Princess Diana

Hello sweeties

It’s party time yet again and I have drunkled shampoo from Penzance to Pinner in an Amazonian effort to bring you all the skinny of the season. And believe me darlings, a girlie of my repute should not be in Pinner unless kidnapped by a gang of asylum seeking rapists. Ah the things a girl must do for some luscious gossip and a bucket of bubbly.

But oh was it worth it. Skinny? Positively anorexic, darlings.

You will have read in the ghastly tabloids that Diana, queen of tarts was preggers when she died. I know that’s hardly stop-press goss, it’s news that is colder than Camilla’s knickers. No darlings the hot news is waaay better than that. Oh such skinny.

I’ll tell you but you must promise not to breathe a word of it to a soul. I swore to Henny Throckmorton that I wouldn’t tell anyone so really you musn’t.

Well anyway, Henny says Pippi Van Muflin knows a gal who knows the strumpette’s old gyno and he told her that the father of the unborn was not old Dodi Fayed at all. Noooooo.

It seems that Professor Prod was doing his annual poking around inside Diana, something not unknown in gentlemen of her acquaintance, when he discovered that she was up the duff. Heavens to Queen Betsy. A quick count and a look through her blondeness’s diary gave no clearer clue to the identity of the owner of the seed in question. Di was able to narrow it down to 14 but apparently it could have been any one of the touring Harlem Globetrotters, substitutes included. Oh did I say that out loud?

Diana wracked the recesses of her brain — a process which could not have taken very long at all — but the poor trollop couldn’t be sure which of the studmuffin basketballers had been guilty of a double dribble. All she knows is one of them scored with a shot from outside the circle.

Darlings if what I’ve heard is true then it’s likely that the luscious tall boy will have put it into the ring off the backboard. Each to their own sweeties, who am I to judge?

Anyway, Henny says Diana only took up with the Fayed chap because she wanted someone who had a touch of the old tar brush. That way no-one would be surprised when the sprogling came out a bit on the dark side. You have to give the silly old tart a bit of credit for thinking on her feet. Especially when she was much more used to being on her back. Mieow.

Can you imagine Her Maj’s fizzog if the trampette ex daughter-in-law had given birth to a seven foot tall son of the Commonwealth? Not that he would be that tall when he was born — my Bolly that would have brought tears to Diana’s eyes, even with the amount of practice she has had at opening wide.

Not that I am blaming her for having a healthy appetite or being in the saddle more often than the Household Cavalry. The poor gal often went hungry because Charlie preferred to use the servant’s pantry or follow his valet through the lavender passageway. A girl’s got to eat.

So darlings, next time someone talks about Di being preggers then for goodness sake don’t mention my name but maybe just snigger a bit and start whistling Sweet Georgia Brown. She had a ball, she’s in a basket.

Toodlepip

Tight Squeeze

I was rigging up a dishwasher for a family down Ronald Place last week. Don’t know why he couldn’t just have bought her a pair of pink Marigold gloves and saved himself a few quid but who am I to argue.

In fact he’d have saved himself a good few quid more if he’d been there instead of his missus. Moaned from start to flippin finish she did. My rule of thumb is add another 20 knicker to the bill for every time someone gets up me nose and this witch cost herself a fortune. I think she must have had the painters in.

Not that she really had the painters in because doing that at the same time as the plumber would have been silly. No, I think she was on her mental cycle. It’s the only think that could have explained her being such a pain in the Jeffrey.

Imagine getting on her high horse just cos I ran a lead off the washing machine and her smalls ended up cleaning her knives and forks. Picky mare.

Mind you she did also have the teenager from Hell’s kitchen living with her as well so it was no wonder she was intemperated. The bratling was this skinny blonde thing with a hankie making do for a skirt. Blimey such a short skirt would have been all right if she filled out a bit but I think she was that arachnaphobic way. Terrible so it is but I don’t see why they can’t just make her eat some pies.

So I had the moaning mother moaning in one ear and Lolita stick insect squawking in the other. How’s a man supposed to do a proper job when he can’t hear himself think about ways of turning the VAT into ready cash? I’ve got professional standards to meet you know.

Next thing the mother disappears and the teenager starts asking me how big my wrench is. Flippin eck — there’s no way I want to end up doing backing vocals for Gary Glitter and Pete Townshend so I told her it could slip through a 5/8 washer and she slung her hook. My old gaffer always told me never to put something too big inside something too small or you would end up in more hot water than you can handle. And, as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life.

Anyways, about the thing I wanted to tell you about. Once Lady Macbeth and the six-stone slapper pushed off out of the way I got into the trap under the kitchen floor to feed up the strainer basket. Blimey if I didn’t find five hundred knicker in used readies hidden in the hole. Result. Merry Crimbo, Mrs Plumb. I couldn’t have been more surprised if Saddam Hussein had popped his head out and sang Take Me I’m Yours. Actually that’s not so unlikely when you think about it.

My first thought was they might be drug dealers but there was woodchip on the walls and no bling bling round the arachnaphobic’s neck so I ruled that one out. Best guess was the old man had won it on the nags and was hiding it from the old cow so he could spend it on someone who moaned less. Or more.

He’d never miss it for months and what’s more he could hardly go tell her about it now could he? Anyways theft is nine tenths of the law.

So I’m thinking Mrs Plumb might just get that diamante thong she wanted after all. Then I’m thinking an extra large sets you back a good few more spondulicks and a monkey doesn’t go as far as it did. So I’m thinking about following the geezer’s example and putting the entire monkey on a pony. Investment.

I pick out this nag called Tight Squeeze. Can’t lose I reckon. Then I see this tip for an animal called Jack Pot 2. Kiss Me Kate I thinks to meself, must be fate. A second jackpot is just what the optician ordered. Flippin third it was.

Oh well, easy come easy went. A pair of Marks and Spencers cotton finest for Mrs P. Blimey.

Plumb On

Peter Plumb