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I was rather disgusted to hear that Princess Di's much-lauded frock collection was not at its best this week.
"There were stains on the front of the dresses," the nationals informed us in hushed tones. Stains? Stains? For Christ's sake the girl was flogging off the old stuff for over ú300,000 a go, couldn't she have whacked them through the wash first? Anyway what sort of stains? Is Will Carling going to be blushing once more if the whole thing gets analysed? And given her much-publicised tussle with bulimia I dread to think what marks may be down the front of the evening ones.
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All most unsavoury. But not half as unsavoury as those pics of mad Michael Barrymore and his wife posing in the Mirror, all lovey dovey and glad to be back and all.
"Now he's getting real help," breathed Cheryl in the tabloid. Sweetie, I think you're the one that needs help. Legal help. After all the chaps already gone out and confessed that he prefers tussling with the tonsils of his own sex. He's an alcoholic. His jokes aren't even all that funny. Okay, if a chap's rich you can perhaps think of all the frocks and put up with him farting in bed, but methinks he's pushed the whole thing a little too far. Grab the alimony and run girl.
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If Ms Barrymore's worried about appearing callous, she would at least have been overshadowed by the example set by Cindy Jackson. The woman's just spent ú60,000 turning herself into a walking Barbie doll. Now whilst I applaud the old girl - she's 41 - for managing to shack up, post surgery with a man half her age, even I balked a little at her funding methods.
She got the money from her newly departed pop, and now says the best thing he ever did was die so she could spend the cash on remodelling the old visage, having unfortunately inherited her "slitty eyes, big nose and heavy jaw" off her pop. Nice girl. Still, I don't know why she bothered remodelling herself for today's men, because they're not really that much cop, according to the magazine XL for Men. New Men, it says, as if we haven't already noticed, are slobs who prefer to have sex with the light off. Apparently nine out of ten of them prefer nookie in the darkness. Probably none of them have realised that it's the women who are springing for the light switch, so we can use our imagination about what we actually brought home that night. Interesting to see the cockiness of London men though. Apparently 18% believed themselves to be well-endowed - the highest percentage in the country. Given that the 80% of the local population I've had already were on the minute side I look forward to what's to come.
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Still even if we bemoan our lot with men, at least the buggers have slightly more style than your average budgie. According to New Scientist, boffins who have carried out research on budgies - quite why they should want to do so escapes me - have found they are utter tarts.
Apparently after a male has strutted his stuff with the female bird, within seconds of moving him away from his mate and into a cage with another bird he'll be tweeting Pretty Boy noises at her. |
Still nice to see the original mates reaction when the cheeping bastard returned. The moment the unfaithful budgie was put back with his mate, she proceeded to jab him with her beak.
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Which is presumably just the reaction the Mirror was hoping for when it followed up a series of lonely hearts ads placed by married men. 'Handsome wild, young 39, loves wild places, riding on the heath, making love in the afternoon," was the somewhat hopeful ad placed by "Larry", a greying man in a shabby suit who was hoping to play a bit an away match from his wife of 12 years.
 I presume the fixture's off then mate, seeing as The Mirror helpfully printed your photo as you slobberingly lunged for the reporter's lips. I trust Di was not the only one with unsavoury stains down the front of her clothes after little Larry returned to his waiting wife.
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