Olympics Not Ideal

You’d think they’d get the message, but it seems that no matter how few people turn up to the festival of contrived sports that is the modern Olympic Games, they still persist in holding them.

The games have cost billions of Euro to stage and as I watched the beach volleyball last night I could not help but be disgusted at the rows and rows of empty seats on view. Have you any idea, brothers and sisters, how many books, videos and date stamps that kind of money can buy? The libraries of the world are crumbling to the ground, great works of literature, as well as some Jeffrey Archer remainders, are being lost forever in dingy, damp stores and we see fit to spend all this cash on half-empty stadia, swimming pools without any flumes, easily-detected pharmaceuticals and endless, endless commemorative tat that, apparently, no-one is really bothered about.

Of course, one reason for the rows of unfilled seats could be the ridiculous sports that are now part of the games – synchronised diving, beach volleyball, dressage and that crazy 20km walk. It can only be a matter of time before date-stamping and close harmony shelving are, at the very least, demonstration sports, hell’s bells, that could get a bit Sheridan. Also, since when were highly paid professionals allowed to compete – tennis players and football players paid millions in sponsorship and yet still able to compete in this amateur festival. It’s nonsense. And while I’m on the subject, LLF do not feel that keeping our “top” athletes in energy bars and Deep Heat is a suitable way to spend lottery money. The lottery is a scandal anyway, drawing money from the proletariat and giving it to over-privileged kids in pipe bands so they can make that trip to Florida is just plain wrong in a civilised society, but to spend it on allowing athletes to train full time isn’t much better. What happened to the Olympic tradition of post-persons from Norwich finishing their round on a Monday and heading off to the Olympic 100m final by Tuesday afternoon? How we would marvel at the proud workers as they took unpaid leave from the shipyards, the fields and, yes, even the libraries to compete at the games. Now thanks to the greed and stupidity of lottery ticket holders, our Olympic hopefuls get to “train” full time. Where’s the romance in that? Nowhere – and it seems to be having the opposite effect in terms of medals anyway. No, we say this has to stop, the glorification of the hoi polloi for the amusement of the rich and privileged by way of meaningless metal gongs must be ended, for the good of personkind.

I wouldn’t mind if the games were the festival of international brother(or sister)hood that we would all like to see, but they are not. We bring the youth of the world’s nations together and force them to engage in competition, thinly veiled humiliation if you ask me. The LLF are not happy with this competitive edge. Faster, higher, stronger? What about Nicer, Neater, Kinder?

We would rather see some element of cooperation and harmony – perhaps a combined US/Iraqi/Afghan hospital and school building team. Or a British team dedicated to the learning of languages other than English? We propose a tournament aimed at furthering understanding between nations.

To this end, we call upon the youth of the world to come together to help clear the planet’s cataloguing backlog. We would be promoting libraries, making the world’s literature more easily accessible and getting rid of a really nasty wee job from Cautious Col’s “to-do” list. No fancy stadia will be required and no corruption-ridden voting process for the right to host the games, people would just be given a copy of AACR2 (between two) and a pencil. The opening ceremony would simply be a training day dedicated to the rule changes since the last tournament. What a wonderful, well ordered world this could be.

Jeffrey Archer released

Wasn’t it nice to see Lord Archer being released from prison on Monday? The poor man should never have been locked up with common criminals but at least now he can indulge in his own pleasure rather than her Majesty’s.

To put a proper lord like Lord Jeffrey away for trying to pervert the course of justice is an outrage.

Just because the man jumped a rather ugly prostitute doesn’t in itself make him a pervert. Clearly he has the sexual drive of a natural athlete and Lady Mary, being a proper Englishwoman, doesn’t think it right to cater for his every need. So where else is his lordship going to relieve himself other than his secretaries, social acquaintances, young party workers, prostitutes and the occasional roll with Iain Duncan Doughnut? He’s only human.

Then they try to give him a hard time for trying to make some money. He’s a millionaire —making money is his job. Imagine where I’d be if I went round fixing people’s plumbing for free. Actually don’t imagine it, it’s just too bleeding horrible. Okay so when Lord Jeffrey raises money for charity he keeps a few million quid for himself, so what? How do you think he got to be a squillionaire in the first place? Those moaning gits with cancer or no legs should be grateful that a man like Viscount Jeffrey spends his time raising hundreds of pounds for them.

The people who are hounding Baron Archer are just jealous and to be fair there’s a lot to be jealous about. He was an Olympic athlete and would almost certainly have won the 100 metres if they hadn’t insisted on him starting at the same time as everyone else. He was a fabulously successful businessman until some prat ruled embezzlement was illegal and he had to start again. He was irresistible to the most beautiful women that money or prescribed drugs could buy until their husbands or the national press found out. See what I mean, jealousy at every bleeding turn.

And his books, fantastic every one of them. Many a time I’ve locked someone out of their own bathroom while I read one of Sir Jeffrey’s books while occasionally hitting a wrench off something noisy. You can’t beat an Archer at £75 an hour. Sometimes I’ve even read them right to the end without skipping a few chapters or thinking that I’ve read this somewhere else before.

There really should be laws to stop the press talking about Earl Archer the way they do. To call him a liar, a cheat, a crook, a prossie jumping pervert, an oily little creep who you would happily see burning in eternity with an umbrella up his jacksie —it’s just wrong. How can they get away with saying he is a lying, pompous, shag-anything-that-doesn’t-move, arrogant little shit who should be stoned to death by nuns with bad breath? Surely some of that is libellous?

Imagine where I’d be if people could just write that I’d overcharged for fixing a tap, or took six days to fit a washing machine just because the lady of the house looked like she might offer more than a cup of tea, or said that I might occasionally have charged for fitting some nice new parts when actually I put in some fittings that I’d reclaimed from the job before? Actually don’t imagine it, it’s just too bleeding horrible.

Sir Jeffrey is now a free man and can now enjoy the things that the rest of us take for granted — like fresh air, a walk in the park or bending down in the shower without worry. Everyone should now get off his back.

I’ve always said that a rule of fitting a good shower is that you should be able to reach for the soap without fearing that you might be over-stretched. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Plumb on.

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

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.

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