Our fashion show at the Guatemalan prison. I'm not on this pic, I was tunnelling my way out with a sharpened tampon in the shower block... read on for more...
So here I am holding Daniella's hand before tonight's show. She gets so nervous before going out there, not least because she has to put up with the heavy-handed advances of her closeted fellow judge The Racist Cheryl Tweedy-Cole. What, she asks, would Cheryl's secret lover - hmmm we'll call her Jimberley - make of such behaviour? Cheryl seems to forget how she felt when her beard Ashley found that novel use for a mobile phone in the glare of the public eye a few years back.
Enough of that anyway. I've only just got over my rather crazy night with the Sugababes Thursday gone. You can imagine what they were like, but luckily Mutya was better behaved this time. There was no defocating in my airing cupboard and Sara my Iguana managed to get through the night without intoxication. However I was most displeased this afternoon when I was woken from my 36 hour slumber by what I thought was the smell of baked Camembert left out by my incorrigible niece Gagagina. I was ready to hit her with her own disco stick as I removed my jewel-encrusted £6000 eye mask, only to be confronted by the real culprit. Mutya had crashed out on my four poster queen and was top and tailed, her hoofs placed right in front of my delicate (and 3 month old) nose. As you can imagine I saw red, and had my maid Miff remove her at once. She was thrown into a passing taxi and I just had a text off her saying 'Alrite gel, nuva top nite innit, cant memba getn home IZ IT'. I have no idea what any of that means so if someone can write in with a translation I'd be most obliged.
I've had Sheila Shakeyshaft hammering on my door again. Complaining about the noise. But I said to her 'Sheila, you should be honoured to hear 4 of the 6 Sugababes rehearsing a gala surprise comeback show in my through lounge'. Alas that woman wouldn't know culture if it kicked her in the lady garden. You'd think she'd almost forgotten the fact that I was the one to rescue her little pussy from a deep fat fryer-related house fire not 2 months ago. She has a memory as short as her skirt clearly.
Now on to more pressing matters. I've had a jolting reminder of my past in the form of an assassination attempt. I know, I know, you're all going to be dreadfully worried but remember I was the stand-in for the Pope from 1973-1975, so I'm used to living a life that is, shall we say, on the edge. However this murderous vendetta has nothing to do with my Papal past. Oh no. Way back in the 70s I spent some time in a women's prison in Guatemala. I'd been caught smuggling a Faberge egg full of cocaine across the border and it looked like my future was going to be spent dodging shivs in the shower block. Then along came Winifred Sparrow. A ginger genius from Geneva, she was there two minutes before she had the place sewn up. She introduced the girls to Swiss Bingo, which became something of a phenomenon on the Block, and brought style and glamour to the prison thanks to her 17 years spent working for Coco Chanel in Paris. And, well, women have needs, and thus began a torrid affair. The day she was moved into my cell and poor little Alma Alvarez was shipped off to the nut house, we were scissoring something silly!
But, a love so intense can only burn for so long, and before I knew it we were on rival gangs, I was sabotaging the Bingo, it just got unpleasant. It was in 1972 I realised she was planning her escape. She had arranged a beauty pageant at the prison and was going to use that as her diversion to escape down the tunnel she'd dug with a sharpened tampon. I only happened upon this when I nipped to the toilet and found her beavering in the out of order cubicle. I initially thought she'd taken another lover but no, she emerged alone, and when I looked I found the hole dug just behind the toilet. So came the fashion show, and as Winifred bedecked the many murderers, rapists, drug muels and petty thieves in the finest couture a corrupt governor can afford, I was burrowing into her secret hole with all the gusto I could muster.
Freedom was mine! Masquerading as a goodwill ambassador I was on the next plane to Peru and poor Winifred was trapped. It was only after my Papal period that she caught up with me in a Harem in Vanuartu, a small island in the South Pacific where I decided to be a tax exile for a short while (which I would repeat years later in that ill-fated caper with Ken Dodd). After a short sharp set-to I was off again on my travels, and had to pay Big Betsy the Butcher of Block B, who'd also found herself in our Harem, to keep Winifred trapped in Vanuatu for as long as possible. Apparently stealing someone's passport can only go so far, however, and it appears Winifred is back.
You can imagine my horror when I found ten terrifying Tarantulas in the Tahini tray whilst entertaining Heidi Range on Thursday, and a note saying 'You can't keep a bad woman down! Love W'. Luckily between Sara my Iguana and Jemima by Terrapin, the tarantulas were seen off and all was well. Plus I'd taken so much Ketamine I was busy trying to eat my own face.
But nevertheless I'm on high alert. Winifred Sparrow is back, but I'm not going to take it lying down.
I have to run now, Daniella has to have her therapeutic game of online poker before tonight's show. But keep an eye peeled for my ginger foe. She's out there. Somewhere...
loved it!
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