Bolly ho

Hello sweeties

I know, I know. You have been beside your little selves with worry about my erstwhile whereabouts and well-being. Don’t think I am not touched darlings, I truly am. But worry ye not, rumours of my demise, much like Carol Vorderman’s bust, are greatly exaggerated. Mieow.

Oh the tittle tattle there has been about Lady P’s non-appearance on the social scene. Much more tittle than tattle let me tell you. Henny Throckmorton told me she’d heard I had absconded with a dashing Colombian drug baron and had been forced into being his sexual plaything. A scrumptious thought darlings but no more true than the vicious scuttlebutt that I had removed myself from society because I couldn’t find a suitable pair of shoes to wear. I tell you if I ever discover the monger of that particularly nasty piece of rumour then I will have their garters for guts and their lawyer licking my best Guccis.

No darlings, the truth is not as glamorous as the drug dealing Don Juan nor as ghastly as the prospect of Pandora shorn of suitable shoes. It is not something of which I am proud yet I have learned that neither is it something of which I should be ashamed. I am a victim. A victim of champagne.

Yes I, Lady Pandora Jammer of Jammer Hall in Buckinghamshire, have of late been resident in the Priory Clinic in the ghastly county of Essex. But why I hear you ask? Why you sensible Lady P who was never seen in an unfit state and only ever drank shampoo to be sociable and to supplement the enjoyment of others? Hard as it is to believe sweeties, there were those who thought that occasionally Lady P over-indulged.

It was my Aristotle, insisting that he was looking after my best interests, who declared that I was “a drunk, a tramp and an unfit mother.” He really does care for me you know.

Aristo said I should get me to the Priory and not return until Bollinger had at least replenished their European cellars. Such a dreadful bore darlings and really such an imposition when Henley and Wimbers had been in the offing. I hear tell that the All-England Club is forecasting a slump in profits because they had overstocked the Number One Shampoo bar. Such damnable cheek.

So it is that I have been wrapped in the most unflattering robes, munching on rabbit food and slurping nothing more inviting than — I can hardly bring myself to say it — mineral water. Apart that is from the Bolly and the Lambert & Butlers that young cousin Freddie managed to sneak past the guards. A lifesaver the little stud muffin was I tell you. Nor was it without danger to himself that he used his boyish charm to beguile the lesbian ogres — residents of Lesbania they may have been but they would have ridden poor Freddie’s chariot at the drop of a laurel leaf, believe you me.

Truly it was tough love darlings, as our American cousins insist on saying. Week after week after tortuous week with no more than the most meagre rations to sustain one. I hope that none of you ever have to experience the horror of having only two bottles of Bolly to last a week.

However the entire loathsome exercise has proved worthwhile. I am a stronger woman, more able to resist the temptations of the bottle, the tobacco weed and the flesh. More importantly, Aristo has restored my allowance and I’m back off the leash. Memo to Great Uncle Bollinger — whip those froggie peasants within an inch of their lives, Lady P is back on the scene and I’m going to celebrate my new temperate self by getting as palintoshed as a family of newts.

The girl is back in town!

PS One of the lesbian ogres at the Priory told me that Kate Winslett is a regular visitor. Apparentment, she likes to get lashed on rum and have the ogres spank her bare bottom with a cat o’ nine tails while screaming “Avast, me hearties, I’m a baaad girl”. Oui, c’est vrai. 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

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.