LORDY, lordy – the horrors of it all. Appalling. Mass rape and debauchery, vestal virgins cast into a pit of depravity, sacrificial playthings of priapic old goats, drunk on wine and privilege.
It must have resembled a scene from the court of Caligula. Dante’s Inferno even.
Thank heavens a brave young woman’s daring investigative journalism has derailed the devilish Presidents Club Charity Ball in that den of iniquity otherwise known as the Dorchester Hotel. Throws these pervs in prison! Throw away the keys!
What’s that? No rape or debauchery – and certainly no virgins?
Just some young temptress with her skirt halfway up her backside, flashing her lacy black wotsits, who might have had her buttock patted?
Just ‘might’ I should add, because our intrepid lady journalist Madison Marriage – great name for a bird with a face like a flat iron – was rather short on actual detail (and I am surprised she inveigled her way into the job, given that the credentials were clearly for top totty).
Oh, and no evidence either.
Such a shame her newspaper, the fabulously wealthy Financial Times, couldn’t run to audio/video surveillance kit that anyone can pick up for a few hundred quid.
Still, don’t let something as trivial as evidence get in the way of a good excuse for national meltdown.
Can I make something clear? I’m not trying to defend the unseemly and boorish behaviour of some – just some, mind you – drunken old fools with more money than sense. I shouldn’t need to, because actually there’s no story here.
There’s national outrage and mass hysteria, but sorry, no story.
All of the 130 hostesses, including our intrepid Lois Lane, were handpicked for their figures and looks.
They were told to wear black high heels, short black skirts and black underwear, and quaff the free-flowing champagne while flirting with the wealthy clientele, getting them drunk to the point they bid thousands upon thousands to raise money for charity.
As the event host Johnny Gould roared: “Welcome to the most un-PC event of the year.”
Not quite a secret then – and not any more, either.
At what point didn’t the penny drop with these mightily offended women (and Ms Marriage threw a right paddy when someone referred to them as girls)?
An instruction to wear black knickers – were they expected to do cartwheels round the room? Were they paid in £20 notes the blokes threw on the floor?
Knock, knock – anyone home? Because that’s right petal, you’re a woman, perhaps even one with a working brain, who knew exactly what this job entailed.
That’s why you went, that’s why you delivered a pretty tame stitch-up, and the fact is there’s a noticeable lack of aggrieved hostesses joining your clamour.
But still the nation went into a breast-beating, bed-wetting frenzy. Lordy, lordy.
The guests at this fund-raiser were warned about inappropriate behaviour and the women were clearly empowered to report anything untoward.
At the ‘after party’ where some young ladies willingly sat on old blokes’ laps – those lasses knew the score – some lascivious old sods still patted bums, touched a hip or held a hand and even suggested taking the evening further.
Men, booze, scantily-clad young women? Go fathom.
You know what? I’ll bet some of the ‘ladies’ did take the evening further.
And you know what else? I’ll bet money changed hands in some cases, too.
Or is that idea altogether too adult for people to handle? Go ahead folks, find a darkened room to lie down in for a while. There, there.
Still, and after all the to-do, no harm was done except to our poor old plain-Jane, Madison Marriage, who I’d love to think was enraged because no slavering old perv invited her for afters.
Except yes, damage was done. Real damage. Sick kids at Great Ormond Street Hospital won’t benefit from much-needed funds.
Other supposedly desperate charities are idiotically sending this ‘tainted’ money back in a febrile outbreak of pathetic virtue signalling.
And now all the bottle-less male lemmings can’t dive head first off the cliff fast enough, crying their mea culpas and begging for forgiveness. They need to grow a pair, the lot of them.
Coming soon – striptease artiste sues club owner claiming “the men were STARING at me!”
You don’t say love. So go get a job at Sainsbury’s.
SALLY Reynolds is clearly a caring mum who hasn’t let being deaf be more of a life disadvantage than it obviously is.
She even booked expensive tickets to take her daughter and friends to see a group of sugar-coated popsters called Little Mix.
I must be that way out today, because it would not bother me one jot if Sally Reynolds walked in front of a bus she didn’t hear coming, because she’s a prime, 21st century example of what is wrong with this country.
I’m sorry she’s deaf (although it might be preferable to listening to Little Mix).
But it’s her choice to go to a pop concert, even if the point of live music – and forgive me being pedantic on this – is the sound. The singing. The ‘woo-hoo, all join in the chorus kids’ fun.
Reynolds insisted the gig promoters provide an interpreter because as we all know, the lyrics of Little Mix are veritable Dylan or Shakespeare.
In these ‘Respect My Rights Or Else!’ days, people like her can demand the bloody road be re-tarmaced for them, if they feel like it.
So the promoters did. And upgraded their seats too. But that’s not stopping the woman from suing them anyway. She’s stamping her sweaty little gig-going tootsies and trying to take the promoters to the cleaners – aided by no-win, no-fee lawyers no doubt, who I’d throw under the bus with her.
Apparently the support acts, those anonymous time fillers no one’s ever heard of, who usually play when everyone’s still in the bar, didn’t have interpreters too. Reynolds claims it’s like only being able to read the last third of a book, which is beyond parody.
Anyone get the feeling she knew what she was doing all along?
Coming soon, blind man sues mime artist for not doing his turn in braille; Long John Silver sues Man Utd for not picking one-legged pirates.
Someone find me a bus to jump in front of, too.
IT’S THE little things that warm your cockles most. This is the story of an 83-year-old lady who runs a caravan park in the hills above Lancaster.
A visitor left a local newspaper behind, which Mrs Margaret Carr picked up and read. She enjoyed the paper so much, she rang the newspaper’s office and ordered a subscription! And it was us, The Press.
My last editorship was of the Lancaster Guardian, so I phoned Mrs Carr for a natter – and what a character. She still runs her touring caravan site in Bentham, a lovely part of the world, up top on the A65, just before Ingleton.
“The Lancaster Guardian isn’t what it was,” she said, explaining she used to advertise point-of-lay pullet eggs. “It won’t be,” I replied, “they’ve shut the office and the editor is based 45 miles away in Burnley,” (it’s a Johnston Press paper, like the late lamented Reporter Group).
I thanked Mrs Carr for her custom and wished her the best, but she wouldn’t let me go without a couple of jokes, one of which involved a condom!
“They do call me incorrigible,” she said, laughing, as we bade farewell.
They can say that again. What a star.