Piggy bankers
Poor Pigs. Not exactly in the doghouse at No 10, but he is on a futon in the guest scullery. Sambo went toto incandesco over his shifty bungling of the offshore business: “I have nothing more to hide.” And the £200k from his mother, explained in his excruciating street voice: “Mums though bruv. When you a younger, them unfailingly put a tenner in your tuck box innit, bless.” Worse, he has awakened press interest in the financial affairs of more eccentric relatives. The shadowy great-uncle who commissioned a treehouse for his children, designed in the Hot Gothic style by an anonymous foreign architect for £12m, unbuilt to this day. The “cisgenderish” second cousin who claims to have spent £3m in Bermuda, “medically resisting societal pressure to transition”. And Step-Grandpa Maurice, who gives £300k a year to a donkey sanctuary in Devon run by a Mr E Ore, who doesn’t even appear on the electoral register.
Sex conjunction
Politics, the media, showbusiness – it’s a Mexican stand-off, with injunctions instead of guns. Those of a sad and prurient disposition are understandably concerned that the Human Rights Act might shield the identities of sexual libertines. In the booths and nooks of Nanny’s Pantry, Westminster’s ultra-discreet spanking-themed supperclub, all parties involved in the latest mysterious “Famous Fivesome Superinjunction” are known and respected. Apparently it was a routine asphyxiation-and-paddling orgy with semi-nude outside catering. Not just five, either. The other 14 simply have more expensive lawyers. And I hear it wasn’t only the British media who were “gagged” by someone wearing a judge’s wig. Members of the shadow cabinet were there, voluntarily restraining themselves.
Holy ghost
What a week for my dear friend Wellness, the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose biological father was finally identified. I’m urging him to 1) declare that DNA is actually the Holy Spirit and 2) call that sneering bore Dawkins a bastard anyway.
Tiddly BOSH, mes amis!
