My what a terrible kerfuffle over those beastly football chaps who have been locked up in Spain. The molesters from Leicester as Hotwire Harry my driver called them this morning.
I don’t read the ghastly tabloids myself of course but Harry tells me that the molesters broke into the rooms of some unsuspecting young maidens and forced themselves upon them. Darlings I would not normally condone violent retribution of any sort but I really do think that these chaps should have their tackle banned.
Harry tells me that one of the ruffians is named Dickov and I think that is a very good idea indeed. I am led to believe that a pair of rusty shears does the job splendidly.
Now my lawyer, dear old Mr Brocket, says that I shouldn’t simply assume that they did it and that it’s terribly important I don’t say they are guilty in these little memoirs de moi. Well stopcocks to that I say. If they are like any other football players whose acquaint that I have been unfortunate enough to make then they are as guilty as Michael Jackson in a kindergarten with the curtains closed. (Mr Brocket says I can’t say Jackson is guilty either but paedophile is as paedophile does as Henny always says.)
Hang the shits from the roof of the opera house and don’t spare La Traviata.
One of the most unfortunate consequences of the modern age is that these football johnnies have all suddenly become squillionaires without the necessary background or breeding to know how to carry it off. If their families had spent a generation or two shooting peasants or stealing land from robber barons then they might have the decorum to sup lobster consommé without feeling the urge to fart the theme tune from Flipper.
It means that the likes of myself, to the manor born as it were, has to mix socially with young men whose idea of class is to sniff their charlie off a platinum credit card. Or even worse, wear Versace. Uggh.
Many a time I have attended a superior social soiree only to have it completely ruined by a selection of footballer chaps widdling in the fountain or rogering their way through the attendant posse of television weather girls. Darlings, you didn’t hear it from me but old orange-skinned Sian Lloyd has entertained more footballers than the brass band that plays before the cup final. Oh did I say that out loud?
Not so long back I was speaking to two of those nice young men from Manchester United and admittedly I was ever so slightly spongolled on account of having shipped a raft of Great Uncle Bollinger’s finest shampoo. So when they suggested that I might like a roast I naturally imagined they were inviting me for Sunday lunch. Ulrika! Was a girl ever so misled? Apparently it is quite the done thing among footballers these days but I’d never felt so violated since Richard Whitely dripped sweat over my best Via Spigas.
Now if you ask me it is quite unnatural for these young chaps to want to share a lady in this manner. I realise that they are used to performing in front of a crowd but I do have to wonder if they are not ever so slightly manosexual. Finella Funell’s cousin Jeremy used to overly enjoy team games at Harrow and he’s now singing in the chorus of Les Mis. His poor mother is quite distraught but it doesn’t stop her blagging tickets for West End shows.
So not only are the Leicester molesters guilty (sorry Mr Brocket) but they are almost certainly as gay as Christmas in Elton John’s house. Darlings this of course does not make them bad people, some of my best friends are hairdressers — I say friends, I of course mean retainers. But for them to pretend to be macho football types yet really be longing to bite the bye-line is just too much.
So throw away the key Senor Judgarista and rust up the shears. They won’t be needing their balls in prison.