STU LET THE DOGS OUT!
FROM Land’s End to John O’Groats, us Brits agree on one thing: we love dogs. With their soft paws, waggy tails, clarty stools and wet noses, it’s not difficult to see why these delightful domesticated carnivores have long been considered man’s best friend.
But it’s not just your average Joe Bloggs in the street that’s potty about pooches. For believe it or not, some of the biggest stars of stage and screen are mutt-mad too. And one man who knows that most is celebrity dog walker STUART PADLOCK.
Sexagenarian divorcee Stu spent three weeks walking some of the most prestigious dogs in Tinseltown. And the Kidderminster-based 66-year-old claims that he has scooped poop that’s come out the back of the hottest hounds in Hollywood.
“There’s not a dog-loving celeb out there I haven’t pet-sat for,” chuckles 26-stone Stu. “Honestly, if I told you about some of the scrapes I’d got into whilst walking A-List dogs, your hair would curl like a pedigree poodle!”
Stu is currently taking a well-earned sabbatical from his successful celebrity dog-walking business in order to try and clear up a few recent misunderstandings between him and his beloved, now-exwife, Carol. However, in order to make a bit of cash while he gets back on his feet, the big-boned dad of six has collected some of his best anecdotes into a light-hearted memoir entitled On the Jobby: My Life Walking the Stars’ Dogs (£3.99, Non-Existent Books). “If James Herriot can become a millionaire talking about other people’s pets, I don’t see why I shouldn’t dip my bread in some of that gravy,” he wheezes. Here, dangerously overweight Stu gives us an exclusive preview of the book that he hopes will soon top the bestseller lists. As told to Vaginia Discharge
HOLY HOUND WENT BARKING MAD
“It all started a few weeks back,” Padlock recalls. “I’d been out of work for a while, having lost a series of parttime jobs due to wrongful accusations of workplace drinking and sexual harassment. The wife was constantly on at me to find gainful employment, so I was in the offie one morning browsing the Wanted Ads when I noticed a little card stuck up in the window. It said ‘Dog Walker Needed’. “ Now, I’ve always loved dogs, so I figured this would be a fantastic way to combine business and pleasure. I nipped straight over to the address on the card, and you can imagine my surprise when the door opened and who was stood there on the threshold but the supreme head of the Catholic Church - POPE FRANCIS himself.
The 266th Bishop of Rome introduced me proudly to his pride and joy - Simon Who Is Called Peter - a huge, glossycoated St Bernard, complete with a brandy barrel tied around his shaggy neck. His Holiness explained that he was in Worcestershire for a big Papal Mass at the Kidderminster Town Hall, and he wouldn’t have time to give Simon Who Is Called Peter his morning walkies. I was to take him twice round the park and let him do his business - all for five quid cash in hand and not a word to the taxman.
Well, it all went well at first. Simon Who Is Called Peter loved chasing the sticks I threw for him, and he did a great big shit right on the doorstep of Greggs, which is coincidentally the last place I was fired from. I would have picked it up, only the Pontiff had forgotten to lend me his scooper and bags. Talk about infallible!
But it was on the way home that things took a turn for the worse. As we strolled back contentedly, I spotted a familiar face coming towards us down the
street. It was none other than godless egghead PROFESSOR RICHARD
DAWKINS, out walking his atheistic Yorkshire Terrier.
Simon Who Is Called Peter immediately started straining at his leash - he’d caught the scent of the blasphemous mutt in his nostrils, and he didn’t like it one bit. As we passed each other, the two dogs from opposite sides of the religious divide went for each other. To say the fur was flying would be an understatement. My money was on Simon Who Is Called Peter - he must have weighed in at a good ten stone, and could have squashed the Yorkie flat with a single swat of his giant paws. But the wily terrier used his small size to his advantage and nipped between the St Bernard’s legs and sank his needle teeth into the poor bastard’s clockweights.
You’ve never heard such a yelp. The Pope’s dog leapt up and crashed into me, smashing his brandy barrel on my face as he tried to get away from the terrier. I fell down backwards, cracking my head on the pavement and knocking myself spark out.
I awoke several hours later, stinking of brandy and with a throbbing head from where I’d cracked it on the pavement, to find my wife Carol stood over me with a face like thunder. One of the neighbours had seen me sprawled unconscious on the street in a pool of booze and gone into her work to fetch her. I knew what Carol was thinking, because I had lost my previous job at Greggs on account of passing out on the pavement after drinking a whole bottle of brandy during my lunch break. But this time I was completely innocent - and she simply wouldn’t listen to reason. She chewed my ear off the whole way home, and suffice it to say that Simon Who Is Called Peter wasn’t the only one in the dog house
night!
UNCLEAN SHEEN PLAYED DIRTY TRICK
“My first gig may not have gone entirely according to plan, but I’d well and truly caught the dog-walking bug,” Stu remembers. “I stuck my own card up in the off licence, advertising my services, and the calls started flooding in. The first request I received took me to a big glitzy mansion on the outskirts of Wyre Forest. Imagine my shock when the door opened and there before me stood none other than Tinseltown hellraiser CHARLIE SHEEN. The cheeky Two and a
Half Men legend told me he was shooting a new Hollywood blockbuster in Kidderminster, and had brought his beloved pet bloodhound - Sherlock - with him. He’d been taking Sherlock for evening walkies in the woods himself, but now the movie required
“I’ve walked more celebrity canines than you’ve had hot dinners,” says A-List pet-sitter Stuart It’s a Dog Walker’s Life: Padlock’s career change saw him hounded by Hollywood’s hottest stars. The wily terrier sank his needle teeth into the poor bastard’s clockweights
Hilton’s implication was clear... she was going to pay me for my services in kind.
night shoots so he’d need a pet-sitter to take the leash instead.
I asked the Hot Shots star if his dog was fond of any particular pathway, and he flashed me a cheeky wink: “Oh, I think Sherlock will remember our usual route,” he grinned.
Bloodhounds are famous for their tracking abilities, so I wasn’t a bit surprised when Sherlock began tugging me enthusiastically along by the leash, towards a dense clump of trees just off the A451. He did his business on the way, right outside the entrance of the local swimming pool, which is coincidentally the place I was fired from before I was fired from Greggs. I would have picked it up, but my scooper and dogshit bags were in my other coat.
We reached the depths of the wood and I set about looking for a decent stick to throw. Just then I noticed something unusual in the clearing ahead. There were several other men, also with dogs, huddled around a parked car with all its lights on. The car was rocking gently back and forth, and the men were peering in through the steamed-up windows whilst rummaging energetically in their pockets.
I felt physically sick as I realised what had happened: Sheen - a notorious sex addict - must have been coming here regularly with Sherlock to check out the local dogging scene in the Wyre Forest.
I was utterly disgusted, and I approached the car to tell everyone involved that they should be ashamed of themselves. But before I knew it, blue lights were flashing all around us, and people were running in every direction. Amid the chaos, Sherlock broke free and bolted. I went to chase him, but my trousers and pants must have snagged on the branch of a nearby tree, because they suddenly fell down, tripping me up. The next thing I knew I was in the back of a police car in handcuffs.
Carol came to collect me from the cells later that night with a face like thunder. I tried to explain that I’d been pet-sitting a sex addict’s bloodhound, but she simply wouldn’t listen. To be fair to her, I had been arrested several times in that same wood for public masturbation, but this time I was completely innocent of all charges. It had been a simple case of wrong place, wrong time. As we drove home, she told me she was going to stay with her sister for a while and have a big think about things. Suffice it to say that Sherlock the bloodhound wasn’t the only one in the dog house that night!
PARIS’S POOPING POOCH PAYOFF
“Without access to the regular income from Carol’s three jobs, I was in desperate need of cash to pay off my fine for alleged dogging. And also some other fines for minor offences to which I had admitted to save on paperwork, even though I hadn’t done them,” says so-fat Stuart. “So I began taking on dog-walking jobs left, right and centre. It seemed like every hour God sent I was stood by some A-Lister’s pedigree pooch, watching it squeeze out a copper bolt. One gig I got was particularly memorable. I’d received a request to pet-sit several mutts at the same time - a boon for me, as it meant extra dosh. I arrived at the address - a nondescript looking terraced house just outside Smethwick - but when the door opened you could have knocked me down with a feather. Standing there before me was none other than reality star socialite PARIS HILTON.
The popular sextape star told me that she’d decided against Monte Carlo for her summer hols this year, and had instead decamped her entire entourage to the West Midlands. Hilton explained that she, her bodyguards, personal hairdresser, stylist and all her other hangers-on were off to visit the Black Country Living Museum in Dudley before heading to the Arndale centre to shop till they dropped. Paris told me that if I would take care of her 7 or 8 pampered teacup dogs for the day, I’d be her BFF.
I asked her what time I should have them back: “Oh, don’t worry, I can swing by your place tonight and pick them up,” she purred as she climbed into her waiting stretch limo, shooting me a saucy wink that sent the blood rushing straight to my nether regions.
Paris told me that her pampered pets were to be fed only the finest caviar, Ferrero Rochérs and champagne. Needless to say I didn’t have that kind of money, so I gave them Wilco own brand, and they wolfed it down. However, the cheap dogfood must have upset their delicate stomachs, as I discovered when I took them for their shits that afternoon. They all had the splatters all over the pavement outside Greggs, the swimming pool and the local primary school (which is coincidentally the place I was fired from before I was fired from those previous two places). I would have scooped them up, but honestly the turds were all so sloppy that I would have been pissing in the wind.
Later that night, I was getting ready to take my evening shower and had stripped down to my pants when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, there was Ms Hilton standing before me looking absolutely ravishing in a sparkly cocktail dress. She ushered her gaggle of tiny dogs out into her stretch limo, shouting to her chauffeur that she’d make her own way back. Seconds later, she had sashayed straight past me and into the house.
“Boy, you wouldn’t believe how hot it was in that Arndale centre,” the blonde bombshell purred, flopping down on the sofa. “You don’t mind if I take my frock off, do you?” Before I could protest, the svelte hotel chain heiress was stark bollock naked, reclining languorously in front of me across the dralon cushions. Truth be told, it wasn’t the first time I had seen Paris in the altogether, because I once accidentally pressed a button on my computer which caused her red hot sextape to download off the internet and burn onto a disc. “I was going to give you a fiver a dog for your services,” she said, putting a finger to her lips seductively. “But I’ve spent all my money at the Arndale. What are we going to do?”
Hilton’s implication was clear… she was going to pay me for my services in kind.
Now, Carol may have been in a huff with me for no good reason whatsoever, but she was still my wife. And no amount of temptation from the world’s most nubile reality TV star was going to change that. I’m as redblooded as the next man, but I told Paris in no uncertain terms to get dressed and leave - I wasn’t interested.
At that moment, I heard a key in the front door and Carol came in. She took one look at the scene in front of her, and her face turned to thunder. To be fair, from certain angles, Paris Hilton does bear a striking resemblance to this woman who works down the chip shop, who, admittedly, I have had sex with several times in the past. This woman is about ten stone heavier than Paris and has right wing tattoos covering her arms, neck and lower back, which Paris doesn’t. But apart from that, they could be twin sisters.
However, before I could explain this simple misunderstanding, Carol had grabbed Paris and a proper scrap broke out. The two of them were rolling round the living room, pulling each other’s hair and screaming abuse. After the pair had knocked seven bells out of each other, Paris grabbed her frock off the floor and left. “Get back to your fucking fat fryer, you slag,” screamed Carol, clearly still labouring under the misapprehension that Paris was the woman from the chippie. I informed my wife proudly that my marital vows had just caused me to reject the planet’s hottest heiress, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. She ordered me out of the house for good, and told me she was filing for divorce.
As I packed my suitcase and headed for the nearest hostel, I realised it wasn’t only Paris’s chihuahuas who were in the dog house that night!
NEXT WEEK: “It wasn’t just the BabyShambles frontnman’s cocker spaniel that was in the doghouse that night!” Stuart spills the beans about the time he dog-sat for Pete Doherty and ended up accidentally embarking on a three-day crack binge.