If my husband and I were the future King and Queen and had flown to New Zealand with our very bonny 8 month old son I would NOT have done the following things on touch down:
Dressed as an ageing air hostess to exit the plane
Worn treacherous high heels on aircraft steps
Been the one grappling with the baby, the hat, the curls, the dress and skirt hems in a whipping wind whilst the Daddy and the Nanny swing their arms nearby
And talking of the new royal nanny, where has she been all her life? The woman is the colour of a mushroom and is wearing clothes that are two sizes too big.
So Brucie is leaving Strictly. Let’s all pretend to be sad……
OK, I’m over it already.
Now they need to do is get rid of the dead-behind-the-eyes bedsheet wearing Tess Daly and inject a bit of pizz-azz into the proceeding with one of the following combos:
Claudia the speed talking fringe and Rylan Clark
Janet Street Porter and Louis Spence
Mary Beard and Cliff Richard
John Barrowman and Emma Willis
Karen Hardy and Russell Grant
Ann Widdecombe and Anton du Beke
Dermot O’Leary and Susannah ReidohnoIcan’tbecauseIdefected fromthebbcdammit
Russell Brand and Mary Berry
Mel and Sue
Any other suggestions?
So I was sat in the passenger seat of my daughter’s brand new car thinking how grand life is. She’s got a job, and now a car. I am liberated from being her 24 hour on call chauffeur and her account at The Bank of Mum and Dad is closed. I started to hum the ‘Circle of Life’ and was even enjoying a bit of euphoric chin dancing when she did an emergency stop.
“What’s wrong?” I asked
“Like you don’t know” she replied
“What?” I had no clue why she’d suddenly braked, “Is it the humming? Is it putting you off driving?”
She nodded her head in the direction of my hands which were holding a small and half peeled banana and she could not have looked more disgusted if I had been cupping a sloppy cow pat.
It transpires than in HER car there are rules and there shalt be no eating in her brand new vehicle is top of the nots..
When I think of the things she has sprayed over the interior of my car during her growing up years all I can say is that’s bloomin’ rich. The list includes vomit, assorted dog poos, ice cream, chocolate, biscuits, peanut butter sandwich bits, fizzy drinks, fruit juice, Pringle shards, MacDonaldskentuckyfiredchickenpizzahut combos and more recently cider, make up and J’Lo perfume. And what about the time I drove her and her pet rabbit to the vet and the febrile bunny leapt out of the pet carrier and set to work pebble dashing my fabric interiors with poo pellets?
I’m a right rebel so staring hard at her I slid the entire banana into my mouth and then tri folded the skin down to the size of a, slimy. matchbox and made a big production of putting it into my mac pocket.
Seemed like a powerful protest gesture at the time, until four hours later when my fingers found it again……..
Last week’s finale of ‘Line of Duty’ got me so trussed up in whodunnit bafflement that there were a few moments when I was sat wondering whether I was somehow involved in the ambush?
But, incredibly, there has been an even finer example of losing the plot since last Wednesday. It comes with today’s launch of the latest ‘Leading Ladies’ ad campaign from M&S.
At hooooooooooooooooooooooooge expense Annie Leibovitz and her camera were hauled over the Atlantic to photograph a collection of British women reclining on Camber Sands.
Emma Thompson is there, legs akimbo and laughing maniacally. Other feministas lurking in the long grass include Baroness Doreen Lawrence, Rita Ora and Alex Wek. They appear to have been directed to look po faced and to gaze into the middle distance. Oh, and everyone is dressed in instantly forgettable frocks and scarves.
Meanwhile, off Camber Sands and back on the High Street, women shoppers know that M&S women’s fashion is a chamber of horrors.
There’s the Nuns-Only collection of skirts and cardigans in navy and beige. A pyscho-daub stoned off your head corner where everything has an assymetric hem. Oh, and the why not match your pleated skirt to your wicker shopping trolley on wheels range, available only in pearlescent neutral shades? All items are available in size 8 or size 24, only.
Moving along to their undies there are rails of scanties for to women who twerk for a living, but for any gal who just wants to cover her ass prettily but cheaply the choice is a five pack of parachutes. Ideal if you want to craft a Yurt from your knickers.
I have a radical idea for the M&S fashion team. Design some fresh, wearable good quality and great value clothes and photograph them on hangers to sell them. Let all the inspirational women go free – back to work doing what they do best – and stop insulting the intelligence of us less inspirational women.
Until that happens my M&S pound will only be spent on Percy Pigs.And I do hope my Percys are safe from a cheesey. top dollar Annie Leibovitz /Miss Piggy sales campaign?
Here’s what’s been happening to me in the past week, at a gallop.
I spent an evening with a parrot called GinGin. He is such a smart guy he is secured in his cage with a combination padlock to stop him letting himself in and out. GinGin is arthritic so he falls off his perch several times a night and is put back on it by his patient pj wearing owner. Parrots live on average for 95 years so they are much more of a commitment than a marriage, or a hamster. And as they reach such a ripe old age – why don’t parrots go grey?
My husband and I are home alone for the first time in 28 years. We can’t decide whether to swing naked from the chandelier or drink cocoa in the ear buzzing silence. Must put a chandelier on my (now very short) weekly shopping list.
I ordered a swing dress for my Spring wardrobe. It has arrived and I am available for rent as a marquee tent. BIG sartorial mistake.
Watched Michael McIntyre’s Chat Show. People tell me he is very funny but somehow he has passed me by. I couldn’t figure out why it was Mr McIntyre himself who was doing most of the laughing at his own jokes….and why there was no chat.
Discovered Golden Kiwi. They make me dribbly happy.
So I sat up for the Oscars even though my eyelids frequently objected and tried to disobey me and close for the night – especially when the Sky coverage flipped back to the studio in London where Emilia Fox, Ben Miller and Boyd Hilton were sat like three effigies on a couch. If they had been hired not to be insightful. lively and entertaining then they did a terrific job.
In Hollywood I was surprised by how many seasoned actors muffed their presenter roles. There was more fluff on stage than in my belly button. And my belly button is deep. Sweaty upper lips, speed-talking Pinky and Perky style and freestyling with the pronunciation of names was the order of the night. John Travolta, who looked like Herman from the Munsters, renamed Idina Menzel live on stage, introducing her as Adele Dazeem, Maybe that’s her scientology name?
‘Nood’ should be banned as a frock shade of non-choice . It should be compulsory to razzle dazzle the pj wearing viewers with a lot of colour. Do it like Lupita Nyong’o. Her dress was a burst of joy in the proceedings, although if my late mother was watching she would have warned Lupita about the bronchial dangers of not keeping her chest warm.
And what is it with peplums? They make women with big bellies and bums look like Jabba the Hut and small waisted and teeny assed women look like, who knows because you can’t get a look at what lies beneath.
Liza-with-an-eek Minnelli looked alarming in a blue nylon trouser suit that needed to be accessorised with it’s own fire extinguisher. Her sister Lorna Luft was wafting around with a piece of timber up her frock. If kitchen tables could walk Lorna is what they’d look like.
Mathew McConaughey’s wife came as the Queen of the 3,457th most important country in the world in a bridesmaid pink gown with a natty built in cape.
Ellen was a laugh and a half all night and proved that a big smile and a great personality work a lot better than surgery and/or botox when it comes to looking good.
You might think I am daft but I love this joke:
A three-legged dog walks into a Saloon in the Wild West. He tells all the cowboys sat there, “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.”
Having had four babies in three years I know all about the post-partum period and it’s thrills and , ahem, spills. Characteristics include a jelly belly, extreme knackerisation, eyebags the size and colour of coal sacks and boobs that spurt like the Trevi fountain.
So what I want to know is how Lauren Silverman, baby Eric Cowell’s Mummy, just 5 days after delivering can, according to photos in the Daily Mail, be into spray on tight leather trousers? Where is her new-mommy-nappy hiding? The woman’s eye liner is perfectly applied and her hair actually brushed up into a ponytail?
And if that wasn’t enough to be baffled by, the very next day more pictures appeared of the new family on a beach in Miami. In these Mum and Dad are having a little snog, their dog is having a lick of the baby’s face and the newborn is sucking on a bottle of milk that no-one is holding. It’s just stuffed into his mouth. Lauren’s wafting around in some baby-dollesque number and Simon is topless. It ‘s like a celebrity version of Shameless
I know they are uber-loaded and in their luxury homes there are maternity nurses swinging off the chandeliers in every room – but Lauren and Simon should try spending a day in their dressing gowns, sat on a sofa and taking turns to nuzzle their newborn. In private. It’s a million billion trillion dollar feeling.
On Saturday I drove to to the little fringe theatre , parked nicely and neatly and legally on their forecourt and Mr Anna May and I quick-stepped in from the wind and the rain to collect our tickets.
In the queue for the box office I began was counting down in my head until he said it, and I didn’t have to wait long. It was 53 and a quarter seconds before he announced, “I won’t be a minute” and dashed out the door.
“I won’t be a minute” is code for “You are an almighty gonk who is incapable of parking a car and I am now going outside to to move it two inches to the left and straighten it up a bit because if I don’t the future of mankind will be in jeopardy.” Pointless precision parking is a kind of four-wheel tic he has developed in his senior years. I think it’s linked to his prostrate.
While he was outside doing his superhero parking thing there was a ‘happening’ going on in the foyer. In front of a small audience three women,who were dressed like the Homepride Flour people, were preparing giant Iced Gems(the bite size biscuits with a blob of icing on top, not the lettuces) and being filmed. The room was Church silent.
I was baffled.com. Was it stand up comedy? But no-one was laughing. Was it dance? But no-one was dancing. I asked the woman on my right if it was a performance of some kind and she hissed back “Ssssshhh!” She had three plaits,smelt of chick peas and was wearing a tartan sofa cover.
Mr Anna May arrived back and asked in a voice that would have been conversational if everyone else in the room was talking. But because they weren’t his remark boomed around the space, “What’s this load of wank about, then?”
ps: Apparently it was tactile performance installation art, donchaknow?
It was BAFTA night 2014! So I slapped on some sparkly eyeliner , popped a cocktail umbrella into my Ovaltine and settled down for a night with the stars.
I was yearning glitz and glamour but instead got Stephen Fry who is looking very much like a bloodhound these days. He spoke mostly in words of 5 syllables or more – and none of them were interesting or amusing.
I yawned a lot,and not because it was bedtime. Seeing Lupita Nyong in that divine green dress was the only moment when I wished I was a movie star. The rest of the actress pack looked like they’d shopped at the Debenhams Blue Cross Sale event.
Angelina Jolie couldn’t even be assed to climb into a dress. She went for vampire make up and a louche dress suit finished off with an ‘I am soooo bored’ expression. Cate Blanchett, also in black, exuded smug.
Oprah Winfrey looked like a balloon that was ready to pop in a Stella McCartney frock. Sartorial style note to Stella.. ….one must measure one’s client’s bosoms before trying to stuff them into a lace bodice.
Helen Mirren was so far up herself I am amazed they found her in time to present her with her lifetime achievement award. Poncy Bonkers is my summation of her acceptance speech.
And has anyone ever told Emma Thompson to ‘calm down, dear’ before she launches into her hop, skip, jump routine at every televised red carpet event? That woman needs to make friends with 2mcg of Diazepam before getting into the cab on a big night out. No wonder Greg Wise looks so exhausted.
The most fun I had was betting on the getting high stakes. I am talking hair. Helen McCory romped home with a Pompidou-do, closely followed by Oprah, Fearne Cotton, the previously named and shamed Emma Thompson and Noel Gallagher.
For The British Assortment of Frumpy Tired-looking Actors I have a message from a super fan – do better in 2015.
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