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

Evacuees

Hello sweeties, here’s the skinny on the social scene. And the big news is…. it might be moving out to the sticks.

Tristram Parker-Wayne invited me down to his place in Sussex at the weekend to discuss what was going to happen when this dreadful war starts. Not just the two of us, you understand. Goodness no. Polly P-W would have had my garters for guts if she thought it was just me and Lord Scrummy of Stud Muffington. No, this was a gathering of the gliterrati, a summit of the select, a congregation of the cream of the cropola.

Anyone who was anyone and a few who weren’t anyone but knew someone who was someone descended on Bashington Hall to sort out the social order of things for however long it takes to obliterate Iraq and anywhere else that Mr Bush doesn’t like the look of. You see, it’s all very well him bombing the bejeezus out of Baghdad but the belles still have to go to the ball do they not?

Henny Throckmorton’s little moppet Finella has her coming out on March 8, just seven days after the war starts — at least that’s what Tristram says and his uncle Roger is some Field Marshall or other — and the dear girl would be heartbroken if it had to be cancelled. The party that is, not the war. Her debut marks her emergence into the world of womanhood — not withstanding that little sordidity with three members of Westlife and Nigel Havers — and is much more important than some rammy in Africa. Marguerite Patten-Cooker says she will happily turn her home into a bunker for poor little Finella’s bash, complete with anti-missile warning system and a chap on the door to keep Havers out.

There was also the issue of the Boat Race Party at Jeffrey’s. If the war thingy lasts a month — although Uncle Roger swears it’ll be over by Easter — then the Oxbridge oarfest will have to be postponed. No-one really saw that as much of a problem as we’re never very interested in the canoes anyway. But the Archers’ Annual Shepherd’s Pie and Champagne Post-Race Party is an absolute must. It looks like this year we’ll be without Jeffrey, his horrid pie, and the boats, but at least we’ll have the bally Bolly and that’s the main thing. It’ll even be worth putting up with Mary whining about slopping out and the loss of conjugal rights. You’d have thought she’d be delighted. Mieow.

Tara Parker-Tomlinson said we should cancel the Army-Navy football match at her pa’s place because not enough of the troops would be able to come and watch. That caused a few giggles among the girlies I can tell you because we all knew that Tara TP had a hot date with the 3rd battalion of the Black Watch. Apparently someone had told her they were called the Black Watch because they were hung like colonials. Really, the only thing looser than that girl’s grasp of reality is her knicker elastic. Oh, did I say that out loud?

So there you have it darlings. The social set are moving out to the country to enjoy the delights of wide open spaces — no I’m not talking about Tara TP again. It will soon be spring and we’ll be sipping on shampoo, smelling freshly cut grass and listening to the sound of willow on buttock. Oh, what a lovely war!

Toodlepip

Lady Pan Jammer

Armageddon

I’m troubled by all this talk of war in Iraq. No other phrase for it. I’m troubled.

It’s not just the increased probability of a global religious conflict, millions of lives being lost and the threat of nuclear Armageddon. It’s how much Saddam Hussein looks like Super Mario.

I’m troubled that the image of plumbing and plumbers everywhere will be irreparably damaged by the uncanny resemblance between Saddam and the patron saint of plumbers.

Okay so one is a comic figure who plays silly games, loses lives and blows things up for no good reason and the other is Super Mario but you can see how people could get confused.

This Hussein chap looks like the kind of plumber who would estimate 20 quid for fitting a new ballcock then haul the intestines out of your system and tell you its five grand guv or I can’t guarantee your house won’t fall down. And that’s just bad for business.

It doesn’t help either that President Dubya carries off a passable impersonation of Marshall P Knutt. Carry on cowboy? I should cocoa. I wouldn’t trust him to put a washer on the right way up.

President P Knutt is just spoiling for a fight because his daddy was made to look bad. Blow up Baghdad dad? Okey dokey. Where is it anyway?

If we leave it to these two clowns then the world will be blown to bits and plumbers will end up losing out. We’re stuck between Iraq and a hard place and I’m troubled.

What the UN needs to do is forget about sending in weapons inspectors and send in a team of plumbers instead.

Apart from the silly moustache (with apologies to St Mario’s mouser) have you noticed how Mr Saddam always looks like he’s got a bad smell under his nose? I’ll bet my best wrench that he’s got problems with sewage.

It’s not chemical weapons at all, it’s a serious dose of industrial strength Domestos to deal with the awful pong from his blocked pipes. No wonder he’s mad. You wouldn’t be very happy if you had to put up with the stink from the khazi of Baghdad.

I always tell my apprentices, sort out the pong and you sort out the problem. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

As for President P Knutt, his problem is all down to not having as big a plunger as his daddy. You can’t just turn that self-esteem issue off like a tap.

Tell him size isn’t everything, that Baghdad is in Arkansas and that the Midnight Plumbers have sorted out Saddam. Problem solved. Kofi Annan eat your heart out.

Plumb on.