Goldenballs

Blimey, I can’t believe all this locomotion about Sir David Beckham and this bit of Spanish skirt he’s supposed to have been knocking up. Can’t a man have any fun these days without it being plastered all over the bleedin papers?

This Loos woman who he’s been doing shooting practice with ain’t much of a looker but maybe she likes the tumble dryer on full tilt if you get my meaning. Many a man will tell you that if his smalls get a good wringing out a couple of times a week then it don’t matter if the dryer has to be hidden away in a cupboard. After all, you don’t look at the cistern while you are pumping the toilet, now do you? And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

So what if Beckham did give her one? Look he’s a fit, young bloke with normal bloke urges. His missus is away making music so he makes hay while the sun shines. And let’s face it, he’s in Spain so the sun shines all the flippin time. What does she expect him to do? Think of Gary Neville and hope it goes away? Course not.

Look the man is a bleedin demi-God and women are throwing themselves at him, luring him with paella and sangria and tickets for bullfights and all sorts. He may be a demi-God but he’s only flippin human. Listen, I’ve been to Torremo-bleedin-linos and I know what them sultry senoritas are like. Can’t keep their hands off us white men.

And anyways let’s face it, Lady McBeckham is hardly the kind of woman to keep a man happy is she? She’s so flipping arachnaphobic she makes the ladies of the Auschwitz dieting club look like Vanessa Feltz. I’ve seen more meat in a McDonald’s hamburger. Well, not really.

What is it with the mongrel press in this country? They can’t be happy just with pictures of Beckham’s latest haircut, oh no. They have to go printing the flipping truth all the time. Who’s interested in that? Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does. These tabloid journalists, these scumnalists, they should be strung up by their exclusives.

It’s high time the press in this country went back to the days when they kept things from the working man that they didn’t need to know. The old kings and the old queens used to be at it like rabbits and no-one was ever the wiser. The dear old Queen Mum once had the entire 3rd division of the Household Cavalry one cold winter’s night but you never read about that in the Daily Mirror did you? Instead we had proper stories about the price of bread, the suffering of the little Biafrans and the role of women in the workplace. Proper bleedin news, not stuff the likes of us don’t need to know. Blimey.

Look mate, if Beckham scores against the Froggies in Euro 2004 then I don’t care if he scores with every senorita between here and Barca-bleedin-lona. And what’s more I don’t want to read about it or see pictures of it. Well, unless the bird is better looking than that one he was shagging last week obviously. No offence meant.

And you know what? Do you? If Beckham isn’t absolutely flippin brilliant this summer then it will be the tabloid scumnalists’ fault for putting him right off his game. Bleedin treason so it is.

Come on you newspaper executors, get your act together. More stories about starving Biafrans. Less stories about Beckham’s nookie. It’s the patriotic thing to do.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb

Posh Kidnap

What a rumpus about that so-called kidnap attempt on Mrs Posh Beckham by a gang of crazed Romanian gypsies. As usual the newspapers got it all wrong.

Fair enough, it wasn’t nice that the gypos wanted to abduct Lady Victoria, hold her for a £5m ransom and threaten to chop her up into tiny pieces. That kind of behaviour just isn’t called for.

But everybody seemed to miss the point. If a gang of hooligans is going to kidnap your high-profile celebrities, why do we need cheap overseas labour to do it?

There are plenty of kidnappers in the UK who could have done the job just as well. In fact they could have done it a whole lot better. How difficult can it be to get an Essex girl into the back of a van?

But oh no, forget the fact that there’s shedloads of honest, tax-paying British villains who would kill for a chance to kidnap the Beckhams. Instead just get some scab Johnny Foreigner labour to do the job for half the price. No wonder this country’s going to the dogs.

And at the end of the day we all pay the price. Do you think that Albanian assassins pay their stamp? No and neither do Polish plumbers, Kosovan carpenters or Namibian navvies.

Scabs the lot of them, prepared to work for washers and do your honest, local tradesman out of a job. Okay we may charge a bit over the odds and change a perfectly good u-bend for no reason, but that’s what living in a democracy is all about.

Put it this way, if you get an Afghan asylum seeker round to sort your cistern and tell him your ballcock needs twisted back into position then you better make damn sure he speaks the proper lingo.

I always tell my apprentices that it doesn’t pay to put a two bob washer on a ten quid tap. And, as we all know, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

If you pay peanuts you get monkeys, you pay scab labour and you get scabs. Simple law of physics.

Mr David Beckham should just be grateful that it wasn’t a gang of proper, registered, time-served British kidnappers that were after Mrs Posh. She’d have been sliced into thin (even thinner) pieces and popped through his letter-box before you could say Dago Forlan.

Buy British, pay for proper plumbers and save celebrities from assassination. You know it makes sense.

Plumb on.