Red Nose Day

As all our members will know, the LLF is a caring and considerate organisation. We are dedicated to fair play, honesty, inetgrity (especially that of our catalogue) and concern for our fellow person. This is not in any doubt, we are good people.

But sometimes this can be tested to the very limit. Brothers and sisters, I give you Red Nose Day. One day every two years when our televisions fill with images of suffering and pain, misery and deprivation, juxtaposed with scarcely-known people leaping about and telling old jokes and encouraging everyone to be gay and pleased with themselves. Are we being asked to celebrate the grotesque iniquities of our society by throwing a big party as if to rub the developing world’s noses right in it? The library staff felt it appropriate to come to work half naked today in order to encourage our readers to part with the hard-earned pension book. Old Mr. Throgmorton nearly parted company with his eyeballs, poor chap hadn’t seen anything like it since his time in Saigon.

The aim of this mayhem is, apparently, to raise money to be sent to whereever it is most needed.  I thought that our taxes were supposed to do that? But no, with our taxes being used to shore up corrupt and incompetent banks so that they can continue to oil the wheels of the capitalist juggernaut, the health and well being of us, the people, is left to Jonathan Ross and Peter Kay. Worse still, our copies of the latest James Patterson’s are getting a big dog-eared after a million borrowings. Will we get Comic Relief money to replace them? Wow. Charity money to large publishing house scandal, Hell’s Bells, things are getting a bit Sherdian.

Enjoy your Red Nose Day and have fun. Just don’t pretend that you are actually making a difference.

Anthea Turner

Hello darlings. Lady Pan Jammer here, bringing you the low-down from the social hoe-down of the year at Brighams on the Strand. Well it is only March.

We were either saving the whale, raising money for missiles or celebrating Holly Vallance’s new ‘record’. Viva la difference, I say. The main thing is the place was positively dripping with names. Put it this way, the editor of Hello would have had the mother of all orgasms if he’d been able to get any of his grubby little craparazzi inside.

However every silver lining has its inevitable cloud and there were a coterie of b-list hangers on as well, desperately looking for cameras to pout at and shrimp canapés to guzzle. Or vice versa. Among this sad little shower was former Blue Peter strumpette Anthea Turner, a woman so tacky she makes velcro look slippery. Mieow.

She was railing off about Hello and OK, as if they’d be interested any more, and you could see the Beckhams and the Douglas Zeta-Jones’s positively squirming with enriched embarrassment. I didn’t mind her rambling on about throwing tramps off the steps of the theatre but I couldn’t believe my ears when the bitch said that Manolo Blahnik made horrid shoes.

I was so cross I nearly spilt my drink. Thankfully I remained in control; a lady at all times of course, and calmly told her and anyone listening how her husband had given syphilis to Pippi van Muflin. Oh, did I say that out loud? I certainly did.

She claimed I was fabricating the entire thing until I told her Pippi said he had a dangleberry the size of a chipolata, a mole shaped like Norway on his derriere and a trumpet full of germs.

The whole incident was dreadfully distressing darlings and I can only thank Gucci for the restorative and consoling powers of Dr Bollinger. Why that man hasn’t received the Nobel Prize for Medicine I will never know.

After a few glasses of shampoo I was feeling ever so much better — if a little Schindlers — and my only discontent was that I had scuffed a perfectly good pair of Via Spigas by kicking that horrid Turner woman on her ample rump. Harsh words are all very well but sometimes the only language her type understands is violence.

An unfortunate consequence of delivering the blow was that it seemed to stir something in the loins of Foreign Secretary Jack Straw. You would have thought the funny little man would have enough on his plate with all this war nonsense but oh no, he stills find time to play hide the weapon of mass destruction with anyone that takes his fancy. He managed to get a grab of my inspectors but I beat him off before he could get a UN resolution, if you know what I mean.

Oh what a night. Sweeties I barely have time left to tell you about the roguishly handsome Jonathan Ross slipping behind the curtains with Judi Dench and coming back out ten minutes later whistling There’s Nothing Like A Dame. Or time to spill the skinny about a certain royal personage named Edward who told Kenny Branagh he’d back his new production in return for a special part. Said he’d be behind him all the way. Silly bitch.

But maybe it’s just as well I don’t have the time to tell you about Stephen Fry and the special trick he performed with two pomegranates, a xylophone and a small man named Bert. Public schoolboys, really.

Toodlepip darlings.

Lady P