Telly ho

Hello sweeties

I was supposed to be at the opening of something last night. Dashed if I can remember what — a film, an art gallery, a bottle, an envelope. Who can keep up? (Not my Aristotle that’s for sure. If it weren’t for Viagra, I don’t think he could even raise a smile.)

Anyway as I was saying before I interrupted myself, I was due to attend some event or other that held promise of paparazzi, oodles of shampoo and enough dashing young men to light a lady’s candle at both ends. It should have been a memorable evening that I would happily have forgotten by the morning. But sadly it was not to be as some selfish beggar upped and died and the bally thing was cancelled.

Instead, I had to — darlings I can barely bring myself to say it — I had to stay in and watch television. How can poor people cope with having to do that every evening? It really is beyond me.

I watched EastEnders, which I believe is very popular, and it was nearly finished before I could make out what any of them were saying. Gosh isn’t it absolutely dreary? Horribly drab little people leading horribly drab little lives. So unrealistic. How can these people spend so much time in that scruffy little public house and still get work done? Truly, drink is the work of the cursing classes as dear old Oscar Wilde said.

To help me through the rigours of “telly watching” —as Marge, the lady who does for me, calls it — I naturally had to turn to the soothing qualities offered by Great Uncle Bollinger’s healing waters. If the poor people drank lashings of shampoo while they watched this tosh then it might almost be bearable for them. I really don’t know why more of them don’t try it.

Before long I was quite palintoshed, swearing at the goggle box like a trooper. Not terribly ladylike I must admit but have you seen the hogwash that is on there? There was salvation of a sort with a deliciously terrible programme called What Not To Wear where a couple of well-bred types called Skinny and Fat Anna make ugly people dress better. It’s a proper hoot.

Darlings I was laughing like a drain, I tell you. They dragged on these tasteless little trolls who looked like they had been dressed in the dark by blind idiots or held hostage by beggars. Then Skinny and Fat Anna made fun of them, poked them with sticks and called them lesbanians before dressing them up in the most ghastly creations and convincing them that they look lovely. Laugh? I nearly soiled the upholstery.

At the end they bring the trolls back on, newly decked out in Marks and Spencer’s finest tat and stand back in amazement at the transformation from council house trash to council house chic. All the while Skinny and Fat Anna are standing behind them sniggering and winking at the camera. Gosh you’ve got to love these gals. Well maybe not the fat one.

Talking of fashion faux pas, did you see that frightful Fergie stripped off for charity? The porky one wore nothing but a pair of darling Jimmy Choos that were most certainly not designed to adorn pig’s trotters. Uggh, pass the LSD and call me forgetful. Charity, my Aunt Belinda! That ginger trollop is keener to get her clothes off than your average rapist. Old velcro knickers, as the dear Queen Mum used to call her. Meiow.

Just time for a bit of skinny before I take my leave. Henny Throckmorton told me not to tell a soul but I know you won’t let it go any further. A certain socialite of our acquaint — no names, no pack drill but her initials are TPT — was seen congratulating the British athletics team at that bash in town on Monday. Henny says that TPT and the golden boys of the relay team were doing a spot of unauthorised baton changing that left the strumpette quite breathless. Word is that still wasn’t enough and la Tara was miffed that they only went round the once. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

Lady P

Tally ho

Hello sweeties

Gosh what a perfectly dreadful time it has been lately. London has been absolutely sardined with cousins from the country down here protesting about the horrid hunting ban. Now I adore spending time with the rosy-cheeked in-laws when I am in the sticks but town is town and country’s country. Darlings I do believe there hasn’t been so much tweed in the big smoke since they came down to pick up the ragamuffins during the Blitz. So I’m told by the elders.

I cannot blame them for getting so red in the face though. Well, redder. Those ghastly lefties are trying to ban something they simply don’t understand. How many of them know the joy of a good ride in the morning, the thrill of something powerful between your legs and an exciting climax? Bally few of them, that’s how many. In fact if old Teflon Tony knew that particular joy then we might all be better off.

Tristram Tuffington-Bart is organising an anti-anti-hunt ball down at his mother’s place and it should be a splendid evening. He says there will be a full-scale hunt through the old stately pile, except we will be chasing chaps dressed up as leftie Labourites and when we catch them we will whip them within an inch of their Bolshie lives. Pippi van Muflin, being soppy old Pippi, is worried that these poor coves might get hurt but Tristram says it’s ok because they will be local peasants who are only too happy to do it for £20, a glass of mulled wine and the chance of a glimpse of Lady Tuffer’s celebrated bosom.

There will be a collection for the Ferry Two — that silly oaf Otis and his drug-addled mother who got themselves up in front of the beak last week — and Johnny Roxburgh will be raffling off some of his hounds to raise bail money for anyone else who gets themselves nickered, or whatever the expression is that the working classes use. First prize is two slobbering foxhounds guaranteed to rip your postman’s arm off and shake him like a rag-doll. Second prize is four dogs. Mieow.

Oh and there will be lashings and lashings of shampoo. Do you really think I’d go to the trouble of being driven all the way down to Hampshire if there wasn’t a shipload of Bolly to make the thing bearable? Darlings, you should know Lady P better than that. Much as I adore being in the saddle, it hardly compares to the bliss of Bolly. God put peasants on this earth to pick grapes and it would be pretty churlish of their betters not to fully enjoy the sweaty labours of the rustics. Bottom’s up.

Of course, the lefties don’t understand the joy of champers — they are all brown ale, sandwiches and overactive armpits. So how can these heathens possibly understand hunting — or the beautiful game as Tristram T-B calls it? They think it is just a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces. Such poppycock. It is a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces and then they can enjoy a good bucket of Bolly after it. The Labourites just can’t understand the difference. No proper upbringing, you see

Mind you darlings, a decent upbringing is no guarantee of class. Every stately home has a tradesman’s entrance, as my old aunt Agatha used to say. Take that slutlette Tara Palmer-Tomkinson for example. She is as close to Royalty as Camilla’s cat but as near to the gutter as a tramp at the theatre.

She’s been ballyhooing it with the rest of them about hunting but I happen to know that she’s never been on a horse in her life. She has a fizzog like Shergar and has had more rides than Lester Piggott but she wouldn’t know a bridle from a groom. In fact, Henny’s brother Marcus rides out with the Beaufort and he tells me that la P-T is always first in the queue for the riding crops but never swings her leg over anything that can’t ask for Vaseline and gin. Oh, did I say that out loud?

So there you have it. If the lefties have their way and ban a perfectly innocent pastime like hunting then all the riding crops, whips and knee-length leather boots will be left at the disposal of Tara P-T and her nymphosexual chums. Do you really want that, chaps?

Toodlepip

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

Footballers Lives

Hello sweeties

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.

Toodlepip.

Commons

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

Princess Diana

Hello sweeties

It’s party time yet again and I have drunkled shampoo from Penzance to Pinner in an Amazonian effort to bring you all the skinny of the season. And believe me darlings, a girlie of my repute should not be in Pinner unless kidnapped by a gang of asylum seeking rapists. Ah the things a girl must do for some luscious gossip and a bucket of bubbly.

But oh was it worth it. Skinny? Positively anorexic, darlings.

You will have read in the ghastly tabloids that Diana, queen of tarts was preggers when she died. I know that’s hardly stop-press goss, it’s news that is colder than Camilla’s knickers. No darlings the hot news is waaay better than that. Oh such skinny.

I’ll tell you but you must promise not to breathe a word of it to a soul. I swore to Henny Throckmorton that I wouldn’t tell anyone so really you musn’t.

Well anyway, Henny says Pippi Van Muflin knows a gal who knows the strumpette’s old gyno and he told her that the father of the unborn was not old Dodi Fayed at all. Noooooo.

It seems that Professor Prod was doing his annual poking around inside Diana, something not unknown in gentlemen of her acquaintance, when he discovered that she was up the duff. Heavens to Queen Betsy. A quick count and a look through her blondeness’s diary gave no clearer clue to the identity of the owner of the seed in question. Di was able to narrow it down to 14 but apparently it could have been any one of the touring Harlem Globetrotters, substitutes included. Oh did I say that out loud?

Diana wracked the recesses of her brain — a process which could not have taken very long at all — but the poor trollop couldn’t be sure which of the studmuffin basketballers had been guilty of a double dribble. All she knows is one of them scored with a shot from outside the circle.

Darlings if what I’ve heard is true then it’s likely that the luscious tall boy will have put it into the ring off the backboard. Each to their own sweeties, who am I to judge?

Anyway, Henny says Diana only took up with the Fayed chap because she wanted someone who had a touch of the old tar brush. That way no-one would be surprised when the sprogling came out a bit on the dark side. You have to give the silly old tart a bit of credit for thinking on her feet. Especially when she was much more used to being on her back. Mieow.

Can you imagine Her Maj’s fizzog if the trampette ex daughter-in-law had given birth to a seven foot tall son of the Commonwealth? Not that he would be that tall when he was born — my Bolly that would have brought tears to Diana’s eyes, even with the amount of practice she has had at opening wide.

Not that I am blaming her for having a healthy appetite or being in the saddle more often than the Household Cavalry. The poor gal often went hungry because Charlie preferred to use the servant’s pantry or follow his valet through the lavender passageway. A girl’s got to eat.

So darlings, next time someone talks about Di being preggers then for goodness sake don’t mention my name but maybe just snigger a bit and start whistling Sweet Georgia Brown. She had a ball, she’s in a basket.

Toodlepip

Auntie Joanna

Hello sweeties

I speak to you this week as a woman shocked and angry. No, Fortnum and Mason haven’t messed up my Bolly order again, thank heaven. I am really quite peeved at this latest media kerfuffle about the Royals.

It’s bad enough when the ghastly guttersnipes among the red-tops try to spark revolution by bad-mouthing our Royal family but now we have a supposedly superior journal trying to do the same. The lentil crunching lefties that run the Guardian have scurried off to court, pleading to be allowed to print a tissue of scurrilous truths.

I know what you are thinking. It’s just Lady P sticking up for her own. And while that is very sweet of you, I am not, despite all appearances au contraire, actually bona fide royalty. We’re not exactly related but you know how it is, lots of their family have rogered lots of mine and we exchange Christmas cards with the ones we admit to.

However I do have delicious skinny by the gilded carriage load that I could share with you if I were the kind of gal that soiled other people’s finery in public. And, as you know, I am.

Pour exemple, Henny Throckmorton was at Buck House a couple of years back and says they were all sitting around watching the goggle box when Absolutely Fabulous came on. There was La Lumley flashing her leathery old tart skin and suddenly you could have cut the air with a ceremonial sword. Then up pips one of Fergie’s little retards, “Oh look, there’s Auntie Joanna on the television.”

Apparently Philip nearly choked on his ouzo while Her Maj had that look she always got when told that the dear old Queen Mum had wet the bed yet again. Henny says Philip disappeared to his club muttering about how he’d told Andrew he should have got that ginger slut sterilised when he had the chance.

The silly thing is that people think the Windsors are boring old fuddy-duddies but that’s utter tosh. There’s more jiggy-jiggy in the Palace than in the Playboy Mansion on viagra discount day. Put it this way sweeties, in well-informed circles Buck House is strictly rhyming slang.

If it’s not the family and each other then it’s the family and the staff, the staff and the guests, the Queen and visiting heads of state; they are at it like royal rabbits darlings. It’s hardly surprising there’s been one or two teensy-weensy mix-ups over the years — with so much seed flying about some of it was always likely to end up in the wrong bed. So just because Andrew was the product of a bit of employer-staff relations is no reason for Philip to love him any less than his real children — actually the Greek does hate Andy’s garters but only because he’s a fat-headed duffer not because he’s an equerry’s bastardling.

It’s the same with this latest nonsense about “a senior royal and a member of the household staff”. Such a horrid hullabaloo about a bit of harmless fun designed to maintain harmonious relations between a future king and his people. Oh did I say that out loud?

Well honestly darlings, everyone knows it was Charles so why should I keep my mouth closed? Mind you, if he had kept his closed there wouldn’t be so much ghastly commotion. Henny tells me the chap wasn’t called the head footman for nothing — absolutely prodigious spanner by all accounts.

As you know I am not in favour of sodomites, a perfect waste of some scrummily lovely bodkins if you ask me, but whatever they get up to in the privacy of their own palace is up to them. And anyway, they don’t call them manservants for nothing. Mieow.

So I say lay off the Windsors. They are just an ordinary family with some super houses and a peculiar taste in clothes. Every family tree has a few bad apples held by skeletons in cupboards, if you get my driftwood. It’s just that Buck House has bigger cupboards than most.

So get off Charles’ back, that’s his servant’s job. Joking, Charlie darling, joking.

Toodlepip

Mrs George Best

Hello sweeties

Have you heard? The skinny blonde strumpet who was this month’s Mrs George Best has given the old boy the boot. Poor Georgie.

Now if you are looking for some inside skinny on Georgie from Lady P then you must remember that a girl doesn’t kiss and tell. Luckily for you kissing was about the only thing that Georgie and I didn’t do together.

We first met in Carnaby Street in the early seventies. I was trying to squeeze into a pair of Zandra Rhodes tie-dyed jeans and he was trying to squeeze into the salesgirl. Until he saw me that was. Irrestistible darlings.

He seemed to think that just because he was some big shot footballer type and had rogered every Miss World since 1967 that I would simply drop my Janet Reiger at the merest suggestion of a hard tackle. As it happened I did but I gave him a proper ticking off for assuming. The little darling promised me some extra time to make up for it and a girl would have been rude to say no.

Back then Georgie really was simply the best — a Beatle in a jockstrap, a studmuffin in studs and hang the state of the sheets in the morning. He could quaff nearly as much Bolly as yours truly and still manage to perform to first division standards. He could be completely bluttered and still manage a hat-trick. Yummy scrummy.

The only problem with Georgie’s game was that he was all too keen to tackle from behind and I had to rule him offside on more than a few occasions. The naughty little pixie.

I bumped into Georgie a few times over the years but never horizontally again. There was always this strumpette or that drunk Viscount and we never got round to a replay after those first few memorable matches. Until a few months back.

I spotted him sipping on a special mineral water at a launch for La Lawson’s latest slut cookbook and tottered over to say hello. If I say so myself sweeties I was looking particularly fetching in a rather darling pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos and a Stella McCartney bodyhugger. I don’t know if it was me or the Mickey Finn that was making him drool but either way the poor man didn’t stand a chance.

He was ever so slightly schindlers — well absolutely tashered to be honest — but it didn’t stop the old rogue from inviting me to take a trip down memory lane aboard the Georgie train. Well what’s a girl to do?

Darlings I don’t think I’ve been so disappointed since I found out that Santa Claus was on the sex offenders register. Years of devoted loyalty to Great Uncle Bollinger and his champagne cousins seems to have taken its toll on poor Georgie’s corner flag. Grand stand? Not even extended highlights.

A girl could have taken it personally but darling George admitted it wasn’t the first time recently that he had failed to score even when presented with an open goal. He couldn’t even manage a dribble.

Darlings that’s why I urge you all to be kind to Georgie and to the poor, sweet, loyal slut that stood by him for so long. No wonder the woman looks so terribly miserable all the time, she has had to resort to fiddling on the bench for so long that she has forgotten what it is like to have a forward burst into her box. Oh did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

New Shoes

Hello sweeties

You may have read in the better newspapers that it is becoming popular for ladies with a dedication to fashion to have their little toes removed in order to wear decent shoes. And why not indeed?

There’s been heaps of predictable brouhaha from bleeding-heart liberals about bleeding-footed fashion victims but really darlings it is just such tosh. If a girl wants to squeeze into a slim Manolo Blahnik but has a foot like a blacksmith’s daughter, what is she to do? Wear a pair of Clarks? I don’t think so.

If a girl can’t wear a pair of decent shoes she’d be as well throwing herself off the nearest tall building, joining a convent or going on a date with John Leslie. Life just wouldn’t be worth living. What’s the point of having five toes if you can’t slip them into something gorgeous?

I know a couple of gals of my acquaint who have been under the scalpel in order to make the slipper fit. Pippi van Muflin had both of her littlest tootsies removed — she had them sent off to Iraqi orphans who had tragically lost limbs in the great war — so that she could wear a darling pair of Jimmy Choo’s to a bash at Henny Throckmorton’s. Imagine her delight when she got there to see Kate Winslett wearing a pair of shoes as wide as lifeboats on the Titanic. La Winslett is a ten-toed girl if I ever I saw one. Mieow.

My young cousin Marina — Tufty Trumpton’s eldest — had half of each little toe removed but that is so typical of the wretched girl. She is so timid that she still hasn’t allowed so much as a single footman to turn her eider down. Her maman, the peroxide strumpette Deila herself, has hired the most scrumptious stud-muffins that money can buy but the idiot girl remains a resident of Virginia. Tufty fears she is saving herself for her younger brother Ralph but I hear he’s been going through the downstairs maids like Sars through a Chinese restaurant.

Anyway darlings, toes. Personally I am fortunate enough to have feet so slim they could slip effortlessly into any glass footwear presented by gay footmen sent around on behalf of a charming prince of the realm. It’s all thanks to centuries of fine breeding and a nanny who was once gainfully employed at the home of several Japanese geishas. Ah, the many uses I’ve had for those bandages ever since.

That’s not to say I wouldn’t partake of some corrective surgery if it were necessary darlings. If the black day ever dawned that I could not persuade any barman south of Leicester to fill up my glass of bubbly with little more than a flutter of my lashes and the promise of unnatural sex then I’d be under the knife before you could say Dr Bollinger. A girl must retain her charm.

Just last week I had to have an offending digit removed and believe you me, Alastair Campbell won’t try that again in a hurry. You would have thought the scruffy oik would have had enough trouble with the Kelly probe without trying one of his own. I told anyone who would listen about him being the Prime Minister’s official pokesman and he quickly scurried back to his drain. Did I say that out loud? I certainly did.

Oh darlings, how time flies. I’ve barely time to tell you the skinny about the scrumdiddlyumptious Prince William and his flight to Africa last week. Well a little birdie tells me that his passage was eased by two very helpful stewardesses and as luck would have it that isn’t illegal in the country they were flying over at the time. There’s been lots of fuss of about Wills and the dik-dik but from what I hear his highness is so well-off that just one word wouldn’t cover it. If I ever confirm that at first hand then be sure that you will be the first to know.

Toodlepip.

Lady P

Tim Henman

Oh darlings, isn’t it so terribly sad? Poor little Timmy Henman has been foiled yet again in his quest to win Wimbers. Trust the flaming French to spoil things.

I was so sure that Timmy was going to do it this time that I had even cancelled my annual Roger Taylor memorial party that I had planned for Sunday evening. Once a year a group of us girlies get together and swap stories about our time with Britain’s last great tennister. Of course I couldn’t possibly tell you what we got up to with him but let’s just say he wasn’t called Roger for nothing.

Every year we have lashings of Pimms, remember those glorious strokes and dream of rain delays. Dear old Roger had a marvellous racquet with a particularly impressive shaft. He could lob his balls from the back of the court and return time after time. Love fifteen? I should cocoa.

Timmy on the other hand is far too much of a mummy’s boy to possibly be a grand slam. He always looks like he’s been caught dreaming about Anna Kournikova and is desperately trying to bring up the covers.

It’s still a dreadful shame though. If Timmy had won it would have been like the Last Night of the Proms, the Queen’s Jubilee and the sinking of the Belgrano all rolled into one. Imagine how pickled and patriotic we’d all have been once the shampoo began flowing. Darlings I’d have been so bluttered I’d have happily bonked old rubbery faced Sue Barker in the middle of centre court.

Talking of La Barker, there has been much scurrilous skinny about how she could have represented Lesbania in the Federation Cup thingy but I happen to know that at the very least she had dual nationality. Penny Piper-Evans’ brother Lance said that when he was 16 La Barker had him over the net. Hungrier than a marmoset in a trap by all accounts. Mieow.

Her animalistic urges is one reason why I could never understand the tattle about her and old Cliff Richard being an item. If those two were playing mixed doubles then I’ll wear last season’s shoes with a Gucci strapless. I’m sure sweet Cliffie has nothing against La Barker except that she is the wrong sex, about 34 years too old and won’t fit into a ball boy’s uniform. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Funny but even though there was lots of rain at Wimbers this year, they didn’t wheel out Sir Cliffie to sing to the troops. Charlie Throckmorton tells me it’s because he much prefers Queen’s these days. And Charlie should know — such a disappointment to a girl. I once canoodled up to him after getting Brahms on the Bolli, only to find he was limper than a Sainsbury lettuce. New balls please.

Toodlepip