Old Baw Face is Back

Auld baw face is back

The walkin, talkin heart attack

Auld baw face

Smug as a bug in a tartan rug

Soundbite Charlie

Naebody’s mug

Auld baw face

One smart Alex right enough

Smiling sleekit

Acting tough

OO7’s favourite thug

Vote SNP or we’ll shoot your dug

Torn betting slips

Rolls of fat

Am ah supposed to be scared of that?

Bolly ho

Hello sweeties

I know, I know. You have been beside your little selves with worry about my erstwhile whereabouts and well-being. Don’t think I am not touched darlings, I truly am. But worry ye not, rumours of my demise, much like Carol Vorderman’s bust, are greatly exaggerated. Mieow.

Oh the tittle tattle there has been about Lady P’s non-appearance on the social scene. Much more tittle than tattle let me tell you. Henny Throckmorton told me she’d heard I had absconded with a dashing Colombian drug baron and had been forced into being his sexual plaything. A scrumptious thought darlings but no more true than the vicious scuttlebutt that I had removed myself from society because I couldn’t find a suitable pair of shoes to wear. I tell you if I ever discover the monger of that particularly nasty piece of rumour then I will have their garters for guts and their lawyer licking my best Guccis.

No darlings, the truth is not as glamorous as the drug dealing Don Juan nor as ghastly as the prospect of Pandora shorn of suitable shoes. It is not something of which I am proud yet I have learned that neither is it something of which I should be ashamed. I am a victim. A victim of champagne.

Yes I, Lady Pandora Jammer of Jammer Hall in Buckinghamshire, have of late been resident in the Priory Clinic in the ghastly county of Essex. But why I hear you ask? Why you sensible Lady P who was never seen in an unfit state and only ever drank shampoo to be sociable and to supplement the enjoyment of others? Hard as it is to believe sweeties, there were those who thought that occasionally Lady P over-indulged.

It was my Aristotle, insisting that he was looking after my best interests, who declared that I was “a drunk, a tramp and an unfit mother.” He really does care for me you know.

Aristo said I should get me to the Priory and not return until Bollinger had at least replenished their European cellars. Such a dreadful bore darlings and really such an imposition when Henley and Wimbers had been in the offing. I hear tell that the All-England Club is forecasting a slump in profits because they had overstocked the Number One Shampoo bar. Such damnable cheek.

So it is that I have been wrapped in the most unflattering robes, munching on rabbit food and slurping nothing more inviting than — I can hardly bring myself to say it — mineral water. Apart that is from the Bolly and the Lambert & Butlers that young cousin Freddie managed to sneak past the guards. A lifesaver the little stud muffin was I tell you. Nor was it without danger to himself that he used his boyish charm to beguile the lesbian ogres — residents of Lesbania they may have been but they would have ridden poor Freddie’s chariot at the drop of a laurel leaf, believe you me.

Truly it was tough love darlings, as our American cousins insist on saying. Week after week after tortuous week with no more than the most meagre rations to sustain one. I hope that none of you ever have to experience the horror of having only two bottles of Bolly to last a week.

However the entire loathsome exercise has proved worthwhile. I am a stronger woman, more able to resist the temptations of the bottle, the tobacco weed and the flesh. More importantly, Aristo has restored my allowance and I’m back off the leash. Memo to Great Uncle Bollinger — whip those froggie peasants within an inch of their lives, Lady P is back on the scene and I’m going to celebrate my new temperate self by getting as palintoshed as a family of newts.

The girl is back in town!

PS One of the lesbian ogres at the Priory told me that Kate Winslett is a regular visitor. Apparentment, she likes to get lashed on rum and have the ogres spank her bare bottom with a cat o’ nine tails while screaming “Avast, me hearties, I’m a baaad girl”. Oui, c’est vrai. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

Ma Scotland

Pavements covered wi dog turd;

Pieces made wi lemon curd;

Drunken alkies, voices slurred;

Evening news by Jackie Bird,

Hanging oan her every word;

Ma Scotland.

Rain and wind, freezin cauld;

Slim Jim Baxter, Bertie Auld;

Hunners o’ wee men goin bald;

Sky Plus package been installed,

Hope the license van hisnae called;

Ma Scotland.

Bag o’ chips to romance her;

Fags and beer, oh ya dancer;

Every ned a Bengal Lancer;

World leader for lung cancer,

Doctors havnae got an answer;

Ma Scotland.

Deep-fried Mars bars on oor hearts;

Arbroath smokies, Border tarts;

Guid at snooker, guid at darts;

Wet, Wet Wet in the charts,

Whit a bunch of whining farts;

Ma Scotland.

Big Hen Broon still standing tall;

Wee wifies in the shopping maul;

Greggs the bakers, RS McCall;

Huns and Tims, bampots all,

Sectarianism’s always on the ball;

Ma Scotland.

Bowler-hatted marching Brits;

Carol Smillie’s threepenny bits;

Hairstyles worse than Robert Pritz;

Silicon Glen and empty pits,

Traditional industry left in bits;

Ma Scotland.