It’s party time yet again and I have drunkled shampoo from Penzance to Pinner in an Amazonian effort to bring you all the skinny of the season. And believe me darlings, a girlie of my repute should not be in Pinner unless kidnapped by a gang of asylum seeking rapists. Ah the things a girl must do for some luscious gossip and a bucket of bubbly.
But oh was it worth it. Skinny? Positively anorexic, darlings.
You will have read in the ghastly tabloids that Diana, queen of tarts was preggers when she died. I know that’s hardly stop-press goss, it’s news that is colder than Camilla’s knickers. No darlings the hot news is waaay better than that. Oh such skinny.
I’ll tell you but you must promise not to breathe a word of it to a soul. I swore to Henny Throckmorton that I wouldn’t tell anyone so really you musn’t.
Well anyway, Henny says Pippi Van Muflin knows a gal who knows the strumpette’s old gyno and he told her that the father of the unborn was not old Dodi Fayed at all. Noooooo.
It seems that Professor Prod was doing his annual poking around inside Diana, something not unknown in gentlemen of her acquaintance, when he discovered that she was up the duff. Heavens to Queen Betsy. A quick count and a look through her blondeness’s diary gave no clearer clue to the identity of the owner of the seed in question. Di was able to narrow it down to 14 but apparently it could have been any one of the touring Harlem Globetrotters, substitutes included. Oh did I say that out loud?
Diana wracked the recesses of her brain — a process which could not have taken very long at all — but the poor trollop couldn’t be sure which of the studmuffin basketballers had been guilty of a double dribble. All she knows is one of them scored with a shot from outside the circle.
Darlings if what I’ve heard is true then it’s likely that the luscious tall boy will have put it into the ring off the backboard. Each to their own sweeties, who am I to judge?
Anyway, Henny says Diana only took up with the Fayed chap because she wanted someone who had a touch of the old tar brush. That way no-one would be surprised when the sprogling came out a bit on the dark side. You have to give the silly old tart a bit of credit for thinking on her feet. Especially when she was much more used to being on her back. Mieow.
Can you imagine Her Maj’s fizzog if the trampette ex daughter-in-law had given birth to a seven foot tall son of the Commonwealth? Not that he would be that tall when he was born — my Bolly that would have brought tears to Diana’s eyes, even with the amount of practice she has had at opening wide.
Not that I am blaming her for having a healthy appetite or being in the saddle more often than the Household Cavalry. The poor gal often went hungry because Charlie preferred to use the servant’s pantry or follow his valet through the lavender passageway. A girl’s got to eat.
So darlings, next time someone talks about Di being preggers then for goodness sake don’t mention my name but maybe just snigger a bit and start whistling Sweet Georgia Brown. She had a ball, she’s in a basket.