Old Baw Face is Back

Auld baw face is back

The walkin, talkin heart attack

Auld baw face

Smug as a bug in a tartan rug

Soundbite Charlie

Naebody’s mug

Auld baw face

One smart Alex right enough

Smiling sleekit

Acting tough

OO7’s favourite thug

Vote SNP or we’ll shoot your dug

Torn betting slips

Rolls of fat

Am ah supposed to be scared of that?

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?


Ma Scotland

Pavements covered wi dog turd;

Pieces made wi lemon curd;

Drunken alkies, voices slurred;

Evening news by Jackie Bird,

Hanging oan her every word;

Ma Scotland.

Rain and wind, freezin cauld;

Slim Jim Baxter, Bertie Auld;

Hunners o’ wee men goin bald;

Sky Plus package been installed,

Hope the license van hisnae called;

Ma Scotland.

Bag o’ chips to romance her;

Fags and beer, oh ya dancer;

Every ned a Bengal Lancer;

World leader for lung cancer,

Doctors havnae got an answer;

Ma Scotland.

Deep-fried Mars bars on oor hearts;

Arbroath smokies, Border tarts;

Guid at snooker, guid at darts;

Wet, Wet Wet in the charts,

Whit a bunch of whining farts;

Ma Scotland.

Big Hen Broon still standing tall;

Wee wifies in the shopping maul;

Greggs the bakers, RS McCall;

Huns and Tims, bampots all,

Sectarianism’s always on the ball;

Ma Scotland.

Bowler-hatted marching Brits;

Carol Smillie’s threepenny bits;

Hairstyles worse than Robert Pritz;

Silicon Glen and empty pits,

Traditional industry left in bits;

Ma Scotland.

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Land o’ cuckoo clocks

Cheese wi holes and loads o’ snow

And sledging wi John Noakes

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Land o’ army knives

Mountains, lakes and chocolate

And such dreary little lives

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Land o’ secret bankers

Ye’ve gaen up being neutral

And stuffed them English wankers

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

There is nae praise higher

Than for Scots tae toast the land

That gied us Ursi Meier

Referee, oh referee

Yer Scottish in disguise

Oh thank you Herr McMeier

Noo try a kilt for size

To Senora Miralles

Have ye seen our new Parly?

It’s looking awfy braw

Three cheers for Miralles

An ah’ll gie his widow wan an aw.

Oh ah’d gie her wan, ah’d gie her wan

Ah’d gie her two or three

Oh ah want Senora Miralles

O’er ma bended knee.

Ole ole Senora Miralles

Man ah’d love to nip ’er

Help ma boab I think it’s time

Fur the return o’ Jack the Zipper

Visit the widow, visit the widow

Ah’m only being polite

Visit the widow, visit the widow

Aye that’ll be feckin right

Visit the widow, visit the widow

Ah’ll soon win her affection

Fur I hear she likes a man

Wi a magnificent erection

Ole ole ole ole ole

Ole ole ole ole ole

Jack and Benedetta up a tree


Farewell to Whatsisname

Alas poor John Thingy

He’s here nae mair

He’s clean disappeared

Like the last o’ his hair

Alas poor John Thingy

He’s been fund oot

They cried him a loser

An gied him the boot

Alas poor John Thingy

He was nae brain surgeon

He thocht Alex Salmond

Was yon Nicola Sturgeon

Alas poor John Thingy

I liked him just fine

I was fair scunnered when

They made him resign

Alas poor John Thingy

We’ll see him nae mair

They’ve called for Roseanna

A lesbian? That’s rerr

Ode to Zinedine Zidane

Wan nil to Ingerlund

Wi 90 minutes gone

Tyldesley’s daen ma nut in

But hang oan here’s Zidane

He’s lining up a free kick

Gaun yersel big man

Calamity for Calamity

Ya beauty it’s wan wan

Ah’m supposed tae be neutral

First Minister an aw that

But even David Blunkett

Can see Gerard’s a prat

A hospital pass tae Calamity

He’s ta’en the legs aff Henry

The ref’s pointed tae ra spot

Help ma boab a penalty

Get it up ye, get it up ye

Get it up ye Tony Blair

Your boys took a beating

Fae a man wi no much hair

Parliament prayer

Hen can you understaun me now

Sometimes ah feel a little mad

Don’t you ken that nae First Minister can aye be an angel

Even Donald Dewar now looks kinda bad

Well ah’m just a boy whose designers are good

Oh Lord, please let me build new Holyrood

Hen sometimes ah’m so brilliant

It’s so hard no tae be smug

Other times ah get caught wi ma zipper doon

And then ah don’t want onyone to see ma ugly mug

Well ah’m just a boy whose designers are good

Oh Lord, please let me build new Holyrood

Normandy Wisdom

Oh whit tae dae

It’s D-Day the day

An I’ve got two things oan my plate

Ah could take the chance

Tae get myself tae France

Or keep my fancy Royal dinner date

France is real sunny

But golf is real money

An I could get to be Prince Andy’s mate

Auld sojers are moaning

Aw shut your groaning

Am no rising to your D-Day dodging bait

Whit’s that you say?

Votes are gaun astray?

Maybe dinner wi Andy’s no that great

I know whit tae dae

It’s D-Day the day

Tell the heroes wee Jack is head of state.

Ode to John Swinney

Lang streak o’ pish

And awfy skinny

Wee roond glasses

That eejit John Swinney;

Nae brains, nae guts

A total ninny

Hair like a Nazi

That eejit John Swinney;

I’ve seen less grease

On ma mammy’s pinney

Oh thank God for

That eejit John Swinney.