Natasha Bedingfield pulls me aside at the Annual Lena Zavaroni Memorial Charity Bake-off in aid of Irritable Bowel in the Over-50s at the local village hall. Poor thing's worried senseless about the pitch controlling vocoder her producers have had permanently installed inside her larynx. Easier in the long run, I tell her, (not to mention *considerably* cheaper) than the customary 212 flat and emotionless takes attempting to perfect her falsetto warbling of the word "Constantinople". I didn't believe it either, until she played me the tapes back to back. You'd honestly *swear* you were hearing her singing the phrase 'le ponit ants snoc', and not being duped by some highly impressive piece of studio jiggery pokery.
Yes, Yes, she rejoinders, a little snappily I would suggest for someone who *still* owes me £233.60 in unpaid Grand Prix lap time averages wagers (... cynical, I know - but I just didn't have the heart to tell her that Emerson Fittipaldi hadn't sat behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car for the best part of 4 decades. Who am I to break the poor girl's heart) 'Yes, yes, yes, but does it spoil the line of my polo neck?' she implores - with the first hints of that manic, "if you don't tell me I'll get Daniel out of the shitter and we'll do a bloody duet of 'Bright Eyes' from Watership Down" stare flickering across her otherwise heavily sedated countenance. Again, I don't have the heart to tell her that she looks, in profile at least, like a chinless, palsied mongoose with a lifesize cardboard cut-out of Charles Aznavour jutting from her goitre. Besides, the art department will be able to airbrush that out *no* *problem*. (Although what they're going to do about that conk of her's, I've really no idea....)
Barry Fry saunters over with a poorly disguised Thai boy Moira Anderson lookalikey. Joint the size of Mauritius on the go. More rings than a GMTV multiple-choice phone in quiz. Completely bladdered. 'Bally awful business about those Free Tibet protestors, what?' he slur/roars, waving a bundle of twenties around like a twenties flapper's fan and setting a Niagra Falls of drool cascading down into his Cuba Libre with every shuddering gaffaw of highly artificial mirth. (How Barry puts up with him, I just don't know). Nice tartan though. Which reminds me, I must pop down to Argos and get that flask they've had on special offer....
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Speaking of Grand Prix lap time averages, has Tash still got her sights set on Lewis Hamilton? No wonder he moved to Switzerland.
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