Reggaenomics
As budget day nears, my old friend Skids is like a child counting sleeps until Christmas. Obviously, as chancellor of the exchequer, he gets to watch everyone open their presents. Will it be just the tax break you’d hoped for, or the trivial removal of a care assistant to help you to the lavatory? Exciting. Oh, the Crouch End Pinotagerie accuse him of creating a “Dickensian society”, but surely his policies are reversing the plotline of A Christmas Carol. Still. Pressure’s tremendous. Why shouldn’t Skids & Co unwind at Nanny’s Pantry, the subterranean, spanking-themed supperclub? Tonight’s floor show is Rough Justice: “homeless” dancers swathed in Vivvy Westwood “rags” erotically manhandled by “G4S security” to a jazz-funk ostinato. “Three-line whip!” roars Skids, emerging from the gents very energised. He’s always been a handful. Were it not for the “right to be forgotten”, the internet would be roiling with tales of his misdeeds at Magdalen. Everyone knows about the Bullingdon splashy-smashy stuff, and the poor donkey dressed up as a verger he smuggled into Choral Evensong that time. Alas, there are vanishingly few who now remember the summer of ’89, when Skids went full bonkers reggae. Dreadlocks. Jamaican football strip. Called everyone “mon”. Excrucio.
Cantabby dozy
Stations of the Shots night with Wellness, my old pal the Archbishop of Canterbury. We do it every year: 14 bars, 14 tequilas. “Race … mmism” he slurs, as I pour him into his Uber. “Racism’s worsen hypocrisy”. A beat, then cackling laughter. “Joke! Nothing worsen hypocrisy!” God bless him.
Regina dialogues
To Buck Pal. HM Lillet incandescent. Someone snitched to the Sun about her Euroscepticism. It’s true, she’s simmered since the 60s about that French “e” on Concorde, etc. Mysterious apologies for absence from the Goves. Sarah “Grape” Vine very sulky last time when Lil jokingly insisted she and The Vealcalf “Clean For One” as promised on the tabards. Elderly incontinent corgi. Grim.
Tiddly BOSH, mes amis!
