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

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

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.