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

Review of 2002

YEARS ARE like pipes – you can look back at them, up them, down them or  along them but you can’t change the crap that was in them. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

In January, Johnny Foreigner and his continental cousins threw away their money and started spending this new Euro thingy instead. Quite right too, I say. If we have to go to their hot and smelly countries on holiday then there’s less chance of us being confused by all the different funny money they used to have. Just don’t try the same with the pound, Johnny!

Then in February, the nation was gripped by curlers for the first time since Hilda Ogden went to that great corner shop in the sky. If only Rhona Martin hadn’t looked like Lily Savage’s harder sister then she’d have made a fortune.

All in all, 2002 was a good year to be a friend of Dorothy. Paul Burrell didn’t get knicked for thieving Diana’s gear, Will Young had his first number one and Michael Barrymore learned to swim. Sadly, it was the year of the queens but not the Queen’s year.

After 50 years on the throne (a plumber’s nightmare if ever I heard one) her Maj and the rest of the nation were in mourning in March for the dear old, darling Queen Mum, cruelly taken from us in her prime. Never again will those lovely yellow teeth light up our lives. Never again will the smell of
stale biscuits waft down the Mall in the morning. It was the annus horribilus to end all annuses. Oh and Princess Margaret died too.

In April Little Lord Beckham broke a bone in his foot and suddenly the metatarsal was the country’s most famous bone since Linford Christie retired. There is clearly some link between bones, dogs and South Korea that runs alongside metatarsal, Victoria Beckham and the World Cup but it’s beyond me.

In May, Roy Keane left the Irish World Cup camp in the huff. It left Mick McCarthy without a pyschotic, leg-breaking midfielder but he failed in a last gasp bid to call up Martin McGuinness as a replacement. By June the World Cup and the Jubilee were in full swing and flags of St George were
selling like pillow cases at a Ku Klux Klan convention.

In July a man waved a fake gun at Hear’Say at a motorway service station. Fake pop band, fake gun, seems fair enough. Next thing you know someone will be waving an arse at Robbie Williams.

Guns were in the news again in August and September when America was terrorised by the Washington sniper, or George W Bush as he is known. George has disproved the myth that any American boy can grow up to be President. Now you don’t even have to grow up.

One of the most tragic moments of the year was in October when 128 people died after the siege of a Moscow theatre. The biggest tragedy was that Will and Gareth hadn’t been on a tour of eastern Europe at the time.

In November our brave, heroic firefighters bravely and heroically laid down their poker hands to stand bravely and heroically on the picket line to demand a 40 per cent pay rise, a new cue for the pool table and an ACAS agreement on whether one-eyed jacks should count as floaters.

In December Cherie Blair got into bother over her involvement with a lying conman. She was also in trouble for her relationship with Australian fraudster Peter Foster. Lady Macbeth was also shocked by reports that Osama bin Laden wore a Cherie Blair mask for Halloween.

When we look back on 2002 and remember floods and fires, lost jobs and lost Royals, we shouldn’t be too gloomy. Don’t think of 2002 as the year of economic and environmental disasters, instead remember it as the year Jeffrey Archer spent in jail. Wasn’t so bad after all, was it?

Plumb on

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.