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.

Commons

Hello darlings

I was in the House the other night — not my house you understand, a girl has to have a life. No, I was in the Houses of Parliament for a little champagne soiree being thrown by some Tory friends of my acquaint who were celebrating Tiresome Tony about to lose some big vote about student oiks. In the bag it was apparently.

Naturally I didn’t want to hear any of the weary details so I just stuck my nose in the old trough and snuckled up enough shampoo to refloat the Titanic. Well, that’s my excuse for what happened next.

One minute I was yawning down some Bolly and the next the scrumdiddlyumptious MP for Stud Muffington-On-Wye had dragged me into the first floor lavatorials with the intention of persuading me to let him go through the yes lobby. As you know darlings I normally have little interest in the introduction of a private members bill but I was absolutely squiffled. There I was, just about to be formally introduced to the honourable member, when the door opened and someone else entered the little boy’s room. In fact there was two of them — nice David Blunkett and that sweet doggy that guides him around the place.

We were as quiet as the quietest of little church mice but I could barely conceal a girlish giggle when I saw what he was doing. Poor dear Mr Blunkett wasn’t standing in front of his urinal properly at all and was actually widdling all over the floor. And his shoes. And his poor dog Lucy. I really did hope that she was going to dry herself off by rubbing against roly-poly Prescott’s legs. Horrid man.

Now you would have thought that the presence of the Home Secretary might just have cooled the ardour of the junior minister for something not very important at all. Au contraire. The dirty beast was keener than ever and he indicated that he wanted me to post the first vote in a silent ballot. Well darlings, I did say I was tashered.

So it was that I found myself kneeling on the floor of a two-hundred-year-old toilet engaged in important dialogue with a member of Her Majesty’s Government while the Home Secretary blissfully piddled on his loafers. The poor chap never knew a thing but his poor mutt looked particularly startled. I guess she hadn’t seen the like since Mo Mowlam gave old Blunkers the elbow. Oh did I say that out loud?

Mr Blunkett eventually dragged his dripping doggy back into the chamber — which seemingly gave the junior minister some fresh ideas of his own — and we were left to finish our discussion in relative peace. I did eventually succeed in calling him to order but I did have to bang his gavel a few times to get his attention.

He suggested we gave the bill a second reading but no longer being quite so terribly trousered — it is amazing how quickly one can sober up when one spots a piece of offending residue on one’s best Via Spigas — I politely declined.

And just as well it was too. When we left the confines of the gents we found there were five other members impatiently awaiting our emergence. It seems that word had got round that Lady P was on familiar terms with New Labour and they all wanted to personally find out if it were true. Ulrika!

Darlings I implore you not mention a word of this to a soul. Think of the damage to my reputation. If people got to thinking I was friendly with the bolshies then I’d never be able to show my face at the club again.

But sweeties, imagine what. The Labourites were so busy convincing me of the merits of the single transferable vote that they quite forgot the time. All six of them were going to vote against those bally top-up fees thingies and it meant that Tiresome Tony squeaked through and won the day. Yikes. Henny Throckmorton’s brother Bill is a Tory whip and if he finds out I spiked his rebellion jape then bang goes my chances of getting their chalet in Kloisters.

Oh darlings, what is a girl to do? Pass me the bottle and throw away the cork.

Toodlepip

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