THE fabulous one must be counting the days before he exits Cardiff and heads for the relative sanity of the Peeps. An ashen-faced Baker Boy came back to work this afternoon after accompanying Mad Liz on a job out to the wilds of deepest, darkest Wales.
"Oh my God, that was painful!" said the expressive one, throwing his arms up into the air and glaring at the ceiling, as he is wont to do. "It was like a bloody school outing. We had to keep stopping all the time because Liz was feeling dizzy from the drive and kept having to be sick at the side of the road."
Only the Mad one could make such a seemingly languid jaunt into seem more like a 24-mile yomp across the roughest terrain of the Falkland Islands.
Meanwhile, there was quite a take-up for Thirsty Thursday with it a. being pay day and b. a week from the deadline when everyone will have to apply for jobs they are not even sure they want with the new all-singing, all-dancing interactive newsroom at Thomson Towers.
The Prince of Darkness was in his element, however, being surrounded as he was by the stragglers from Beaujolais Day (an infamous day of debauchery in this neck of the woods) and the 40'ish, slightly crazy females preparing to throw their pants at Enrique Iglesias, who was performing in Cardiff that night. Guess he may have mistaken the sight of red wine for blood.
Congratulations to Ballsy who, I understand, has landed a staff job with the Daily Mail in London. I found this out from her old college pal Wathanovski. Mind you, the look that crossed Shutts' face when the Russian-sounding one revealed he had been out for lunch with our former colleague was, apparently, priceless.
Shutts likes to have a monopoly on females that come and go from WoS, and any news they might have to impart has to pass through him first - a bit like a girlie spin doctor. Upstaged by Wathanovski, apparently Shutts resembled the Prime Minister's private secretary in Little Britain as he pouted and sulked in a way that only a 6ft 10ins big girl's blouse could throw a strop.
Withers, meanwhile, is finding that he still has to undergo the embarrassment of being sent to his room - even though he is 28 years old. Apparently the landlord has returned from London and is inclined to be a bit selfish when it comes to use of the front room. Apparently he just has to point upstairs for the Wonderful One to get to his feet and trudge up the wooden stairs to Bed-fordshire.