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

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.

Review of 2002

YEARS ARE like pipes – you can look back at them, up them, down them or  along them but you can’t change the crap that was in them. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

In January, Johnny Foreigner and his continental cousins threw away their money and started spending this new Euro thingy instead. Quite right too, I say. If we have to go to their hot and smelly countries on holiday then there’s less chance of us being confused by all the different funny money they used to have. Just don’t try the same with the pound, Johnny!

Then in February, the nation was gripped by curlers for the first time since Hilda Ogden went to that great corner shop in the sky. If only Rhona Martin hadn’t looked like Lily Savage’s harder sister then she’d have made a fortune.

All in all, 2002 was a good year to be a friend of Dorothy. Paul Burrell didn’t get knicked for thieving Diana’s gear, Will Young had his first number one and Michael Barrymore learned to swim. Sadly, it was the year of the queens but not the Queen’s year.

After 50 years on the throne (a plumber’s nightmare if ever I heard one) her Maj and the rest of the nation were in mourning in March for the dear old, darling Queen Mum, cruelly taken from us in her prime. Never again will those lovely yellow teeth light up our lives. Never again will the smell of
stale biscuits waft down the Mall in the morning. It was the annus horribilus to end all annuses. Oh and Princess Margaret died too.

In April Little Lord Beckham broke a bone in his foot and suddenly the metatarsal was the country’s most famous bone since Linford Christie retired. There is clearly some link between bones, dogs and South Korea that runs alongside metatarsal, Victoria Beckham and the World Cup but it’s beyond me.

In May, Roy Keane left the Irish World Cup camp in the huff. It left Mick McCarthy without a pyschotic, leg-breaking midfielder but he failed in a last gasp bid to call up Martin McGuinness as a replacement. By June the World Cup and the Jubilee were in full swing and flags of St George were
selling like pillow cases at a Ku Klux Klan convention.

In July a man waved a fake gun at Hear’Say at a motorway service station. Fake pop band, fake gun, seems fair enough. Next thing you know someone will be waving an arse at Robbie Williams.

Guns were in the news again in August and September when America was terrorised by the Washington sniper, or George W Bush as he is known. George has disproved the myth that any American boy can grow up to be President. Now you don’t even have to grow up.

One of the most tragic moments of the year was in October when 128 people died after the siege of a Moscow theatre. The biggest tragedy was that Will and Gareth hadn’t been on a tour of eastern Europe at the time.

In November our brave, heroic firefighters bravely and heroically laid down their poker hands to stand bravely and heroically on the picket line to demand a 40 per cent pay rise, a new cue for the pool table and an ACAS agreement on whether one-eyed jacks should count as floaters.

In December Cherie Blair got into bother over her involvement with a lying conman. She was also in trouble for her relationship with Australian fraudster Peter Foster. Lady Macbeth was also shocked by reports that Osama bin Laden wore a Cherie Blair mask for Halloween.

When we look back on 2002 and remember floods and fires, lost jobs and lost Royals, we shouldn’t be too gloomy. Don’t think of 2002 as the year of economic and environmental disasters, instead remember it as the year Jeffrey Archer spent in jail. Wasn’t so bad after all, was it?

Plumb on

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

The Burrell Collection

Having previously written about Mr Paul Burrell, former butler to the blessed Diana, and suggested that he was a thieving git who should be executed, I now discover I was wrong.

Mr Burrell is in fact not a thief. He told her Maj the Queen that he was going to ‘safeguard’ a few items of Diana’s things and therefore was quite entitled to take 284 personal items and hide them in his loft. Her Maj’s memory isn’t quite what it was and her recall was only jogged by the prospect of some dirty royal linen being laundered in public. God bless her.

The law of the land has ruled that Mr Burrell was entitled to get his hands on Diana’s bits and bobs and therefore it must be true. If the gaffer says it’s Friday then don’t bother trying to tell him it’s Falkirk. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Paul Burrell is not a thieving git. However he is a hypocritical, money-grabbing traitor who won’t spill the beans in court but is happy to do so in a tabloid newspaper for £300,00. Is that still a hanging offence?

Plumb on

Diana and Burrell

Is there no end to the indignities that poor Princess Diana must suffer?

It’s bad enough that she is being portrayed as a slapper whose ex husband is cavorting around with an elderly horse-faced woman. Now we are told that her butler has been knicking all her best gear.

First of all, just because the lovely Diana had personal relations with various members of the armed forces, society high-flyers and the England Rugby Union team doesn’t make her a slapper. It wasn’t the whole team.

Secondly, Mr Paul Burrell has not yet been convicted in a court of law so he remains innocent until proven guilty. The thieving git has yet to be judged by a jury of his betters and we need to wait till he’s banged up till we officially shout The Butler Did It. But I ask you, what kind of man would take 284 bits of gear from the blessed Diana’s house and make off with them into the night. A thief that’s what kind. A desperate thief with little taste in fact. Among the stuff he half-inched was a Leo Sayer album and a Cliff Richard cassette. That poor woman.

Being a plumber you get to access all areas when the client lets you in for a job. Who amongst us hasn’t taken a peek in the cupboards or had a look under the duvet. Or is that just me? But I’ve never pinched anything. Well apart from Mrs McDougall in Glebe Street and she didn’t complain.

If I’d got the call to plug Diana’s cistern then she could have rested easy in her grave that her Chris de Burgh CDs would have lain untouched. It’s all a matter of trust. As I always say, there’s no point in having a good washer fitted by a bad plumber. And if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life. You can’t just go round lifting Versace dresses when you feel like it. Where would plumbers be if they helped themselves to a Cartier clock or a Sassoon coat every time they fitted an s-bend? It would be bad for business. Treason is still a capital offence so they should hang the traitor Burrell. String him up while playing Leo Sayers Endless Flight and make him listen to the whole thing before they open the trapdoor.

If he’s guilty.

Plumb On