Extraordinary times

After a long journey down from Wales and a somewhat bruising evening in the Coach and Horses, I felt that an early night was called for, and I was out of the Colony Club and in bed by three. Feeling reasonably glad to be alive on this sunny day, I popped into The French House for breakfast, where I found Jeannette Winterson and Marie Osmond sniggering over this morning's 'Mail'.
'Ah! Spume!' boomed Winterson. 'I see your brother's in the soup!'
All Marie Osmond could do was giggle, of course. I like Winterson, but I can't understand what she sees in the Mormon chanteuse. She's still getting over Shania Twain, of course; Osmond is transitional, or so I hope for Winterson's sake. Dolly Parton has always had a soft spot for Jeanette, and they would make a lovely couple. But she can't sem to see it. I digress...
To my horror, The Mail had got hold of some forty year old photos of Leslie and dear old Peter Mandelson sporting on the beach in Tunis with that little shit Michael Jackson. After a quick couple of stiffeners, I hurried from the pub (to the sound of Winterson and Marie Osmond's somewhat derisive laughter), and got on the phone to Leslie. It looks very much as though the balloon has gone up; inconvenient for Leslie, but it could be the end for Peter. Old Leslie was terribly upset, but I told him that I would get straightaway on the blower to Max Clifford, and that we would get to Phuckwhitt by dinner. Until we arrived, he was to take the phone off the hook, and instruct Mrs Evans to tell callers that he was NOT at home. This calmed him down; I spoke with dear Max... who is sitting beside me as I write, on the first train out of Paddington for Leominster. Tally Ho!