Auntie Joanna

Hello sweeties

I speak to you this week as a woman shocked and angry. No, Fortnum and Mason haven’t messed up my Bolly order again, thank heaven. I am really quite peeved at this latest media kerfuffle about the Royals.

It’s bad enough when the ghastly guttersnipes among the red-tops try to spark revolution by bad-mouthing our Royal family but now we have a supposedly superior journal trying to do the same. The lentil crunching lefties that run the Guardian have scurried off to court, pleading to be allowed to print a tissue of scurrilous truths.

I know what you are thinking. It’s just Lady P sticking up for her own. And while that is very sweet of you, I am not, despite all appearances au contraire, actually bona fide royalty. We’re not exactly related but you know how it is, lots of their family have rogered lots of mine and we exchange Christmas cards with the ones we admit to.

However I do have delicious skinny by the gilded carriage load that I could share with you if I were the kind of gal that soiled other people’s finery in public. And, as you know, I am.

Pour exemple, Henny Throckmorton was at Buck House a couple of years back and says they were all sitting around watching the goggle box when Absolutely Fabulous came on. There was La Lumley flashing her leathery old tart skin and suddenly you could have cut the air with a ceremonial sword. Then up pips one of Fergie’s little retards, “Oh look, there’s Auntie Joanna on the television.”

Apparently Philip nearly choked on his ouzo while Her Maj had that look she always got when told that the dear old Queen Mum had wet the bed yet again. Henny says Philip disappeared to his club muttering about how he’d told Andrew he should have got that ginger slut sterilised when he had the chance.

The silly thing is that people think the Windsors are boring old fuddy-duddies but that’s utter tosh. There’s more jiggy-jiggy in the Palace than in the Playboy Mansion on viagra discount day. Put it this way sweeties, in well-informed circles Buck House is strictly rhyming slang.

If it’s not the family and each other then it’s the family and the staff, the staff and the guests, the Queen and visiting heads of state; they are at it like royal rabbits darlings. It’s hardly surprising there’s been one or two teensy-weensy mix-ups over the years — with so much seed flying about some of it was always likely to end up in the wrong bed. So just because Andrew was the product of a bit of employer-staff relations is no reason for Philip to love him any less than his real children — actually the Greek does hate Andy’s garters but only because he’s a fat-headed duffer not because he’s an equerry’s bastardling.

It’s the same with this latest nonsense about “a senior royal and a member of the household staff”. Such a horrid hullabaloo about a bit of harmless fun designed to maintain harmonious relations between a future king and his people. Oh did I say that out loud?

Well honestly darlings, everyone knows it was Charles so why should I keep my mouth closed? Mind you, if he had kept his closed there wouldn’t be so much ghastly commotion. Henny tells me the chap wasn’t called the head footman for nothing — absolutely prodigious spanner by all accounts.

As you know I am not in favour of sodomites, a perfect waste of some scrummily lovely bodkins if you ask me, but whatever they get up to in the privacy of their own palace is up to them. And anyway, they don’t call them manservants for nothing. Mieow.

So I say lay off the Windsors. They are just an ordinary family with some super houses and a peculiar taste in clothes. Every family tree has a few bad apples held by skeletons in cupboards, if you get my driftwood. It’s just that Buck House has bigger cupboards than most.

So get off Charles’ back, that’s his servant’s job. Joking, Charlie darling, joking.

Toodlepip

Twice Nightly

Hello darlings

Sometimes seeking out the skinny on the social scene is more than one can possibly bear. To the uninitiated it may seem one endless round of parties, premieres, popstars and poppers. And well I suppose it is. But at other times it can be such a ghastly chore that I have even been known to contemplate getting a job.

Only kidding.

Yet sometimes the demands of looking impossibly gorgeous for the craparazzi can take its toll even on those of us whose skin tones are naturally lustrous. Sometimes having to deal with the sort of unpleasant Johnny-come-lately nouveau riche ruffians that think a shampoo glass needn’t be filled to the brim is just too much. Sometimes the penne isn’t quite al dente yet the catering manager refuses to have the pasta chef taken out and shot. Sometimes it’s just like that.

Last night for example I was presenting an award at some television awards bash — the Evening Standard’s prize for best afternoon chat show not featuring live actors but with occasional nudity. Now you know I would normally have nothing to do with daytime TV — the unemployed being entertained by the unemployable — but I’d bought a darling little Alexander McQueen number that positively screamed “Wear Me Now You Magnificent Bitch” so I thought I may as well.

Darlings I’ve never made such a bad choice since I let Angus Deayton do The Hunt For Red October at charades. One could hardly move for bulimic soap actresses fending off arthritic actors with sweaty hands. I swear those stick girls halve their weight when they take their make-up off.

If that wasn’t bad enough I had to endure the agony of watching those scrum-diddly-gorgeous little Geordie chaps Ant and Dec fawning all over that old hag Joanna Lumley as if she was the last upper-class trollop left in the world. Which she isn’t. If it wasn’t for a shipload of the old shampoo I’d barely have been able to stomach the thought of the cheeky chappies playing good cop, bad cop with La Lumley. Such a waste, those lovely young cowboys tanning that leathered hide. Meiow.

And to pile on the agony, not only does the absolutely-not-fabulous one get a personal visit to biker grove but I — oh I can hardly bring myself to reveal it — I danced the dance of four vowels with Richard Whitely. Yes darlings I who once showed that Tom Cruise was no mission impossible was reduced to being a notch on the scoreboard of a man who wears comedic ties. A conundrum indeed.

Needless to say I was completely befuggered at the time, why else would I entertain the advances of this pompous fatty if not being utterly reek-ho. Even tashered as I was I am quite convinced he must have had the additional aid of rohypnol or another of those dastardly, if occasionally useful, date rape drugs.

You would be forgiven for thinking it could be no worse but imagine the depths of my degradation as he cried out, “Another consonant, please Carol!” as he reached his own personal break while I had still not reached the numbers game. The only saving grace is that he could not live up to his repulsive nickname of Twice Nightly Whitely but rather proved to be One Quicky Dickie. Oh did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip darlings