Hello darlings
Sometimes seeking out the skinny on the social scene is more than one can possibly bear. To the uninitiated it may seem one endless round of parties, premieres, popstars and poppers. And well I suppose it is. But at other times it can be such a ghastly chore that I have even been known to contemplate getting a job.
Only kidding.
Yet sometimes the demands of looking impossibly gorgeous for the craparazzi can take its toll even on those of us whose skin tones are naturally lustrous. Sometimes having to deal with the sort of unpleasant Johnny-come-lately nouveau riche ruffians that think a shampoo glass needn’t be filled to the brim is just too much. Sometimes the penne isn’t quite al dente yet the catering manager refuses to have the pasta chef taken out and shot. Sometimes it’s just like that.
Last night for example I was presenting an award at some television awards bash — the Evening Standard’s prize for best afternoon chat show not featuring live actors but with occasional nudity. Now you know I would normally have nothing to do with daytime TV — the unemployed being entertained by the unemployable — but I’d bought a darling little Alexander McQueen number that positively screamed “Wear Me Now You Magnificent Bitch” so I thought I may as well.
Darlings I’ve never made such a bad choice since I let Angus Deayton do The Hunt For Red October at charades. One could hardly move for bulimic soap actresses fending off arthritic actors with sweaty hands. I swear those stick girls halve their weight when they take their make-up off.
If that wasn’t bad enough I had to endure the agony of watching those scrum-diddly-gorgeous little Geordie chaps Ant and Dec fawning all over that old hag Joanna Lumley as if she was the last upper-class trollop left in the world. Which she isn’t. If it wasn’t for a shipload of the old shampoo I’d barely have been able to stomach the thought of the cheeky chappies playing good cop, bad cop with La Lumley. Such a waste, those lovely young cowboys tanning that leathered hide. Meiow.
And to pile on the agony, not only does the absolutely-not-fabulous one get a personal visit to biker grove but I — oh I can hardly bring myself to reveal it — I danced the dance of four vowels with Richard Whitely. Yes darlings I who once showed that Tom Cruise was no mission impossible was reduced to being a notch on the scoreboard of a man who wears comedic ties. A conundrum indeed.
Needless to say I was completely befuggered at the time, why else would I entertain the advances of this pompous fatty if not being utterly reek-ho. Even tashered as I was I am quite convinced he must have had the additional aid of rohypnol or another of those dastardly, if occasionally useful, date rape drugs.
You would be forgiven for thinking it could be no worse but imagine the depths of my degradation as he cried out, “Another consonant, please Carol!” as he reached his own personal break while I had still not reached the numbers game. The only saving grace is that he could not live up to his repulsive nickname of Twice Nightly Whitely but rather proved to be One Quicky Dickie. Oh did I say that out loud?
Toodlepip darlings