January 2004 – Midnight Plumbers

Hello darlings

I was in the House the other night — not my house you understand, a girl has to have a life. No, I was in the Houses of Parliament for a little champagne soiree being thrown by some Tory friends of my acquaint who were celebrating Tiresome Tony about to lose some big vote about student oiks. In the bag it was apparently.

Naturally I didn’t want to hear any of the weary details so I just stuck my nose in the old trough and snuckled up enough shampoo to refloat the Titanic. Well, that’s my excuse for what happened next.

One minute I was yawning down some Bolly and the next the scrumdiddlyumptious MP for Stud Muffington-On-Wye had dragged me into the first floor lavatorials with the intention of persuading me to let him go through the yes lobby. As you know darlings I normally have little interest in the introduction of a private members bill but I was absolutely squiffled. There I was, just about to be formally introduced to the honourable member, when the door opened and someone else entered the little boy’s room. In fact there was two of them — nice David Blunkett and that sweet doggy that guides him around the place.

We were as quiet as the quietest of little church mice but I could barely conceal a girlish giggle when I saw what he was doing. Poor dear Mr Blunkett wasn’t standing in front of his urinal properly at all and was actually widdling all over the floor. And his shoes. And his poor dog Lucy. I really did hope that she was going to dry herself off by rubbing against roly-poly Prescott’s legs. Horrid man.

Now you would have thought that the presence of the Home Secretary might just have cooled the ardour of the junior minister for something not very important at all. Au contraire. The dirty beast was keener than ever and he indicated that he wanted me to post the first vote in a silent ballot. Well darlings, I did say I was tashered.

So it was that I found myself kneeling on the floor of a two-hundred-year-old toilet engaged in important dialogue with a member of Her Majesty’s Government while the Home Secretary blissfully piddled on his loafers. The poor chap never knew a thing but his poor mutt looked particularly startled. I guess she hadn’t seen the like since Mo Mowlam gave old Blunkers the elbow. Oh did I say that out loud?

Mr Blunkett eventually dragged his dripping doggy back into the chamber — which seemingly gave the junior minister some fresh ideas of his own — and we were left to finish our discussion in relative peace. I did eventually succeed in calling him to order but I did have to bang his gavel a few times to get his attention.

He suggested we gave the bill a second reading but no longer being quite so terribly trousered — it is amazing how quickly one can sober up when one spots a piece of offending residue on one’s best Via Spigas — I politely declined.

And just as well it was too. When we left the confines of the gents we found there were five other members impatiently awaiting our emergence. It seems that word had got round that Lady P was on familiar terms with New Labour and they all wanted to personally find out if it were true. Ulrika!

Darlings I implore you not mention a word of this to a soul. Think of the damage to my reputation. If people got to thinking I was friendly with the bolshies then I’d never be able to show my face at the club again.

But sweeties, imagine what. The Labourites were so busy convincing me of the merits of the single transferable vote that they quite forgot the time. All six of them were going to vote against those bally top-up fees thingies and it meant that Tiresome Tony squeaked through and won the day. Yikes. Henny Throckmorton’s brother Bill is a Tory whip and if he finds out I spiked his rebellion jape then bang goes my chances of getting their chalet in Kloisters.

Oh darlings, what is a girl to do? Pass me the bottle and throw away the cork.

Toodlepip

Well blow me down with a gift voucher from B&Q.

I was in this house in Argyll Avenue, up to my elbow in this woman’s waste pipe, when I heard the news on the radio. Turns out Tony Blair did nothing wrong in the whole David Kelly Iraq thingy after all. He’s cleaner than a Belfast sink on the 12th of July. Blimey.

At least that’s what Lord Betty Hutton says and what with him being a proper lord and all, who are we to disagree? Here was me thinking that Tony was in as much doo-doo as I was but no. Lord Betty says he’s innocent and that’s good enough for me.

Seems old Doc Kelly didn’t know his arsenal from his elbow and he topped himself after blabbing his big mouth off to that blubberguts from the BBC. The four-eyed fat boy reporter then made up all these nonsensicals about sexing up the dossiers just to get old Tony Blameless into bother. Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does.

The leftie bean eaters at the Beeb are no better than the scumbuckets that work for The Sun or the Mirror. They both make everything up but at least the tabloids have the decency to fill their pages with pictures of Jordan getting her bazookas out in the jungle. You can just about forgive a paper full of old horse droppings if it also has photographs that help the working man pass his lunch hour.

Lord Betty says that Tony didn’t order some beneathling to beef up the weapons report — that was just a figleaf of Andrew Gilliguts’ imagination. Saddam had all these weapons alright and in 45 minutes he could have found them in the holes he buried them in 10 years ago, dug them up, brushed out the sand, found some German scientists to put them back together, do a few tests so they didn’t blow up in his moustache then point them at the west and destroy anyone within a 20 miles radius. Them’s the truth whatever way you cooks your apples.

Betty also made it perfectly bleedin clear that there was no way Blair murdered old Doc Kelly. No way. He didn’t actually rule out Blair ordering fat boy Prescott to take Kelly down the woods, dope him up and give his wrist a slice. But then he didn’t actually say he did either. Ipso quod escape routus.

You see the bottom line — and if anyone knows the importance of the bottom line it’s a plumber — is that old Saddam the Sadist needed sorting out. Tony knew it, George Dubya knew it, even Mrs McGillivray in Ronald Place knew it and she’s as mad as a cheese roll. The plonkers at the BBC knew it too but oh no, they had to play up to the vegetarians and the Save The Whale crowd. “Oooh, show us proof.” Proof? I’d give them proof till they couldn’t sit on a cushion for a month.

That blubbery traitor Gilligan should be taken out into the streets and stuffed with meat pies till he bursts on national telly. That’s the only language these people understand. You see Gilliguts is the sort of bloke who has low self-esteem on account of him being fat and four-eyed so he makes stuff up to make himself important and get on the telly. I saw it on Sky once when I was waiting for a late night artistic movie to come on. It’s called Baron Munchhorses Symphony or something. Lying towrag if you ask me.

I’ve always said if you go throwing shit around then you better make sure the wind doesn’t change or your face will stick like that. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Now I’m not saying that Blair wouldn’t go making stuff up — I’m a plumber but I’m not that bleedin dolly. But the thing is, if he did then he would have been making it up for a good cause, right? And anyways he’s too flippin clever to get caught out by a fatty like Gilligan. If Blair was a bit ecumenical with the truth then Gilligan wasn’t going to see it. Blimey he can’t even see his own feet.

No, we can all sleep easy in our beds tonight knowing that British justice is as safe as it ever was. As long as we have men like Lord Betty looking out for the better interests of the empire then we know things are all right.

Plumb on

Peter Plumb.