Sven Goran Eriksson

Blimey what a rammy about Sven giving it large to that bird from the FA. Can you Adam and Eve that they were going to sack him just for having a bit of extra time with a secretary? Bleedin crackers.

If they wanted to give him the boot because he couldn’t get his team to beat a bunch of waiters in the Euros then that would have been fair enough but not just for a bit of how’s your father. Look the bloke is Swedish, he can’t help himself. They are all it over there, nothing else to do is there? Blimey I’ve seen enough videos to know what they’re like.

If you’re brought up in the fjords, Abba records on all the time and nothing but porn on the telly then it’s hardly surprising that you are going to grow up and not be able to keep it in your trousers. The man’s only human.

England should be proud that they’ve got a manager who makes all that top totty want to get inside his tracksuit. For years there was blokes like Graham Taylor and Kevin Keegan who had all the sex appeal of a digestive biscuit. Saint Glen Hoddle was too busy raising the dead or what ever it was he did and El Tel always had his finger in pies but never cherry ones. As for poor old Sir Bobby Robson, by the time your average footballer-chasing slapper had strapped on the jump leads and waited for a bucket of Viagra to take effect he’d probably have wet himself twice. Blimey.

So let’s hear it for Sven. As a football coach he’s flippin rubbish — I give you two words, Emile Bleedin Heskey — but when it comes to pulling birds he’s a genius. He’s nearly bald, he’s got stupid teeth, he wears glasses and he always looks like he’s just sat on a hairbrush. Yet he pulls the toppest totty in totty town on totty day.

Okay Ulrikaka doesn’t really count because she’s had more footballers than Manchester United. If that woman isn’t a nymphocrazy then I’ve never added a little surcharge owing to the fact that I didn’t like someone. Blimey she’s looser than a van load of WD40.

But that Nancy Dell’Olliollio is a bit of all right. There’s something about Italian women that make you think of Spain, isn’t there? Ariba, ariba. That women could make a pan of pasta sauce boil over at ten paces. She’s a whole lot of woman but even that wasn’t enough for our Sven. He wanted amore.

I’m not sure about this secretary bird though. She looks dirty right enough but it seems like she’s done dictation for half the building. Would you really want seconds after the Greek bloke had dipped his taramasalata? Not bleedin likely.

Still, you’ve got to take your cap off to Sven. He might look like he should be lying on Tesco’s fish counter but he can pull birds like a man with a knife.

Just goes to show, never judge a book by its cover or a swede by its turnip. Even an apprentice who doesn’t know shit from chocolate knows that you can look at a cistern lid but you can never tell what’s inside. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Don’t sack Sven, give him his head. Oo’er missus.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb.

Footballers Lives

Hello sweeties

My what a terrible kerfuffle over those beastly football chaps who have been locked up in Spain. The molesters from Leicester as Hotwire Harry my driver called them this morning.

I don’t read the ghastly tabloids myself of course but Harry tells me that the molesters broke into the rooms of some unsuspecting young maidens and forced themselves upon them. Darlings I would not normally condone violent retribution of any sort but I really do think that these chaps should have their tackle banned.

Harry tells me that one of the ruffians is named Dickov and I think that is a very good idea indeed. I am led to believe that a pair of rusty shears does the job splendidly.

Now my lawyer, dear old Mr Brocket, says that I shouldn’t simply assume that they did it and that it’s terribly important I don’t say they are guilty in these little memoirs de moi. Well stopcocks to that I say. If they are like any other football players whose acquaint that I have been unfortunate enough to make then they are as guilty as Michael Jackson in a kindergarten with the curtains closed. (Mr Brocket says I can’t say Jackson is guilty either but paedophile is as paedophile does as Henny always says.)

Hang the shits from the roof of the opera house and don’t spare La Traviata.

One of the most unfortunate consequences of the modern age is that these football johnnies have all suddenly become squillionaires without the necessary background or breeding to know how to carry it off. If their families had spent a generation or two shooting peasants or stealing land from robber barons then they might have the decorum to sup lobster consommé without feeling the urge to fart the theme tune from Flipper.

It means that the likes of myself, to the manor born as it were, has to mix socially with young men whose idea of class is to sniff their charlie off a platinum credit card. Or even worse, wear Versace. Uggh.

Many a time I have attended a superior social soiree only to have it completely ruined by a selection of footballer chaps widdling in the fountain or rogering their way through the attendant posse of television weather girls. Darlings, you didn’t hear it from me but old orange-skinned Sian Lloyd has entertained more footballers than the brass band that plays before the cup final. Oh did I say that out loud?

Not so long back I was speaking to two of those nice young men from Manchester United and admittedly I was ever so slightly spongolled on account of having shipped a raft of Great Uncle Bollinger’s finest shampoo. So when they suggested that I might like a roast I naturally imagined they were inviting me for Sunday lunch. Ulrika! Was a girl ever so misled? Apparently it is quite the done thing among footballers these days but I’d never felt so violated since Richard Whitely dripped sweat over my best Via Spigas.

Now if you ask me it is quite unnatural for these young chaps to want to share a lady in this manner. I realise that they are used to performing in front of a crowd but I do have to wonder if they are not ever so slightly manosexual. Finella Funell’s cousin Jeremy used to overly enjoy team games at Harrow and he’s now singing in the chorus of Les Mis. His poor mother is quite distraught but it doesn’t stop her blagging tickets for West End shows.

So not only are the Leicester molesters guilty (sorry Mr Brocket) but they are almost certainly as gay as Christmas in Elton John’s house. Darlings this of course does not make them bad people, some of my best friends are hairdressers — I say friends, I of course mean retainers. But for them to pretend to be macho football types yet really be longing to bite the bye-line is just too much.

So throw away the key Senor Judgarista and rust up the shears. They won’t be needing their balls in prison.

Toodlepip.

Shampoo

I am in mourning this morning sweeties. Lady P’s fragile little heart has been split into more pieces than Ulrika Jonnson has had football players. My darlingest little Hernando, the best hairdresser this side of heaven, has passed on into that great salon in the sky. I am truly devastated — I’ve got the premier of Chicago on Friday night and my split ends are ghastly.

Apparently Hernando and his friend Alf were playing some game involving domestic pets and a particularly strong hallucinogen when poor Hernie took a heart attack to himself and popped his heated rollers. Such a loss to the world of hair couture. Such a loss to me darlings. At least I can console myself with the thought that lovely Marilyn Monroe can get her celestial roots done by an expert.

Henny Throckmorton has recommended her stylist — a frightful fellow by the name of Bilbo. I told her that I’d certainly give him a tinkle. That is, if I ever fancied having my hair looking like it could accommodate a family of not too fussy sparrows. I swear sweeties, that woman has all the style of Anne Widdecombe but without the shapely hips. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Of course I have drunk a toast to my noble Hernando. And a toast to his hamster which sadly took fright at his master’s demise and burrowed his way towards eternal suffocation. And a toast too to his poor friend Alf who had to face the indignity of accompanying the constabulary to their station while wearing a pair of last year’s shoes. How awful.

Yes darlings, the brutal shock of having Hernando taken so cruelly from me so near to meeting Richard Gere has driven me into the comforting arms of Great Uncle Bollinger. I have drank so much shampoo that I’ve been druck-steaming since last Tuesday. Off me pickle as Marge, the lady who does for me, likes to say.

Aristotle, that handsome old millionaire mongrel of a husband of mine, has seen fit to take advantage of the situation to resume marital relations. I was so spangled the other night that his train entered the station for the first time since Dr Beeching closed the line. Don’t worry though sweeties, as soon as the shampoo wears off he’ll be back to riding in the guards van on his own.

But in the meantime I needed to find a crimper extraordinaire to look after the Pan Jammer locks. I was offered Velasquez, the Danish-Algerian who does Vanessa Felz but he isn’t even gay. And anyway if he’s used to tending to La Felz then he’ll be expecting black puddings and cream cakes and I’m simply not prepared to tolerate such excess during the day.

Think of me sweeties, think of poor Pandora as the prospect of Richard Gere’s loins looms large in my horizon and my follicles remain unloved. What a cruel world in which we must live.

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.