Twice Nightly

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

Bomb Baghdad and Back Our Boys

Hello Darlings

I am too unaccountably traumatised to give you any social skinny this week. Shocked as I am by the onset of war in this land of ours. Well, I suppose it isn’t actually here, it’s over there, so I can tell you about a super anti-war beano that I went to last night.

Yes I know you might be a tad surprised to see lady P line up beside some of the lentil crunchers and lefties that normally populate such frightful bashes but sometimes we all have to take a stand for what is right. And I heard they were serving up some splendid shampoo.

While I am quite happy to see that Hussein chap being defrocked, I would be desperately sad if the poor Iraquois children were hurt in the process. In fact I’ve got a good mind to send some of last season’s dresses to tend to their seeping wounds. They may have nothing other than dust to eat but surely it would lift their spirits to have their lesions bound in finely cut Armani strips. How their fellow urchins would envy them.

Among those banging their cans last night was that silly strumpet Liz Hurley. She seemed to think that sending a message of peace to the world was best articulated by wearing a dress that was simultaneously slashed to the navel, the thigh and her London derriere. I believe the expression is slut.

And yet the Hurley harlot’s “Versace safety pins and teeth” act is only for the craperazzi. I have never known her to be in the company of a real man unless she was in front of a lens. I’m not saying that she’s necessarily a vaginatarian but I’m rather sure she spends a lot of time alone reading The Diary of Anne Frank. If you know what I mean.

Yes I know she used to bunk up with dear old Hugh Grant but although the tufty-haired little sweetums is totally adorable, he is hardly what you would call testosterone-driven, now is he? He is even lighter on his loafers than he is on camera. Put it this way darlings, the only hairy centre parting that he is interested in is on top of own scrummy little head.

The big question of course is how La Liz got that child thing inside her. There is no way that it is la thing de La Bing as that would have meant smudging her make-up. So we are either talking about a horrid basting brush episode involving the juice of some indigent actor or else she forgot her lines and played the casting couch cherub once too often with some pawing director. Meiow.

Anyway, apart from burly Hurley and her pneumatic breasts, there were all sorts of celebs desperate to be the caring, sharing face of the peace corps. Although I am fairly sure I also saw darling little Kylie Minogue at a Bomb Baghdad, Back Our Boys rally I was at the night before. Some people are such awful hypocrites.

Vanessa Felz was at the anti-war thing of course. Not that she gives a parrot’s penis for peace but she did seem keen to do her bit for global harmony by eating every vol-au-vent in sight. Perhaps she was afraid they would be sent to feed our brave boys at the front. Or that they would be dropped on the poor Iraquois urchuins and they would choke on them.

Talking of choking, I couldn’t begin to tell you how the rascally Angus Deayton did his bit to stop the war. Just suffice to say that poor Charlotte Church was unable to speak out against Blair on account of her mouth being full. And he didn’t say no to Bush either. Oh did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip