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

Tight Squeeze

I was rigging up a dishwasher for a family down Ronald Place last week. Don’t know why he couldn’t just have bought her a pair of pink Marigold gloves and saved himself a few quid but who am I to argue.

In fact he’d have saved himself a good few quid more if he’d been there instead of his missus. Moaned from start to flippin finish she did. My rule of thumb is add another 20 knicker to the bill for every time someone gets up me nose and this witch cost herself a fortune. I think she must have had the painters in.

Not that she really had the painters in because doing that at the same time as the plumber would have been silly. No, I think she was on her mental cycle. It’s the only think that could have explained her being such a pain in the Jeffrey.

Imagine getting on her high horse just cos I ran a lead off the washing machine and her smalls ended up cleaning her knives and forks. Picky mare.

Mind you she did also have the teenager from Hell’s kitchen living with her as well so it was no wonder she was intemperated. The bratling was this skinny blonde thing with a hankie making do for a skirt. Blimey such a short skirt would have been all right if she filled out a bit but I think she was that arachnaphobic way. Terrible so it is but I don’t see why they can’t just make her eat some pies.

So I had the moaning mother moaning in one ear and Lolita stick insect squawking in the other. How’s a man supposed to do a proper job when he can’t hear himself think about ways of turning the VAT into ready cash? I’ve got professional standards to meet you know.

Next thing the mother disappears and the teenager starts asking me how big my wrench is. Flippin eck — there’s no way I want to end up doing backing vocals for Gary Glitter and Pete Townshend so I told her it could slip through a 5/8 washer and she slung her hook. My old gaffer always told me never to put something too big inside something too small or you would end up in more hot water than you can handle. And, as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life.

Anyways, about the thing I wanted to tell you about. Once Lady Macbeth and the six-stone slapper pushed off out of the way I got into the trap under the kitchen floor to feed up the strainer basket. Blimey if I didn’t find five hundred knicker in used readies hidden in the hole. Result. Merry Crimbo, Mrs Plumb. I couldn’t have been more surprised if Saddam Hussein had popped his head out and sang Take Me I’m Yours. Actually that’s not so unlikely when you think about it.

My first thought was they might be drug dealers but there was woodchip on the walls and no bling bling round the arachnaphobic’s neck so I ruled that one out. Best guess was the old man had won it on the nags and was hiding it from the old cow so he could spend it on someone who moaned less. Or more.

He’d never miss it for months and what’s more he could hardly go tell her about it now could he? Anyways theft is nine tenths of the law.

So I’m thinking Mrs Plumb might just get that diamante thong she wanted after all. Then I’m thinking an extra large sets you back a good few more spondulicks and a monkey doesn’t go as far as it did. So I’m thinking about following the geezer’s example and putting the entire monkey on a pony. Investment.

I pick out this nag called Tight Squeeze. Can’t lose I reckon. Then I see this tip for an animal called Jack Pot 2. Kiss Me Kate I thinks to meself, must be fate. A second jackpot is just what the optician ordered. Flippin third it was.

Oh well, easy come easy went. A pair of Marks and Spencers cotton finest for Mrs P. Blimey.

Plumb On

Peter Plumb

Princess Diana and the Paparazzi

It’s enough to make me bleedin blood boil, it really is.

Three froggie paparazzi have just got away with taking pictures of our Princess Diana, God bless her, on the night she died. It’s flippin misbelievable.

These so-called photographers chase the poor, lovely woman to her death, hound her into an underground grave, and they don’t even get their cameras taken off them. Sick, that’s what it is. To make things worser they didn’t even show us the photos. Just makes the whole thing a waste of time, so it does.

Trust the flippin frogs to let the craparazzi away with this kind of intrusionism. Them judges probably did it just to noise up old Mr Al Fayed because he’s English-ish. If he’d been another frog they’d have locked them up and thrown away the secret password.

I mean to say, what’s the world coming to when a lovely lady like Di can’t go out for the night without some geezer shoving his long lens in her face? Did they expect her just to swallow that? Course not, she’s a lady. Well, she was.

These photographers, these snotarazzi, they just don’t care about people’s privacy. Diana never asked to be famous, she just wanted to marry a prince, go to film premieres, clear landmines and generally be an angel to the world. And maybe a saintess. She never asked anyone to take her photo. Well, not often.

But oh no. The craparazzi took her picture whether she liked it or not. And they didn’t always take her best side like she asked them to neither. Drove her to the grave they did. Well technically the blotto froggie chauffeurist drove her but you know what I mean.

They should have been up for first degree homicide if you ask me. Guilty as charged your honour, on with the black cap and off with their heads. Treason is still a bleedin hanging offence and that’s what it was. Don’t give me any rubbishness about them being Frenchies and so it doesn’t count. Our Royals is royals everywhere so treason it is.

Hang them up by their camera straps, gag them with one of James Hewitt’s old jockstraps and beat them about the back with a pair of Will Carling’s rugby boots. Let them dangle until they smell — they are Frenchies so it shouldn’t take long — then feed them to a pack of slavering foxhounds that haven’t had a good meal since the lefties banned hunting. Then shoot the buggers.

It may sound harsh but it’s no more or lesser than they deserve. You can’t go around taking pictures of everyday famous people and make their chauffeurist drunk so that they crash their car and not expect to get shot. Stands to reason.

Imagine if I was putting in a new sink for old Mrs Grant in Bell Street and decided just to take a photo of her as she was coming out of the shower wearing nothing more than a smear of shampoo. Actually don’t, it’s too bleedin horrible. But she wouldn’t be flippin happy would she? Nor me come to that, blimey.

But my old gaffer always told me that if I was going to stick my nose in somewhere it shouldn’t be then I was likely to get it covered in crap. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life. The snotarazzi have stuck their noses in where they shouldn’t be so they should get their apertures cut off. Stands to reason.

Diana for saintess. Photographers for the Bastille.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb.

George W Bush

Just yesterday I was fitting a new s-bend for a woman in Richmond Place. I say ‘new’ it was actually a bit second hand and had spent the previous ten years of its existence in a flat round the corner. I say ‘woman’ but I’m not completely bleedin sure it wasn’t her husband in an Irish jig and her best Dorothy Perkins frock. I was a bit suspectful from the off but the toilet seat was up and the room smelled like a Turkish whore had spent the previous night drinking Guinness. People these days.

Anyways, this customer — either Mrs Morgan or her light-loafered man — was telling me how it was a flippin disgrace that President George W was coming to have tea with the Queen. On account of him being a murdering, warmongering, cheating, lying son of a murdering, warmongering etc etc.

Now I wasn’t having any of that. The customer may always be right — that’s complete bollocks obviously — but I wasn’t going to sit there making a five minute job last just over an hour while someone slagged off the man who saved us from Saddam Hussein and his 45 minute boil-in-the-bag nuclear weapons.

All this bollocks about President George being a war mad daftie who doesn’t know his nuclear arsenal from his elbow is a bit unfair. Okay so he’s not Brain of Britain, well he couldn’t be could he, but he isn’t a complete idiot. Not really.

Okay so he’s not so hot on geography or history and he has a hard time speaking English proper but then it’s not his first language. He’s American, you know. But he’s not a complete buffoon. I bet he’d do really well on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Well, The Price is Right at the very least.

And the loopy lefties like Mr or Mrs Morgan can moan all they want about President George blowing the bejeezus out of Baghdad but where would they be today if he hadn’t? Well, okay they’d be in the same place and nothing would be different except a lot more people would be alive but that’s not the point. Sometimes democracy means you have to kill a lot of innocent people whether there is a reason or not.

So I told all this to Mrs Morgan — and probably to Mr Morgan as well — and she/he ranted on about how George had made up all that stuff about Saddam and his weapons. Well, so what? If he’d told the truth then obviously no-one would have wanted to go to war with the towel heads so he had to make it up. That’s what politics is all about. I’m afraid Mrs Morgan was just too stupid a man to understand all that though.

She kept banging on about democracy as if that was something available to the likes of him. But there’s always a price to be paid for democracy and in Mrs Morgan’s case it was a hundred quid surcharge for being a prat. That’s not quite how I phrased it on the invoice of course, cracked soldering or something.

You see what the likes of Mr Morgan doesn’t understand is that America is the greatest democracy in the world. And the 47 per cent of Americans who voted for President George will testify to that. So although Mr Morgan may say that size doesn’t matter (Mrs Morgan probably has a different view) it surely does. As my old gaffer used to say, never use a small mallet when a flippin great sledgehammer will do. It looks good, scares the crap out of anyone watching and you can charge five times the price for a clean-up operation. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Plumb on President George.

Plumb on.

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

Channel 4

Did you see that Derren Brown geezer do that Russian Roulette thing on Channel 4 the other night? Flipping brilliant it was. The only slight disappointment was that the smug git didn’t blow his brains out but you can’t have everything.

You’ve got to hand it to Channel 4 though. They may be purveyors of porn and servers of smut but they’ve got their faults as well. How’s this for a bit of TV scheduling? Death of a Scientist (about Dr David Kelly killing himself) followed by Derren Brown Plays Russian Roulette Live. Brilliant. I’m sure Mrs Kelly would have been tickled at their sense of irony.

You know what’s coming next though. In the fine tradition of Channel 4 programming we can soon expect Celebrity Russian Roulette. If it worked for Big Brother, Fame Academy and Survivor then why not personalities shooting themselves?

It will be a riot. Six celebrities, one gun, five bullets. Last man standing gets the Christmas Number One and a new chat show. The other five get their old programmes repeated and a celebrity funeral.

And let’s face it there’s no shortage of giant egos who are just dying to get their faces on the telly — even if their faces will be covered in blood.

What about Barrymore? The old singing shirtlifter can’t get a gig anywhere else on television so I can’t see him turning down the chance of a comeback. He keeps telling us he’s had a bum rap (oh no, that was the bloke in his swimming pool wasn’t it) so let’s get him on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me the Empty Chamber and see if he can dodge another bullet.

And how about that poncey designer bloke, that Laurence Llewellyn Bummer. Oh how good would it be to see that lanky streak of pink put a gun to his girlie hair and pull the trigger? Better than a clearance sale at B&Q. Even if he did spray the walls with his blood and brains it would be better than the colours he normally chooses.

They normally have a sportsman on these celebrity things but if we can’t manage that then get Tim Henman on. This time we could happily shout “Come on, Tim” and really mean it. Of course you know what would happen, the sap would get through to the last four then cack himself like he normally does.

We need a woman as well, if only to make the tea and keep things tidy. I’d suggest Mrs Plumb but she’s not a celebrity and anyway you’d never hear the gun go off over the sound of her nagging. I reckon that fat cow Clarissa Dickson Wright would fit the bill. Did you read that she is going to be in Absolutely Fabulous and said she’d be a sexy blonde in a white basque. Nearly lost me flipping lunch. Give her a gun.

My next choice would be that Welsh newsreader bloke with the stupid ties. You know, that Huw Edwards. Can’t understand a bleeding word he says. Yakki da, bang, now here’s the weather. Anyway, he always said he wanted to be the next Jill Dando.

But they should really pull out all the stops and get Tony Blair to complete the line-up. They should put no bullets in the gun and have him swear blind that there are loads of them. But funny as that would be it would be much funnier if they put a bullet in every chamber and see if the slimy git can worm his way out of that one. I swear if they put that on the telly I might even pay my licence fee.

You see, it’s all about giving people what they want. Any apprentice still wet behind his arse will tell you that if the bloke in number eight wants a new angle stop then you give him a new angle stop even if it’s his diverter which has gone pear-shaped. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Come on Channel 4, pull the plug on Countdown and give Richard Whitely the bullet. The public will love you for it.

Plumb on.

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

Jeffrey Archer released

Wasn’t it nice to see Lord Archer being released from prison on Monday? The poor man should never have been locked up with common criminals but at least now he can indulge in his own pleasure rather than her Majesty’s.

To put a proper lord like Lord Jeffrey away for trying to pervert the course of justice is an outrage.

Just because the man jumped a rather ugly prostitute doesn’t in itself make him a pervert. Clearly he has the sexual drive of a natural athlete and Lady Mary, being a proper Englishwoman, doesn’t think it right to cater for his every need. So where else is his lordship going to relieve himself other than his secretaries, social acquaintances, young party workers, prostitutes and the occasional roll with Iain Duncan Doughnut? He’s only human.

Then they try to give him a hard time for trying to make some money. He’s a millionaire —making money is his job. Imagine where I’d be if I went round fixing people’s plumbing for free. Actually don’t imagine it, it’s just too bleeding horrible. Okay so when Lord Jeffrey raises money for charity he keeps a few million quid for himself, so what? How do you think he got to be a squillionaire in the first place? Those moaning gits with cancer or no legs should be grateful that a man like Viscount Jeffrey spends his time raising hundreds of pounds for them.

The people who are hounding Baron Archer are just jealous and to be fair there’s a lot to be jealous about. He was an Olympic athlete and would almost certainly have won the 100 metres if they hadn’t insisted on him starting at the same time as everyone else. He was a fabulously successful businessman until some prat ruled embezzlement was illegal and he had to start again. He was irresistible to the most beautiful women that money or prescribed drugs could buy until their husbands or the national press found out. See what I mean, jealousy at every bleeding turn.

And his books, fantastic every one of them. Many a time I’ve locked someone out of their own bathroom while I read one of Sir Jeffrey’s books while occasionally hitting a wrench off something noisy. You can’t beat an Archer at £75 an hour. Sometimes I’ve even read them right to the end without skipping a few chapters or thinking that I’ve read this somewhere else before.

There really should be laws to stop the press talking about Earl Archer the way they do. To call him a liar, a cheat, a crook, a prossie jumping pervert, an oily little creep who you would happily see burning in eternity with an umbrella up his jacksie —it’s just wrong. How can they get away with saying he is a lying, pompous, shag-anything-that-doesn’t-move, arrogant little shit who should be stoned to death by nuns with bad breath? Surely some of that is libellous?

Imagine where I’d be if people could just write that I’d overcharged for fixing a tap, or took six days to fit a washing machine just because the lady of the house looked like she might offer more than a cup of tea, or said that I might occasionally have charged for fitting some nice new parts when actually I put in some fittings that I’d reclaimed from the job before? Actually don’t imagine it, it’s just too bleeding horrible.

Sir Jeffrey is now a free man and can now enjoy the things that the rest of us take for granted — like fresh air, a walk in the park or bending down in the shower without worry. Everyone should now get off his back.

I’ve always said that a rule of fitting a good shower is that you should be able to reach for the soap without fearing that you might be over-stretched. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Plumb on.

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