king and his people. Oh did I say that out loud?

Well honestly darlings, everyone knows it was Charles so why should I keep my mouth closed? Mind you, if he had kept his closed there wouldn’t be so much ghastly commotion. Henny tells me the chap wasn’t called the head footman for nothing — absolutely prodigious spanner by all accounts.

As you know I am not in favour of sodomites, a perfect waste of some scrummily lovely bodkins if you ask me, but whatever they get up to in the privacy of their own palace is up to them. And anyway, they don’t call them manservants for nothing. Mieow.

So I say lay off the Windsors. They are just an ordinary family with some super houses and a peculiar taste in clothes. Every family tree has a few bad apples held by skeletons in cupboards, if you get my driftwood. It’s just that Buck House has bigger cupboards than most.

So get off Charles’ back, that’s his servant’s job. Joking, Charlie darling, joking.

Toodlepip