Bomb Baghdad and Back Our Boys

Hello Darlings

I am too unaccountably traumatised to give you any social skinny this week. Shocked as I am by the onset of war in this land of ours. Well, I suppose it isn’t actually here, it’s over there, so I can tell you about a super anti-war beano that I went to last night.

Yes I know you might be a tad surprised to see lady P line up beside some of the lentil crunchers and lefties that normally populate such frightful bashes but sometimes we all have to take a stand for what is right. And I heard they were serving up some splendid shampoo.

While I am quite happy to see that Hussein chap being defrocked, I would be desperately sad if the poor Iraquois children were hurt in the process. In fact I’ve got a good mind to send some of last season’s dresses to tend to their seeping wounds. They may have nothing other than dust to eat but surely it would lift their spirits to have their lesions bound in finely cut Armani strips. How their fellow urchins would envy them.

Among those banging their cans last night was that silly strumpet Liz Hurley. She seemed to think that sending a message of peace to the world was best articulated by wearing a dress that was simultaneously slashed to the navel, the thigh and her London derriere. I believe the expression is slut.

And yet the Hurley harlot’s “Versace safety pins and teeth” act is only for the craperazzi. I have never known her to be in the company of a real man unless she was in front of a lens. I’m not saying that she’s necessarily a vaginatarian but I’m rather sure she spends a lot of time alone reading The Diary of Anne Frank. If you know what I mean.

Yes I know she used to bunk up with dear old Hugh Grant but although the tufty-haired little sweetums is totally adorable, he is hardly what you would call testosterone-driven, now is he? He is even lighter on his loafers than he is on camera. Put it this way darlings, the only hairy centre parting that he is interested in is on top of own scrummy little head.

The big question of course is how La Liz got that child thing inside her. There is no way that it is la thing de La Bing as that would have meant smudging her make-up. So we are either talking about a horrid basting brush episode involving the juice of some indigent actor or else she forgot her lines and played the casting couch cherub once too often with some pawing director. Meiow.

Anyway, apart from burly Hurley and her pneumatic breasts, there were all sorts of celebs desperate to be the caring, sharing face of the peace corps. Although I am fairly sure I also saw darling little Kylie Minogue at a Bomb Baghdad, Back Our Boys rally I was at the night before. Some people are such awful hypocrites.

Vanessa Felz was at the anti-war thing of course. Not that she gives a parrot’s penis for peace but she did seem keen to do her bit for global harmony by eating every vol-au-vent in sight. Perhaps she was afraid they would be sent to feed our brave boys at the front. Or that they would be dropped on the poor Iraquois urchuins and they would choke on them.

Talking of choking, I couldn’t begin to tell you how the rascally Angus Deayton did his bit to stop the war. Just suffice to say that poor Charlotte Church was unable to speak out against Blair on account of her mouth being full. And he didn’t say no to Bush either. Oh did I say that out loud?

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