Burger King Maker

Where do I begin with this one. Prince Charles has gone for McDonalds in his latest tirade. A case, I fear, of the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable, if I may borrow a phrase from Oscar Wilde (class mark 822.8).

Now, don’t get me wrong, you’ll never catch any member of the LLF passing through the Golden Arches in preference to the nearest organic lentil cafe. They are the very epitome of corporate evil – peddling inferior, mass-produced, animal based foodstuffs to the masses with the promise of good times and plastic toys, paying the staff peanuts (non-organic ones at that) and mercilessly demolishing the planet’s resources as they go. We welcome support from anyone in our mission to have this behemoth brought to justice. But Prince Charles?

We have always taken a republican stance (sorry, ma’am, but can we assume you’ll still be opening the new Sunnybank branch library this summer?) and believe, sisters and brothers, that there is no place for a monarchy in a civilised democratic society. Charles is entitled to his opinion, as we all are (provided your library card is up to date) but to be told not to eat at McDonalds by a prince of the realm who has looked up from his Krug and truffles just long enough to issue his decree just makes me want to go large as an act of revolutionary defiance. Hell’s Bells, things could get a bit Sheridan down at the drive-thru if that were to happen.

So you see our problem. Or at least it would be a problem had we failed to see through such an obvious bourgeois diversionary tactic. This is a cruel artisto trick. A conspiracy betwixt ailing corporate leviathans and our own dear Royal anachronism. While we are arguing about whether the Big Mac contains real beef, Charles can quietly get on with the business of shooting defenseless wildlife. Comrades, do not be fooled. We will not be duped by thoughts of nuggets and fries and will continue our campaign to have Burke’s Peerage weeded from stock. Not lovin’ it!

Telly ho

Hello sweeties

I was supposed to be at the opening of something last night. Dashed if I can remember what — a film, an art gallery, a bottle, an envelope. Who can keep up? (Not my Aristotle that’s for sure. If it weren’t for Viagra, I don’t think he could even raise a smile.)

Anyway as I was saying before I interrupted myself, I was due to attend some event or other that held promise of paparazzi, oodles of shampoo and enough dashing young men to light a lady’s candle at both ends. It should have been a memorable evening that I would happily have forgotten by the morning. But sadly it was not to be as some selfish beggar upped and died and the bally thing was cancelled.

Instead, I had to — darlings I can barely bring myself to say it — I had to stay in and watch television. How can poor people cope with having to do that every evening? It really is beyond me.

I watched EastEnders, which I believe is very popular, and it was nearly finished before I could make out what any of them were saying. Gosh isn’t it absolutely dreary? Horribly drab little people leading horribly drab little lives. So unrealistic. How can these people spend so much time in that scruffy little public house and still get work done? Truly, drink is the work of the cursing classes as dear old Oscar Wilde said.

To help me through the rigours of “telly watching” —as Marge, the lady who does for me, calls it — I naturally had to turn to the soothing qualities offered by Great Uncle Bollinger’s healing waters. If the poor people drank lashings of shampoo while they watched this tosh then it might almost be bearable for them. I really don’t know why more of them don’t try it.

Before long I was quite palintoshed, swearing at the goggle box like a trooper. Not terribly ladylike I must admit but have you seen the hogwash that is on there? There was salvation of a sort with a deliciously terrible programme called What Not To Wear where a couple of well-bred types called Skinny and Fat Anna make ugly people dress better. It’s a proper hoot.

Darlings I was laughing like a drain, I tell you. They dragged on these tasteless little trolls who looked like they had been dressed in the dark by blind idiots or held hostage by beggars. Then Skinny and Fat Anna made fun of them, poked them with sticks and called them lesbanians before dressing them up in the most ghastly creations and convincing them that they look lovely. Laugh? I nearly soiled the upholstery.

At the end they bring the trolls back on, newly decked out in Marks and Spencer’s finest tat and stand back in amazement at the transformation from council house trash to council house chic. All the while Skinny and Fat Anna are standing behind them sniggering and winking at the camera. Gosh you’ve got to love these gals. Well maybe not the fat one.

Talking of fashion faux pas, did you see that frightful Fergie stripped off for charity? The porky one wore nothing but a pair of darling Jimmy Choos that were most certainly not designed to adorn pig’s trotters. Uggh, pass the LSD and call me forgetful. Charity, my Aunt Belinda! That ginger trollop is keener to get her clothes off than your average rapist. Old velcro knickers, as the dear Queen Mum used to call her. Meiow.

Just time for a bit of skinny before I take my leave. Henny Throckmorton told me not to tell a soul but I know you won’t let it go any further. A certain socialite of our acquaint — no names, no pack drill but her initials are TPT — was seen congratulating the British athletics team at that bash in town on Monday. Henny says that TPT and the golden boys of the relay team were doing a spot of unauthorised baton changing that left the strumpette quite breathless. Word is that still wasn’t enough and la Tara was miffed that they only went round the once. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Toodlepip

Lady P