Telly ho

Hello sweeties

I was supposed to be at the opening of something last night. Dashed if I can remember what — a film, an art gallery, a bottle, an envelope. Who can keep up? (Not my Aristotle that’s for sure. If it weren’t for Viagra, I don’t think he could even raise a smile.)

Anyway as I was saying before I interrupted myself, I was due to attend some event or other that held promise of paparazzi, oodles of shampoo and enough dashing young men to light a lady’s candle at both ends. It should have been a memorable evening that I would happily have forgotten by the morning. But sadly it was not to be as some selfish beggar upped and died and the bally thing was cancelled.

Instead, I had to — darlings I can barely bring myself to say it — I had to stay in and watch television. How can poor people cope with having to do that every evening? It really is beyond me.

I watched EastEnders, which I believe is very popular, and it was nearly finished before I could make out what any of them were saying. Gosh isn’t it absolutely dreary? Horribly drab little people leading horribly drab little lives. So unrealistic. How can these people spend so much time in that scruffy little public house and still get work done? Truly, drink is the work of the cursing classes as dear old Oscar Wilde said.

To help me through the rigours of “telly watching” —as Marge, the lady who does for me, calls it — I naturally had to turn to the soothing qualities offered by Great Uncle Bollinger’s healing waters. If the poor people drank lashings of shampoo while they watched this tosh then it might almost be bearable for them. I really don’t know why more of them don’t try it.

Before long I was quite palintoshed, swearing at the goggle box like a trooper. Not terribly ladylike I must admit but have you seen the hogwash that is on there? There was salvation of a sort with a deliciously terrible programme called What Not To Wear where a couple of well-bred types called Skinny and Fat Anna make ugly people dress better. It’s a proper hoot.

Darlings I was laughing like a drain, I tell you. They dragged on these tasteless little trolls who looked like they had been dressed in the dark by blind idiots or held hostage by beggars. Then Skinny and Fat Anna made fun of them, poked them with sticks and called them lesbanians before dressing them up in the most ghastly creations and convincing them that they look lovely. Laugh? I nearly soiled the upholstery.

At the end they bring the trolls back on, newly decked out in Marks and Spencer’s finest tat and stand back in amazement at the transformation from council house trash to council house chic. All the while Skinny and Fat Anna are standing behind them sniggering and winking at the camera. Gosh you’ve got to love these gals. Well maybe not the fat one.

Talking of fashion faux pas, did you see that frightful Fergie stripped off for charity? The porky one wore nothing but a pair of darling Jimmy Choos that were most certainly not designed to adorn pig’s trotters. Uggh, pass the LSD and call me forgetful. Charity, my Aunt Belinda! That ginger trollop is keener to get her clothes off than your average rapist. Old velcro knickers, as the dear Queen Mum used to call her. Meiow.

Just time for a bit of skinny before I take my leave. Henny Throckmorton told me not to tell a soul but I know you won’t let it go any further. A certain socialite of our acquaint — no names, no pack drill but her initials are TPT — was seen congratulating the British athletics team at that bash in town on Monday. Henny says that TPT and the golden boys of the relay team were doing a spot of unauthorised baton changing that left the strumpette quite breathless. Word is that still wasn’t enough and la Tara was miffed that they only went round the once. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

Lady P

Mrs George Best

Hello sweeties

Have you heard? The skinny blonde strumpet who was this month’s Mrs George Best has given the old boy the boot. Poor Georgie.

Now if you are looking for some inside skinny on Georgie from Lady P then you must remember that a girl doesn’t kiss and tell. Luckily for you kissing was about the only thing that Georgie and I didn’t do together.

We first met in Carnaby Street in the early seventies. I was trying to squeeze into a pair of Zandra Rhodes tie-dyed jeans and he was trying to squeeze into the salesgirl. Until he saw me that was. Irrestistible darlings.

He seemed to think that just because he was some big shot footballer type and had rogered every Miss World since 1967 that I would simply drop my Janet Reiger at the merest suggestion of a hard tackle. As it happened I did but I gave him a proper ticking off for assuming. The little darling promised me some extra time to make up for it and a girl would have been rude to say no.

Back then Georgie really was simply the best — a Beatle in a jockstrap, a studmuffin in studs and hang the state of the sheets in the morning. He could quaff nearly as much Bolly as yours truly and still manage to perform to first division standards. He could be completely bluttered and still manage a hat-trick. Yummy scrummy.

The only problem with Georgie’s game was that he was all too keen to tackle from behind and I had to rule him offside on more than a few occasions. The naughty little pixie.

I bumped into Georgie a few times over the years but never horizontally again. There was always this strumpette or that drunk Viscount and we never got round to a replay after those first few memorable matches. Until a few months back.

I spotted him sipping on a special mineral water at a launch for La Lawson’s latest slut cookbook and tottered over to say hello. If I say so myself sweeties I was looking particularly fetching in a rather darling pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos and a Stella McCartney bodyhugger. I don’t know if it was me or the Mickey Finn that was making him drool but either way the poor man didn’t stand a chance.

He was ever so slightly schindlers — well absolutely tashered to be honest — but it didn’t stop the old rogue from inviting me to take a trip down memory lane aboard the Georgie train. Well what’s a girl to do?

Darlings I don’t think I’ve been so disappointed since I found out that Santa Claus was on the sex offenders register. Years of devoted loyalty to Great Uncle Bollinger and his champagne cousins seems to have taken its toll on poor Georgie’s corner flag. Grand stand? Not even extended highlights.

A girl could have taken it personally but darling George admitted it wasn’t the first time recently that he had failed to score even when presented with an open goal. He couldn’t even manage a dribble.

Darlings that’s why I urge you all to be kind to Georgie and to the poor, sweet, loyal slut that stood by him for so long. No wonder the woman looks so terribly miserable all the time, she has had to resort to fiddling on the bench for so long that she has forgotten what it is like to have a forward burst into her box. Oh did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

New Shoes

Hello sweeties

You may have read in the better newspapers that it is becoming popular for ladies with a dedication to fashion to have their little toes removed in order to wear decent shoes. And why not indeed?

There’s been heaps of predictable brouhaha from bleeding-heart liberals about bleeding-footed fashion victims but really darlings it is just such tosh. If a girl wants to squeeze into a slim Manolo Blahnik but has a foot like a blacksmith’s daughter, what is she to do? Wear a pair of Clarks? I don’t think so.

If a girl can’t wear a pair of decent shoes she’d be as well throwing herself off the nearest tall building, joining a convent or going on a date with John Leslie. Life just wouldn’t be worth living. What’s the point of having five toes if you can’t slip them into something gorgeous?

I know a couple of gals of my acquaint who have been under the scalpel in order to make the slipper fit. Pippi van Muflin had both of her littlest tootsies removed — she had them sent off to Iraqi orphans who had tragically lost limbs in the great war — so that she could wear a darling pair of Jimmy Choo’s to a bash at Henny Throckmorton’s. Imagine her delight when she got there to see Kate Winslett wearing a pair of shoes as wide as lifeboats on the Titanic. La Winslett is a ten-toed girl if I ever I saw one. Mieow.

My young cousin Marina — Tufty Trumpton’s eldest — had half of each little toe removed but that is so typical of the wretched girl. She is so timid that she still hasn’t allowed so much as a single footman to turn her eider down. Her maman, the peroxide strumpette Deila herself, has hired the most scrumptious stud-muffins that money can buy but the idiot girl remains a resident of Virginia. Tufty fears she is saving herself for her younger brother Ralph but I hear he’s been going through the downstairs maids like Sars through a Chinese restaurant.

Anyway darlings, toes. Personally I am fortunate enough to have feet so slim they could slip effortlessly into any glass footwear presented by gay footmen sent around on behalf of a charming prince of the realm. It’s all thanks to centuries of fine breeding and a nanny who was once gainfully employed at the home of several Japanese geishas. Ah, the many uses I’ve had for those bandages ever since.

That’s not to say I wouldn’t partake of some corrective surgery if it were necessary darlings. If the black day ever dawned that I could not persuade any barman south of Leicester to fill up my glass of bubbly with little more than a flutter of my lashes and the promise of unnatural sex then I’d be under the knife before you could say Dr Bollinger. A girl must retain her charm.

Just last week I had to have an offending digit removed and believe you me, Alastair Campbell won’t try that again in a hurry. You would have thought the scruffy oik would have had enough trouble with the Kelly probe without trying one of his own. I told anyone who would listen about him being the Prime Minister’s official pokesman and he quickly scurried back to his drain. Did I say that out loud? I certainly did.

Oh darlings, how time flies. I’ve barely time to tell you the skinny about the scrumdiddlyumptious Prince William and his flight to Africa last week. Well a little birdie tells me that his passage was eased by two very helpful stewardesses and as luck would have it that isn’t illegal in the country they were flying over at the time. There’s been lots of fuss of about Wills and the dik-dik but from what I hear his highness is so well-off that just one word wouldn’t cover it. If I ever confirm that at first hand then be sure that you will be the first to know.

Toodlepip.

Lady P

Moral Decline of a Nation

Is nothing sacred?

The festering politically correct lefties that are ruining this country are at it again. You can’t open a door for a woman without someone accusing you of being sexist, you can’t respect a tradition without someone trying to tear it down and you can’t call the towel-heads terrorists without being accused of racism. What’s the world coming to?

Last week they stopped tennis players bowing in front of the Royal Box at Wimbledon and now we’ll have all sorts of sweaty, ungrateful colonials walking past the lovely Duchess of Kent without so much as a tug of their forelock. You let these people take part in the world’s greatest sporting tournament (apart from the World Cup, the Olympics, the European Championships, the Commonwealth Games and The Embassy World Dart Championships) and they throw it back in your face. Instead of being proud of appearing in front of our Royals and paying due respect to them, they just want to pick up their free towels and Robinson’s Barley Water and hurry back to get their nails done. And the women are just as bad, they can’t wait to get inside for a spot of “leg over-Navratilova” if you know what I mean.

Next on the lentil crunchers hit list of institutions is bingo. Okay so it may not be your highbrow opera or ballet but it has been a staple of British life for generations. And if it keeps Mrs Plumb and her mother out of the house for three nights a week then it’s fine by me.

Obviously I don’t play bingo, I’m a man, but I remember many happy days at the seaside winning packs of ciggies and half bottles of vodka just for shutting wee windows over numbers. Lovely. Clickety click. Legs eleven. Sweet sixteen, never been kissed. Those were the days.

But oh no. Two little ducks, no more. Tom Mix, no more. Burlington Bertie, no more. The Bleeding Britpop Brigade have decreed that bingo names are old-fashioned and have come up with a list of new-fangled 21st century names. Old-fashioned? Is Big Ben old-fashioned? Is British justice old-fashioned? Is the class society old-fashioned? If you want to change traditions then hop on a plane to Iraq and stop women wearing masks over their faces and men wearing tea towels. Leave bingo alone.

How is Mrs Plumb’s mum going to cope with all this rubbish? For a hundred years she has lived quite happily in the knowledge that 71 means “bang on the drum”, now she is being told that it is “J-Lo’s bum”. Not bad enough that they are changing it but they have to bring in the derriere of some Cubanist-American pop star. If they need to bring bums into it then why not Kylie? Much nicer in my opinion and she’s more or less British.

So now we have Gareth Gates number 8, which doesn’t even rhyme and anyway there is absolutely nothing wrong with garden gate. We have Jimmy Choo 32 — I’m told he makes shoes — so how is that better than buckle my shoe? Go on tell me that.

These people should just leave well alone. What would happen if they started changing u-bend to w-bend or s-bend to t-bend? Well you’d get a lot of confused plumbers and water all over your floor. My old gaffer always said that everything should be left the way it is except crap on the floor. And, as we all know, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Next thing you know you won’t be allowed to smack your kids, smoke in public places or drive your car down the road for free. They will be scrapping the House of Lords, getting rid of red phone boxes, allowing women to referee snooker matches and changing the name of the Post Office so many times that Postman Pat’s head will explode. Oh hang on, they’ve already done that.

I hardly know this country anymore. Today bingo, tomorrow Buckingham Palace. You mark my words, this is just the beginning of the Trotskyist revolution. When The Duchess of York and the Countess of Wessex are being beheaded on the Mall, just you remember — Two Fat Ladies. That’s how it all began.

Plumb on.

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.