katherine-webb-dee-dee-bonner (1)

By Olu Alemoru

And at this hour we go to some late breaking news. Labanter humor squad intercepted this poetic ebonicspatois (sic) stanza by controversial football mom Dee Dee Bonner, as channeled by Dorothy Parker (for those English Lit grads familiar with the literary icon carry on, for all dem others, look her up).

Oh, hate is a many spendered thang,
Like a chronic hit of Sensimilla;
Forsooth, that Jamice pickney will never be King;
As long as I am Queen of Egomania.

Next up an ode by Katherine “Eva” Webb.

A ROYAL ENGAGEMENT: William and Kate announce the happy news.

By Lord Longsight

Far be it from me to rain on the happy royal nuptilia of William and Kate, but may I add words of caution to the wise.

Firstly, I think she must need her head read.

Yes, I know she looks a decent enough sort and she certainly has the vowels to fit in, yet why would she want to enter the lions den of hyper-scrutiny?

Of course, she’s had more than taste of it for the eight years of being “Waitie Katie” as Wills’ girlfriend, but the intensity level has just gone up to warp factor 9.

Really, isn’t there some chinless wonder in the city she could marry, then she could happily join the bored Gin and coke Knightsbridge set and cop off with a Chelsea footballer.

That said, I fear the enormous pressure with the dress and the wedding might just be too much for her anorexic frame to bear.

However, for now everyone is on side.

I saw a news report that said given what happened to Charles and Diana, a Wikat divorce is out of the question.

Well, how in the blazes can you say that?

Please, never under-estimate the frailty of the human psyche to crack under pressure or overwhelming circumstance.

You don’t think President Obama could do with a quick getaway with the lads to Vegas right now.

And Wills isn’t just marrying Kate, her family comes into play.

There’s already been eyebrows raised about her brother James, some sort of Hooray Henry dotcom whiz, who’s been accused of already trying to trade on his sister’s name.

Plus, the third sibling, “Pip,” or Phillipa, is also in the family business of selling online party paraphernalia —“knick-knacks” — to the hoi polloi.

And finally, what’s all this rot about her being a commoner and modern princess to be.

Undoubtedly, she didn’t grow up amongst castles and footmen, but her folks did make a pile of dosh and she grew up around privilege thank you very much.

Common folk don’t and can’t send their progeny to a 30K a year boarding school.

Secondly, given that Kate, whose ma apparently sent her to St. Andrew’s University to try and snag the Prince and she hasn’t even had a job for the past eight years, I’d say she fits the traditional mould very well.

Although, I bet she can boil an egg.

Now if Harry marries Naomi Campbell that will be a humdinger of modernity and interest.

Chelsea and England captain John Terry out on the town.

By Olu Alemoru

If humping ever becomes an Olympic sport then Premiership soccer star John Terry and fallen golf potentate Tiger Woods will no doubt figure as prime gold medal contenders to see who can come first.

After delighting in every last morsel of Woods’ legendary sexascapades, Terry — captain of top-of-the-table Chelsea and the England national side — is rightly convulsing the tabloids after an alleged affair with the ex-girlfriend of a former teammate and fellow England team member.

In the News of the World vernacular, Terry has been playing away with French brunette, lingerie model Vanessa Perroncel, the baby mother and ex-partner of Manchester City defender Wayne Bridge.

It seems Terry and Woods should get together to compare team sheets or score cards.

Although from different side of the tracks, the closest working class lad Terry probably ever got a to an ivy league education is winking at Cherie Blair during the F.A. Cup handshake, both are wealthy men with turbo-charged sex drives.

The England captain has been linked with 10 assorted glamor girls/models/porn stars/actresses.

In 2005, The NoW gleefully splashed his mug all over the front page after a then 25-year-old Terry, had oral sex with 17-year-old Jenny Barker in his black Bentley, just hours after they met.

And like Woods, Terry, is a husband (and I use that word loosely) and father of two with Toni Poole, a petite, formerly blonde nail technician.

In other words imagine if Woods had not just gone through the entire cocktail waitressing staff of every high-end casino in Vegas, but had, as satirical magazine Private Eye might put it, “Ugandan Discussions” with Mrs Phil Mickelson.

For the benefit of any potential Gloria Allred’s or M’Learned friends from the American bar, absolutely no evidence or suggestion pertaining to a hypothetical dalliance between Eldrick Tont Woods and Amy Mickelson (nee McBride) ever existed in fact or fiction.

Well, as you can imagine with five months to the World Cup in South Africa D’Affaire Terry has assumed grave matters of national importance as the the faithful waits to see if the lads can win the trophy for a second time since that very glorious summer day in 1966.

Will England manager Fabio Capello, who is due to meet face to face with Terry Feb. 4, strip the under-fire captain of his arm badge?

At this point, I should declare my own delirious schadenfreude at Terry’s predicament.

Being a devoted Man Utd fan, one can only hope the mental and physical turmoil will put the Chelsea star way off his game.

Funnily enough, a recent survey in the UK suggested that more men than women think that Terry should basically be tarred and feathered for his alleged behavior.

So it’s okay to cheat on the missus with any Kath, Sheila or Sharon, as long as it’s not yer teammate’s bird, which might lead to your club losing a few games?

The likely outcome is that Terry will get a stern talking to, issue some mea culpa and — again like Woods, his wife is reported to be sticking by him — and hope everything will blow over soon enough.

But as for that futuristic Olympian battle, I think the Tiger wins by a short head!

By Olu Alemoru

I hate these deluded pet lovers who eulogize and romanticize about preferring animals to humans.

I mean feed the varmints and they’ll love anybody. We’ve all seen those charming home movies of Hitler, Eva and the dogs at Berchtesgaden?

A shiatsu can’t explain Pythagoras Theorem, a Great Dane won’t care about the jokes in Seinfeld and neither will lick your balls when you want them to.

Or am I thinking about last night’s date?

By David Willis

CUE: This week is expected to see important milestone in President Barack Obama’s bid to reform the American health care system. A bill which would extend health cover to many of the 47 million Americans currently without it is expected to be approved by the lower house, the House of Representatives.

The bill would see the introduction of a government-run insurance scheme to compete with the existing private plans, which have been widely criticized for putting profits ahead of patients. Our Los Angeles correspondent David Willis recently found himself caught up in the American healthcare system, and says he only just lived to tell the tale…

Isn’t it amazing how – within a matter of minutes – fate can build you up almost beyond recognition, only to deliver a well-aimed slap across the backside? Going through the mail last week the first envelope was marked US Immigration Service and contained – tat tah! – a laminated piece of plastic confirming that my application for permanent residency had finally been approved.

Holding my green card up to the light I was just about to break into an interpretative dance of celebration when I spotted the second envelope in the pile, and the euphoria evaporated faster than a fart in a fan factory.

The letter was from a company which overseas the BBC’s health insurance plan. Tearing open that envelope I was confronted with news that my coverage – extended after I left the Corporation to go freelance – had come to an end. The news itself was hardly unexpected, but seeing it in black and white filled me with horror.

Now I was on my own: it was me against the system, and I had a feeling things were about to get ugly. Because when it comes to health insurance, the Americans could teach the British a thing or two about bureaucracy.

It’s difficult to overstate how vital health insurance is in America.

Find yourself in the emergency ward strapped to machines which go ‘bip’ and surrounded by doctors who’ve been called in from the golf course to deal with you, and if you don’t have coverage chances are you’ll be paying for your visit until the end of time. Even if you’re a picture of health, all it takes is a freak accident and you’re toast.

An expatriate friend of mine spent a week in hospital after having he misfortune of flying a small aeroplane into the sea. His bill: ninety-five thousand dollars. (sixty thousand pounds). He told the cashier he’d come for treatment – not to buy the hospital.

Being uninsured was especially worrying for me because I am the world’s biggest hypochondriac. If I get a headache I instantly assume I’m hemorrhaging, and the longer it continues the wilder my doom-laden diagnoses become. What if tapeworm larvae is burrowing a hole in my brain? Such fears have led me to have virtually every test under the sun – I’ve donated blood by the bucketful and enough urine to float a battleship, because I know my body is trying to fool me.

Yes, I feel as fit as a fiddle but it’s a facade; my system is lulling me into a false sense of security – whilst some deadly virus is getting busy in my innards; weighing the moment to bring about my untimely demise.

Given the fact that visits to the doctor are therefore a weekly occurrence (I prefer to think of it more as a pastime than an addiction), you can see how distressing the prospect of being without insurance could be. And so with heavy heart I set about taking on the many-headed hydra that is the American health care system.

For some reason (don’t get me started) there was no way of simply continuing the policy the BBC had in place and paying the premiums myself. So I had to apply as if I had never had coverage before. I found myself talking to Steve, a chirpy salesman at one of the larger insurance companies, who ran through the details of their policies.

Yes, I’d still have to pay to see either a doctor OR a specialist, but he’d throw in a prostate exam – and a colonoscopy every ten years. By the time he’d finished I felt like a winner on ‘The Price Is Right’. The cost: five and a half thousand dollars a year! (The cost: nearly three and a half thousand pounds a year!)

Steve sent me a form which delved into my every malady since emerging from the womb and I was reminded that if there is one thing that health insurance companies absolutely hate it is sick people. Sick people have the audacity to require treatment, which not only eats into profits but upsets the accountants’ balance sheets; too much of that and you could completely spoil their day.

Having explained away virtually every cough and sneeze over the course of the last 49 years I got to Question 41: Has the person applying for coverage consumed any alcoholic beverage in the last six months? I read that several times, even at one point substituting a different pair of glasses, and no, I wasn’t mistaken – it really did say six months. Not six days, or six minutes, but six months.

By the time I’d finished the form I had a headache and eye strain, and so I went back and added those to my preexisting conditions and then sent the form off to Steve. He told me my application would be assessed by an underwriter, which conjured up images of Lloyds of London weighing the fate of the QE2 – or in my case the Titanic.

And so I wait on tenterhooks to learn whether my application has been approved. The tension is killing me. And at my age that’s just not good for the blood pressure.


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