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

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

Christmas Lights

Well so that was Christmas and what did you do? Another year older, 20 bottles of shampoo.

Thank Gucci that’s the end of another season of comfort and joy darlings. I have been to more openings, closings, celebrations and no-excuse parties than Jimmy Choo has seats in heaven. I have been ankled, I have been boogalooed and I have been well and truly cabbaged. Old man Bollinger has opened another orphanage for starving Biafrans and I damn well expect a plaque on the wall.

I know you want the skinny on the festive fiesta but you have to understand that some of the names, times and places have not so much been changed to protect the innocent as become somewhat tangled in Lady P’s Bollie-addled little mind. Sorry sweeties. I did see the irkesomely lovely Katie Winslett play a novel form of backgammon with podgy-faced Welsh newsreader Huw Edwards. I witnessed trampette Amanda Holden do a brutal little parody of poor Les Dennis trying to put his socks on. And I saw Angela Rippon go an entire half-hour without trying to make a man out of Henny Throckmorton’s nephew. Actually, I may have imagined that last one. I think it was only ten minutes.

I went to Nice and the Isles of Greece and I sipped champagne on a yacht but I never managed to go to a single bash without Richard Branson trying to introduce me to the delights of Virgin travel. If that man is not on the blessed V then Manolo Blahnik can’t make shoes.

I think it was at Octavius Markham’s soiree in aid of alcohol where I saw that Ulrika Jonsson woman. Mutton dressed as dog if you ask me.

My footballing contacts assure me that the average boot has eight studs but from what I could see Ulrikaka had 14.

I am told they were collectively known as Coventry City Football Club. Meiow.

I am hardly one to cast judgement on a fellow girlie and her interaction with the opposite genderatalia but mark my words sweeties, the Scandanavian strumpet is drinking at the last chance wine bar.

Other Christmalian highlights included Lesley Ash getting so liquorished that her new lips burst and covered the ghastly Neil Morrisey in the fat of some long-dead cow. No change there then.

But Christmas is not Christmas without thinking of our Lord. And I hear there was quite the firework display at Jeffrey’s house. It wasn’t exactly planned but just after midnight the fragrant Mary discovered that Little Lord Jeff had “I love Bubba” tattooed on his right buttock. Such a little buttock too.

Oh did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip.