Shropshire Star

Andy Richardson: Times are changing, but will it be F.A.B?

Published
By Andy Richardson
The gaffer’s off. Can you believe it?
In two short weeks, Lady Penelope will summon Parker to Weekend Towers so that he can whisk her off to NeverNeverLand.
“Parker,” she’ll say, in breathless and ever-so-slightly-seductive tones. “Fetch Fab 1.” She’ll peer along the line of her perfectly pink nose before issuing further instructions. “And do it now, won’t you. There’s a good man.”
Parker will nod, dutifully, and fire up the engine. “Yes, m’lady.”
Lady Penelope will swoosh across the office floor before taking the Great Glass Elevator to reception. Then she’ll strategically place a five-inch Jimmy Choo heel on the crimson carpet and hightail it into the night. Whooosh. Like a puff of smoke, she’ll be gone.
Back on Def Con One, #TeamWeekend will gather around her vacant desk, placing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and recipes for the perfect Martini in the space where she once sat. We’ll wonder who the Big Red Bat Phone gave her a direct line to – then realise it was all just a joke. There is no Bat Phone. It was just a toy. Dummies.
We’ll create a shrine to the woman we affectionately call ‘Big Lady Boss Chick’ and reminisce about the time she zip-wired from the Weekend roof to Nando’s to order lunch. God, you ought to see that girl fly. We’ll never know how she made it back without spilling any Peri Peri nuts, nor know how she survived the highly combustible game of Wing Roulette. Chilli Schmilli. She’s hardcore.
Big Lady Boss Chick’s leaving gifts will be collected by the Dudley Branch of Dreamboys. I hate to spoil a surprise, but the 18-wheel artic will be laden with the usual stuff: a crate of Chablis, a year’s subscription to the Victoria Chippy, in Tipton, a pair of Asics trainers, a baby tiger and, curiously, six bags of pickled onion Monster Munch. Well, a girl’s got to eat. Or maybe the Monster Munch will be for the tiger. I’m not sure. There’ll be lifesize cardboard cut-outs of Frank Skinner, Patrick Kielty and David Walliams, the Pharrell Williams back catalogue and a copy of Parquet Floors Weekly. She loves natural wood. Stylish people always do.

  • For more information on entertainment in the region click here

We will openly weep at her departure. Grown men and undergrown women will shed tears of sorrow. A chasm will open. It will be wider than the Rockies, longer than the Grand Canyon. We will sit tearfully, drinking cups of 20p powdered coffee from the vending machine, asking ourselves how it has come to this. And then we will snap out of it and reflect on her enduring and mercurial brilliance, reminding ourselves of the way she led the Weekend’s motley ranks to Team Of The Year 2015.
We’ll reflect on her towering achievements, of the way she skewered dodgy restaurants – My, Mai, How Disappointing – waved wet towels around her head lasso-style during the heat wave and gave us the best piece of advice ever: lists are for losers. We will marvel at her dedication to the cause, at her refusal to take short cuts – except on her commute through congested Black Country roads. And we’ll wonder if she really did look like a Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters when she was a bridesmaid at her Uncle Mark’s wedding. She had to wear a floral headdress, too, and cried, bless.
Time will wait for no man, or woman, and a new Supremo Numero Uno will lead us to new heights, like Dudley Bonk and The Long Mynd, if we’re lucky enough to get a day out of the office for a ramble.
We will be sent on quests to find the finest A-List she-lebrities and he-lebrities, to offer the region’s most unmissable opinions and to make stuff up about baby tigers being given away to Big Lady Boss Chick. We will hang out with famous people, learn how to get a great spray tan without looking like a Wotsit and tell you whether staying in an expensive hotel in the Cotswolds is better than staying in a better hotel in York. It is. The Cotswolds are prettier. And they don’t let lightning bolts set fire to their churches.
Big Lady Boss Chick will leave hard shoes to fill. Actually, she won’t. That’s a lie. She’s got size eights. You’d have to have feet the size of Shrek not to fill her shoes. But I digress. She’ll be impossible to replace. And that’s just as well. Because she’ll be back in a year. Woohoo. Leave space in the garage for Fab 1. Toot toot.
l OK, that was fine. You ought to write that well every week. But you forgot to put that I’ve also got really nice hair, too. Here’s your tenner. Fanks. Weekend Editor
Sorry, we are not accepting comments on this article.