Guess whose coming to dinner?

Posted by in December's Magazine

At this time of year, with our countryside under an averaged sized erection of snow and Jack Frost nibbling at our toes, it’s difficult to keep your mind focused on the activities of local cricketing heroes Leith Beige – so let’s not bother. Nor do we really have to concern ourselves about our brave lads over in Oz battling for The Ashes – I’ll be watching most of it though – mainly because of a ‘stupid’ late night promise I made in London at a party to celebrate Piers Morgan’s engagement to himself. I told anybody that was a ‘true’ cricket fan that my abode was ‘open house’ any night that the antipodean test matches were on. Bad idea. As a result my home cinema/bunkhouse/microtheque front room has been host to Kelly & Jack Osbourne, Prince Naseem Hamed, Jim Watt, Lulu, Claire Grogan, Kelly Brook, Jedward and Sienna Miller – still the offer was made – so there’s been, drinking, dancing and much merriment.

Good job I got Stolichnaya vodka as a late sponsor, though I think the real high point has probably been when Sharon Osbourne turned up but was told to ‘fuck off, trout’ at the front door. I was also a bit disgruntled when a clearly ‘worse for wear’ Gail and Tommy Sheridan turned up for the second day of the first test. They were let in for a while but it was a bit of a downer. Mind you, since then, things have been a lot more fun.



The sound proofing in my converted cinema is fairly decent so I can head off for quality kip at any time and this allows guests to get up to pretty much what they want – lets face it – they are just celebs, but to pay for that quality of hospitality I have to get my column for ‘The Leither’ in on time. Vodka may grow on trees – but ketamine, well, who knows? You’d think it was only found at the bottom of Chilean mines for the prices they’re asking these days.

Still, Ashes aside, it’s where I’m going to spend Christmas dinner that comes to the fore. (Naturally, I’ve got lots of offers, an embarrassment of riches if you like, if we include Sir Cliff’s offer to go to Barbados.)

Winters past have included The Battle of the Fergies – when HRH and The Black Eyed Peas singer were vying for my attendance along with Manchester United Coach Sir Alex. It may surprise readers, if indeed you’re still reading, but I ended up going along to Sir Alex’s… for a few stiff drinks with the red nosed one before heading round to Sarah’s for some upmarket foreplay, eventually spending the night with the curvaceous Pea – that’s not to knock Sarah she is a blinding bunk up – but sometimes you just have to move on.

Then there was 2006 with Madge and Gwynie – but what with their personal rift and Madonna insisting that now all dinner guests must urinate on their own feet after every course – that’s probably out for me. Frankly I just can’t be fucked. Back in the 90s Madge only insisted on foot urination when showering but I guess that Kabbalah is really starting to get a grip. You’ve got Sting there as well, very attentitive to his lovely wife Trudy but constantly playing footsy with me under the table. Worse to come though: their drambuie and mincemeat pie karaoke afterwards. Don’t ask. Just don’t ask.

On a brighter note dear friend Michael (Winner) has offered but I’ve politely, though firmly, declined – I like Geraldine and Michael and I love their cross dressing themed Xmas luncheons but the Parkinsons will be there as well and between the four of them they’ll be asleep by nine (and not A.M. I can tell you).

Still, I don’t know if I’ll even get back home in time for Christmas what with all the weather problems. I’m in the Italian Alps working on some unfinished business with George Michael and Sir Elton John – we are currently working on a project for Sepp Blatter and the F.I.F.A. organisation. They have hired us with a view to extending George’s ‘Last Christmas’ video into a full-blown 90-minute musical tearjerker for the HBO network based on England’s 2018 World Cup bid. It would seem it’s already been given the green light. I’m not sure about the casting though – can Sir Geoffrey Boycott really play a determined, young, bitterly complaining David Beckham? Blatter seems to think so and, strangely, he seems to have an awfully big budget.

Meanwhile keeps your hands deep down your pants and your eyes on the prize.

Yours, in love, at Christmas
Leopold ‘Francis’ Simpson xx

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