Butlers

Well sweeties! Aren’t the ghastly red-tops having fun with the butler and his boisterous bedroom behaviour?

Your ring m’Lord? Meiow.

Henny Throckmorton stayed over at the Windsor’s once and was so disgusted at not getting rogered by the staff that she nearly asked for her money back. She says it was the first time she had ever asked a footman for a nightcap and actually got a drink. The poor darling nearly fainted. Henny said there were sweet uniformed stud muffins at every corner but each and every one were limper than Peter Lilley’s majority. Honestly, there’s nothing more horribly disappointing than a fanciable footman who prefers to use the tradesmen’s entrance. But I simply cannot see how anyone could be surprised at the sudden if admittedly forceful realisation that there is more than one queen at the pink palace. How green was that valet? Nor can I find any simpers in my soul for the frightful Burrell chap. He spilled the beans on the Spencer trampette so he can hardly complain when someone blabs about his own free-time frolics. A case of the biter bit methinks. Or the pillow-biter bit as the case may be. Meiow.

I was at the Bush-Cheneys for the weekend and the jungle drums were beating non-stop about butlers, Barrymore and bottom drawers. Virginia Bishen-Bedi said she thought two of her men might be a bit light on their livery but I happen to know that nothing could be further from the truth. Oh darlings, thank goodness not every servant is a sodomite. Scrumdiddlyumptious I can tell you. Later we were talking about which of the top family were most likely to be visiting the valet in the middle of the night. Admittedly I’d had a tankful of Bolly but I could swear that Octavius Markham said the old Queen Mum had a liking for Lady’s Fingers.

Oops! Did I say that out loud? Toodlepip

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