Tales from Steeple Bumstead Part One
Greetings from Steeple Bumstead. This is where anyone who’s anyone hangs out. And I mean ANYONE. Not just two-bit ‘slebs’ like Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp but real stars like Martine Twinkly-Nipples from Big Brother 417.
I was born and raised in Steeple Bumstead. In the strict religious sect, the Sisters of Hellfire. I managed to escape that and went and had a major career as a chat-show host in the States for a while. I would still be there, but Oprah begged me to quit because I was stealing all her viewers. I can never resist a plea from the heart so I returned to my alma mater (that’s not an actual place dum-dums, it means ‘old mate’ in Scottish. I’m showing how learned what I is).
By day I run my self-help group for women looking for meaningful, long-term relationships ‘Get Laid’. But at night I’m all yours. Yes, yours, you rugged, unshaven chap with come to bed eyes who’s planning to rip my clot….
Sorry, I digressed there.
Anyway, I bring you ‘Tales from Steeple Bumstead.’ So, if you’re sitting comfortably… not on a spike Douglas! (They’ve seen it all before at A & E), I will begin.
The other night Russell Brand and I went on a pub crawl. I won. My crawling is much better than his. As the night wore on, we bumped into Stephen Fry-Up! Lovely sausage sandwich he makes.
Then Russell, Stephen and I played Sardines and who should we discover but Sting!
Sting was jealous we didn’t include him in our sausage sandwich. He went to get Trudie to biff us, the big baby. She went ballistic and demanded we kiss Sting’s feet. That’s not the kind of foreplay I’m interested in. Russell didn’t take the indignation lying down and bit Sting’s foot instead.
Somewhat predictably a massive fight broke out. My money was on Russell. He may be thin, but he’s bendy. Although Sting can do those waily high notes that shatter your eardrums, which would be a novel fighting technique.
Trudie couldn’t let it lie. Literally. She flung herself on top of Russell and Sting shouting, ‘Leave him alone, he’s sensitive.’
Sting was FURIOUS with her, saying she’d EMASCULATED him. Stephen Fry waded in to split Sting and Trudie up. Trudie scoffed, saying what did HE know about marriage. So then Fry went off in a huff in search of a Turkish Delight. Jees. I decided to follow to find him being comforted in a salubrious bar (one of my favourite locals!) by Jonathan Ross. Man, that Jonathan Ross is one smooth talker! He had all the bar, including Vanessa Feltz, shaking their tail feathers on the dance floor. Gregg Wallace was a formidable mover and exceedingly masterful. I wouldn’t want to be a disobedient cauliflower on his veg stall.
As the sun came up, Russell suggested a skinny dip in the sea. Had to point out we’re in Steeple Bumstead, not California. He then revealed a glorious banquet on the shores of the Steeple Bumstead shopping centre, complete with cheesy straws and sherbet. Wallace not overly impressed by Russell’s spread (foodwise I mean). He revealed his sausages, which were certainly deep and meaty. Sting went wild for those deep, meaty sausages. Stephen Fry remarked gentlefolk should have more restraint. That’s where I’ve been going wrong!
Tales from Steeple Bumstead Part 2 to follow when I’ve digested my deep and meaty sausage.