30 September - Winston & Underworld

Clearly, having never been a dog person (I like them, had some when growing up and they're much better than cats thank you, but not as good as horses), the fact that I could be so excited about a friend getting a cockapoo (cross between a spaniel and ?? ) and could be subsequently in paroxysm of delight when meeting said chocoate brown puppy who seemed more like a lamb with all his gambolling, chasing, biting, pulling, nuzzling etc, can only mean one thing. Old age. There's no other explanation. My friend is prepared to stay at home more often to look after Winston, the new puppy and I can't get the words out of my mouth fast enough to offer to dog sit whenever she will need one.

The thought of enjoying a night in with a puppy to play with is ... frankly not part of my wiring. Something's happened. Is there any link between diminishing supplies of oestrogen and pet appreciation? I mean, I even bought him a dog cushion... But am also equally delighted at the thought of going to see Underworld do a set at the Roundhouse next month. Hope they're as good as Glastonbury circa 1997. I mean, they can't be, that's understood, but I'll go all delusional and not see that everyone around me is old. Though not as old as they are on stage. Surely Carl is nearly 50??? And not as cute as Winston.

29 September - Women, they talk too much - p2

Well, yes, am aware of the irony of having a part 2 on this post, clearly I also write too much....

Recently I went to a yoga one-to-one with a new teacher I like and she told me so much about herself even though I was making the right signs about leaving, you know, jacket on, bag on shoulder, standing next to door, opening door to hallway (we were in her flat). Well, she’s trained as an actor before turning to yoga so it does fit my mental pigeonhole that they mostly are people who desperately need yoga calming them down or saving them from various addictions. M. told me she has also written a screenplay about a yoga teacher, how very postmodern and she arrived frazzled at one session and wanting to calm down she told me the Jubilee line was not working, and about the taxi driver who asked her what she teaches and she didn't want to say as she was not the picture of a yoga teacher but a madly stressed person (she was coming from her group therapy session don't you know) and btw, there's a scene just like that one in her screenplay. Then she told me about her Iranian father and the near rape in India with her friend and the 4 guys with long knives/swords and and and ... I'd already said I was ok, hadn't minded waiting too much but I really had to be out of there by 9.30 so, er, can we get on with it? I sympathised and had, in woman's communication etiquette, tell her how a mugging left me pretty nerved shakey many years ago and I wasn’t hurt either but yeah, it stays with you so had you had real violence done to you there’s no way you’d recover that fast or well but it’s all so much and now we have to chant the darn prayer which I will never learn and she insists in making me repeat line by line after her. I only want to learn the moves, not the philosophy of it, or rather I know the philosophy (roughly) and take what I want from it, not the prayer please. Thank god I nipped in the bud any suggestion of chanting to her altar.
Where was I? Oh yes,

So later on that evening at movie with friends Toph mentions this lush yoga retreat paradise in the forest of Thailand that you reach by trek, boat and the rest, and how we could go there at Xmas/new year and I find myself surprisingly sanguine about not wanting to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with no escape routes and having to make friends with crazy people, there ain’t a single one who’s regular in my experience, not talking about yoga pupils but yoga teachers in general and plus it’s just too claustrophobic. And yes, you have to make friends because if you don’t, you’re a stuck up bitch and not in the spirit of yoga (and because I'm not really a stuck up bitch I would care that this opinion is formed, rather than not giving a damn) and despite having a blog believe me in real life am a little reluctant to just off load my life onto strangers and just listening would drive me mad. So I tell Toph we can both go to Bangkok and then he goes to retreat and I go to … beach frequented by well fit Israeli military boys and just read and ogle to my heart’s content. I may have to murder the odd juggler or those ones who juggle long bands of fabric or flags but at least they don’t talk and I can look the other way. Or ask them to move from my eyeline.

It surprises me that Toph wants to go on yoga holiday being that it was upon his return from one in Ibiza that he got finally dumped by the ex g/friend. Must mean he was not as traumatised as one would think.

26 September - Anorexic & Fashion

Did you see the stuff in the Standard re that Italian company’s posters during Milan’s fashion week? No-anorexia (No.Li.ta)? That’s my mate…. Working for them in Northern Italy and having to shape up her arguments for the press interviews she’s being asked to do etc. I think it’s another no news story, I know some people die of anorexia but it’s hardly cancer from smoking or heart disease is it? And more people die because of what being obese brings on later on in life and nobody sticks huge obese people on posters because the outcry would be too much. Human rights would be invoked and so on. And I’m afraid for once I side with Mr Armani and Messrs Dolce & Gabbana who comment that it’s a psychological disorder that some young girls (and boys) have irrespective of what’s in magazines. It’s like the do violent films inspire violent acts debate, yes in some people, but the majority don’t go out to kill/maim/rape. Why would boys get anorexia when the models to aspire to in magazines are fit and have six packs? There’s no concentration camp chic being peddled in male modelling so explain that one.

I have a close relative who suffered from anorexia from age 15 onward. It categorically had nothing to do with models and magazines and all to do with an almighty dysfunctional relationship with her mother and sister and a desire to control something which only gave her her body as a ‘victim’ she could bend to her will. Sure model agencies tell you to be skinny for shows but I see mostly fat teenagers around on the streets and not that many painfully skinny ones. I have worked in so many places and met/known so many women and their daughters and my mind can’t conjure up any anorexic one apart from my relative. That’s not necessarily a scientific sample I’m offering as I’ve also never known any woman with breast cancer (yet) and statistic say it’s one in however many and I do know however many and more so…

Don’t know what to say. But the model in the Oliviero Toscani poster would be the first one to say she wasn’t starving herself to be picked for a fashion show but because of some other psychic problem. She’s 27 and says she’s been anorexic since age 12 Er… don’t think you’re able to tell you want to be skinny to wear the pretty clothes at that age. She talks about deep family problems she was facing, though doesn’t articulate them, but I can’t yet find her blog so I don’t know any more than that for now.

But it all led to an interesting conversation with my friend in fashion. I told her you better sort out your sizes before you enter this debate fully because your brands don’t offer any clothes above a size 12 and in reality your 12 is a size 10 and so most of my friends can’t get one leg inside the waist of your trousers. She explained that the mannequin that’s used for pinning new styles on is indeed a regular size 8 for example, but by the time the items have been pinned and tucked and pulled this way and that by the designer and get sent for manufacture they have most of the times lost centimetres here and there and so that size 8 on the label is actually a smaller one in reality. This seems to be what top designers do because the reverse is true (in my experience) with cheap clothes and by cheap clothes I’ll gladly include M&S and anything found on the high streets of north London for example. I bought a pair of size 10 office like black trousers and not only are they long in the leg, they are v. roomy on the waist and fall off me even on the ass – which as I have detailed is more Sadie Frost than Sienna Miller and yet there shouldn’t be such a huge difference between a size 8 and a 10. So my theory is that these trousers are in fact almost a 12 and the manufacturer makes the fatter woman feel good by telling you you’re a 10, but when you save up and go to D&G you come crushing down to earth as you won’t fit into their 10. Ever. Their 10 is an 8, their 8 is a 6, their 6 is a 4 and so on.

My fashion friend also offers another explanation that’s to do with body type and not necessarily body fat. She says she has constant arguments with her MD’s because her efforts to break into the north American market are thwarted by the sizes they offer to them. North American gals (and Anglo-saxons in general) are bigger boned than some of their continental European counterparts. They have broader shoulders and backs for example and sizing and just giving them a bigger size is not the solution, it has to be cut different altogether and her bosses just won’t do it so they watch stuff going into Barneys and being returned. Conversely they sell stratospherically well in Japan and I’d say Thailand and similar places where the shapes are leaner. So there you have it. M&S are not lying to me! In fact they do make their petite range for the likes of a continental shaped small woman and their regular lines are for taller, bigger boned girls. Whilst of course D&G being hugely gay (and so are many of the high end fashion designers out there) start off with a mannequin of a woman but they really want to put those nice dresses on a MAN, so they slice off your ass and your chest and give you the smallest boy waist imaginable. If you mess up by buying yourself huge spherical fake tits like Vicky Beckham then you have to wear their jackets just buttoned up with the one button on the waist and everything else hangs out but your shoulders are tiny. You don’t often see female tennis players tucked into a D&G jacket do you? They need whoever designes for the SAS! You can fit any 18 year old BOY into a D&G size 8….

And to go back to anorexia gay Mr Armani and gay Messrs D&G have no idea of what body image hell women go through, though as I said, am with them on the it’s not fashion that makes you starve yourself and even peer pressure is bollox. I never became a pot head despite being surrounded by many… or a coke user later on, despite having it for free if I wanted.

There you go. Is this common knowledge /reasoning or have I discovered sliced bread or am I a fashion writing genius? As for the should we use this model on our posters issue it’s a no brainer. Had you ever heard of No.Li.ta before yesterday? I’d say no, they could afford a few poster sites in Milan but not the world over and now the story of that poster is travelling and being picked up by all media everywhere and hey presto. Not that Oliviero Toscani would admit to it but his desire to highlight some social issues seems to always be done not as an artist/campaigner but as a photographer paid for by a company with products to sell, same as he did with all his Benetton posters for years.

ps just a thought. Why can we not have a better breakdown of sizes/labels? ie. Size 8 for tall and narrow Scandinavians, size 8 waist but with room for huge fake tits at the top, size 8 for Minnesota milk maids (doesn't exist, go back to rack with size 14) and so on?

25 September - Rugby & Burma

This morning I thought should I read/find out something about rugby as there is a world thingy going on? You know, just to be informed, just to talk to some men about it and then I thought what men? I only know metrosexual types who do yoga or cycle or swim or play golf, but wouldn’t dream of watching men bashing into each other, so why bother? I don’t go to pubs, I hate rugby shirts, I hate what their pumped up bodies look like. Why don’t I read about the crisis in Burma instead although is it me or is this some manufactured front page news? I mean, a demonstration in Burma where 100 monks get beaten up is hardly shaping up to be Tianammen Square. And if nobody bothered to intervene in Rwanda why would they care about the tiny kingdom of Burma? The only people who have some influence in that region are India and China so why are the British papers giving it so much space? Why is Gordon Brown even mentioning it? Is there nothing else to write about?

24 September - Women, they talk too much

The social interaction of women is just bizarre. We all know that men say v. little and we rage about it but the opposite is not ideal either. Am at a yoga class in a place I never go to but they have one at the right time I need one so I go. At the end of it I glance at a tall blonde woman who reminds me of a friend of mine but isn’t that person. The woman comes over and says 'hello Lisa' and I am stuck for who she may be. She says her name and that I went for dinner at her house a few months back. Ah yes, she’s E. friend of the BF and indeed it was dinner for four so you’d think I’d recognise her but no, she had left my mind completely though she’s interesting, has lived in Angola of all places, has travelled, and was very welcoming. Now am scrambling my brain to remember name of her son (I can’t) and boyfriend (I can’t) or ex husband (I can’t). I make some excuse about not recognising her because it’s out of context, I never come here, blah blah.

Anyway, she says we should exchange numbers, we do and as we walk into the changing room she carries on telling me she’s moved, sold high, now she’s renting behind the new organic place in high st ken, a small house for her and her son who’s 5, she doesn’t say the name and goes on to say that she would really like to move out of town to where Jeremy lives in Cambridgeshire (he was at the dinner and was perfectly lovely but can't remember him or waht he does) but they had a falling out, and they’d only being going out less than a year and it was too much stress selling and moving and she didn’t want to go to the countryside immediately. She fills me in on his children (2 adults but one has failed A levels so still lives at home, the other is mentally disabled so will forever be living with father) and it would complicate things/access to her child by ex husband who’s much older and very possessive and will not let her go (well er, he funds her life still to a major extent so I guess if she could not depend on his money, he would be unable to control her) and she’s starting a new book -tk god she doesn't elaborate, I do remember photographs come into her life, but she needs a PA just for a few hours because it’s all too much and now she’s back with Jeremy but they’ve not seen each other that much and I swear to god all this came at me in in five mins as we’re both in a hurry to get to restaurants where friends are waiting for us. I say as little as possible as I have a pathological dislike of people who have clearly audible to everyone else conversations in changing rooms. I have a work colleague who I go to the gym with and she's confident and in possession of a loud voice, and will be heard by everyone talking to me (me, not answering, hoping she stops) about stuff to do with us/co-workers etc. However talking aloud in an enclosed space can be useful because suddenly the yoga teacher who’s putting her jacket on pipes up that she’s hired a recently graduated MA student for £8 an hour (crikey this is cheaper than my friend’s Portuguese cleaner at £10) to do a few things for her and so she gives E. her number as possible part time PA. E. tells me we should have dinner again etc etc and I say yes of course and will call you, but I know I don’t want to.

What is it with women, why do we constantly need to talk about our lives and in such great detail, to new women? I have come to this class to just stretch and disappear in the crowd of yogis I don’t know and don’t give a jolt for and now I have an open invite to dinner which in reality is an invite to talk and listen. And I don't know who reads all those real life stories in those ghastly weekly magazines but I don't! And I cannot be rude to her as she’s acquaintance of the BF who, being a bloke, has no commitment to speak to her more than a few times a year. Oh no! However, I did at least compliment her on her beautiful coat and was mildly jealous that her dinner with g/friend was at nearby Kensington Place which is a short walk from where she lives/lived her strangely gilded but not quite satisfying life.

17 September - Disasters & Ghost

There you go, I thought I was immune to marketing (not really immune but wise to it) and between reading in a Saturday’s paper an interview with Naomi Klein about her new book on the rise of disaster capitalism and being irresistibly drawn to in on Monday in the bookshop of the Tate… I was toast. I turned it round and it’s a whopping £25 for a ... book with no pictures.

Bear in mind as recently as last week I demurred and avoided spending £25 on a reduced (from £250) gorgeous dress at the Ghost sale on the grounds that it was a bit too ceremony/wedding guest style and I wouldn’t have reasons to wear it any day soon. And I was not in the mood to consider its usefulness next year or the following. Needless to say I have thought about it every day, the fabric alone was worth twice that, I could have shredded it and made window blinds if I didn’t want to wear it, they’d have been a touch of nouvel lace for all I care, and I must have been in a maddening African wind that sends you loco mood to say no to such a bargain. And I had H. urging me to get it from under the weight of her 6 or 7 incredibly cheap but totally beautiful outfits she was carrying about before spending, oh, only £90 or something.

So £25 for a book that will be out in paperback by the time I’ve read any more of it than the first few pages before deciding once again that life is too short to read theory and counter-theory and it will remain a beautiful but frankly useless purchase. Unless, unless I only open it carefully, read a bit of it, and repackage and give to a friend in a month’s time for his b’day. He won’t read it cover to cover either but will hopefully appreciate the gift as he positions it on top of the pile of other books he’s yet to read. Comfort book buying is at least not going to make you fat!. Mmmhh. I can totally blame how interesting Naomi’s interview was, how I envied her years of research and related travel and how young she looks for someone so clever. But mostly it was the bright highlighter yellow cover that I liked looking at. It was a grey lunchtime during which I heard harrowing tales of a friend’s life (more about that later) and yellow was the colour of my … fantasy ife out there, where I contribute something by changing the whole world of baddies who profit from other people’s misfortunes by exposing them and … and what? Simply denouncing shit is perpetrated doesn’t mean they stop doing it. I mean, movies don’t do it, books don’t do it (or maybe I have to skip to the last chapters and see what Naomi recommends), popstars don’t do it. Mhh, yes I will be well informed and more outraged and £25 poorer. I’ve been marketed!

16 September - FUG, Agent M & JR toyboy trio

Darn, it had to happen. I have not really been on FB (facebook) much but a friend led me to another and to another and found an old lover FUG. Couldn’t help but poke him and no, he accepted me as friend w/o recognising me (have different name on there don’t ya know and with a misleading photo so flying under the radar in my own Jason Bourne fantasy world. But very diplomatically he called me ‘lovely’ and asked for more information. Which I gave. This led to a long exchange during which I found out he’s not married (I read a message from Jade Jagger no less which I thought was congratulating him on said marriage but was mistaken).

I did mention Toph straight away but the exchange went down some memory route where if you basically had a good time and your heart was never in danger of being broken, then you have happy memories which can easily be re-activated. But bear in mind that I had deleted his number a couple of years back because he’s always been unreliable. I blame the pot myself. Anyway he’s sorry he can’t read my blog (yet), nor contribute to my adventures (yet). I did say I live by proxy these days as can’t stupidly endanger uplifting, totally wonderful life with the BF by just following some desire for danger. That ‘yet’ is telling. Here’s someone who knows me very little but knows instinctively he’s in the presence of mischievous person much as he is… still. Anyway, he set me thinking about the fact that he’s many years younger than me and a Friday soon, am also invited to the b’day of another of my ex toyboys, agent M. I didn’t think there were many but it’s surprising how I never went out with anyone older than me, always younger. Maybe went out is the wrong term, these were never proper relationships, more … part time bouts. I am especially fond of JR who used to leave me notes thanking me for leaving him money for the underground or for lunch when I left to go to work. No, was not cradle snatcher, more like he was 28 year old unsuccessful musician hence no cash to speak of. Lived in a squat type situation, which is the only time I ever found myself in Stratford. I know it’s soon to be Olympic village and so on but 7 years ago it was on a par with the moon for all I went there. The utter squalor was somehow a bonus. There were no drugs involved but I figure Pete Docherty’s flat looks the same as JR’s then.

And these few, are 7/8 years my juniors. I should ask FUG what his best memory is. For my part, mine is not sexual. It’s the night we sat outside his house in his brand new first expensive jag and he had an advance copy of the new Primal Scream album (or was it something else) and it was thrilling to sit there cocooned in the leather interior and just bliss out on the music. Before ipods folks! I know which one M’s is as I know he plays it back from time to time, perhaps when he plays golf. It was no more outlandish than a fuck on my kitchen floor (a dark shade of cherry read, varnished, very nice) and against the washing machine, but I guess in his many rock ‘n’ roll years, he’s not done many floors. In both cases I guess they liked the fact I’d just call a taxi and leave and don’t phone for months. I liked it for the same reason, it’s kind of refreshing to realise you don’t want anything further. Not even dinner. Though by the same token should they, or me, drop dead all of a sudden, we’d not know for just as long. The surprising link am able to make now is that these two share more than one characteristic with the BF. Physical and personality wise. They’re doing much better than him financially though… but money isn’t everything in my life so that’s just a neutral observation. But if you lined them up… they could swap clothes… if M. is in a skinny phase… What does it mean? I never had anything against rugby player built guys , in fact there was one, sweet personality though, a graphic designer, who was the only person able to f uck me in missionary position but, check this out guys out there and see if you can do it, would use only one arm to prop himself up, and with the other arm scoop me up under the bum and pull me up and down on his cock. I was weightless! Magic!

God, and to think am such a nazi when it comes to Toph’s life. If I read the above in his blog I’d be seriously f ked off but… for myself it’s totally ok to wax lyrical over the past…

14 September - tbc

12 September - Famine & Feast

So, there’s M.this 30 year old I know who hasn’t had a boyfriend for, oh, say years, and precious little sex outings in between. She’s attractive and outgoing in a sort of size 16 way. She’s fretting about what to wear to some sex industry award that her boss is sending her to as his company is in that field. It’s her first time to such a ceremony. She opts for some Vegas showy type dress. A few days later I ring to ask how it went and get told that the day after the show she came home in the afternoon. So of course I enquire as to ‘Who’s he?’ and get told sheepishly er…. ‘They’.

Turns out my large not so shy flower took a little tour of the after awards ceremony and found that many people, fuelled no doubt by booze, or maybe it’s just de rigueur, were copulating here and there. What fascinated her though, was a woman who was being spanked in view of an audience in a room. She watched it for so long that a man next to her told her ‘If you like it so much, you should step in and get spanked’. Cue much ‘No, no, no, it’s my first time here and am shy and .. ok then, I’ll do it’. So off she goes and quite likes it. As she comes off, another woman replaces her on the ‘stocks’ and this woman’s friend starts talking to M. whilst they watch. When his companion returns the conversation carries on and before you know it they’re on a sofa somewhere else getting it on. Before you know it, it’s chucking out time and the woman suggests they carry on in her flat which is not too far. Which they do… Am not exactly speechless but am trying to reconcile how one goes from nought to threesomes with no warning.
So, naturally I ask, ‘Which was better, him or her?’ and M. replies enthusiastically ‘Her!’ And she's sober now.
Blimey, that’s a bit of a fast forward to kink she’s done there and the rest. I ask what she’s doing this w/end and she answers ‘Going back to their house for more.’ Ok, can't make myself ask for more details, not yet. What do they look like, how old, what was best part, postion etc.

Darn, she’s making me hot just listening to her and she’s also off purchasing all manner of other clothes and accessories as there’s some Rubber Ball coming up and some Torture Garden and so on. This is it, this is her new social life now. I find myself just warning ‘Hey, if you’re off with strangers, do call me, text me who/where/as much information. Can’t stop them killing you if they’re psychos but at least they’ll get caught and as you’re 30, trust your instincts, don’t get pushed into anything you don’t want etc etc.. Then I suggest she keeps it quiet with her new flat-sharer, a nice Indian girl who works as trainee lawyer in commercial property and has just moved in. I say beware of letting her on to all these shenanighans as you’ve only just met and she may feel uncomfortable and she has a boyfriend and may view you as potentially dangerous/predatory. She breezily says ‘I’ve already told her, she’s fine!’
Oh dear. I relay all of the above to Toph who has previously not paid much attention to M. but now is mentally rewinding, and as he’ s not met Indian girl and is right now picturing some stunning beauty (well uh, what do I know, I guess she is and thin where the other is voluptuous but of similar height and both dark sinned, black hair, so yeah, great fantasy material) and oh shit, we’re driving, quick talk about Sainsbury shopping and get him to watch the road more closely. Er, I want to go out more! This never happened when I went to those clubs, though there's that time in Vegas...

10 September - Sagas

Over this w/end I've been told of three different sagas involving one ex lover, a friend of a friend and the husband of another. All v. complicated. You realise how exhausting life is just listening to what happens to a few people you know and all of it is regarding relationships, not life or death matters. I got home last night and had head buzzing. It wasn't just listening and relaying (of course I had to 'gossip' to other friends) but also lending an ear to phone call by upset (though not distraught) girlfriend of a friend. Being 'older' seems to give me some kind of consigliere position and frankly, am terrified of just giving my advice based on what has happened to me in the past or have experienced ie. not related to the situation at hand.

Oh, I forgot another one because it was on Thursday. When I wrote a month ago or so of 47 year old husband taking a dip for a twenty something woman he was working with... little did I imagine that she would dump him so soon for... someone more influential than him and thus more able to further her career. I had her down as a slip of a thing and she goes and nabs some serious player in her perfect strategy for success. So yeah, that's four dramas swirling around in my vicinity.

If I manage to find the point I want to make with all of this... I shall relate them. Or try to.

9 September - Sharks & Schnapps

It's official: I can go live in Iceland. Last night went to small gathering of icelanders and passed the most important test of all ie. the ritual ingesting of local delicacy: fermented shark. No, the smell of ammonia is not due to it being buried under ground for a few months and having been pissed upon by the buriers, but by some other chemical reaction. I was told not to smell it before I put it in my mouth, but you know, you say that and of course you want to do it. I figured it couldn't be worse than the smell of thai fruit the infamous durian. And it wasn't. It helped that the sharck was cubed into tiny pieces that looked like er.. any sushi you care to mention. So one went down and of course some smart arse had to let me know that I hadn't really tried the worst bit as picked a whieish morsel instead of the more potent darker coloured ones. So I picked one of those too. And it was fine. To be hones, the BF who has actuall eaten it before and puffin as well, oh and whale, said it would return in my mouth for the following day but it hasn't. Various checks have also revealed that it doesn't give you bad breath either. Hurrah! Or maybe it was the following schnapps that act as a cleansing agent. Anyway, there you go! Iceland here I come or here I return I should say. However, my 6 morsels are nothing compared to the full on Ms PE who had a dozen and thank god someone snatched the jar away from her. We can't decide if winter or summer would be best and want to do both. Ok, winter now comes first so maybe that's the obvious course of action to follow. After all, I'd love to go to both the Artic and Antartic so am not worried about the cold.

8 September - One night in gambling heaven

I have permission to include the following post as a guest appearance from a reader friend... Very grateful to use his two degrees for once as I didn't get many this week. Though friend's partner was roped into private jet sent by Cl. Gaddafi to pick up Bob Geldof who was going to play a show in Lybia for some youth day festivities. Must ask if friend (not Bob, as assume he has) met the famous er... former... dictator...


here goes (and how come that does not surprise me about Miss Ross) :
I was just reading your blog and it mad me think about the celebs who used to come in to the casino when I worked there. Annoyingly, I almost never recognise them and usually think they must be someone I know from the past. So then I get caught staring at them and when the light dawns, I'm annoyed for looking like just another adoring fan. We used to get any number of sports figures, mostly Americans, who wouldn't necessarily mean much to a European audience. But when you have the whole of the Phoenix Suns basket ball team at your blackjack table, including Charles Barkley ( 1.98m and 120kg with a fearsome scowl) it's an impressive sight.

The only celeb who really affected me was Muhammad Ali who I met in a quiet part in the casino one night. It was just him, his wife and a younger man who might have been a minder. He shook my hand and gave me an amazing smile, but he doesn't talk these days in public. Someone else spotted him and in seconds there was a gang of middle aged men all around him. He towered above us, smiling and trembling the way he does. Everyone seemed to have an uncontrollable desire to touch him. Guys were patting his arms and his shoulders and calling him Champ. One man was crying. There was a boy of about eight dragged up by his father who was emoting in a particularly American way - Do you know who this guy is? He's the Greatest. He's the Champ etc etc. And Ali grinned at the boy and raised his massive fists, threw a couple of gentle jabs. And the boy did the same. It was great stuff. Ali has a presence, a fantastic dignity. He handed out some religious tracts that he had signed and serenely moved away.

Another time I came back from break to find the pit I was working in surrounded by hysterical people all standing on tiptoe and jostling each other. When I finally got through them and back to my table, I found the table next to mine occupied by Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman (this is some years ago), Bruce Willis, Demi Moore, Patrick Swayze and Billy Crystal. They played five dollar blackjack for a couple of hours, kept the dealer in hysterics (and tipped - unusual for celebs who seem to think being in their presence is a sufficient gratuity) and caused the casino a major security headache.

I also bumped into Tom Cruise in the men's loo outside the salle prive’. We grabbed each other’s arms, dodged, apologised and he flashed that massive smile. Very likable impression but also slightly mad, a feeling of hysteria kept barely under control. He's very short, rather stocky. I went back to the salle and a gay friend begged for a break when he heard that Tom was in the loo so he could just stand next to him and see how big his dick is.

Julio Iglesias used to come in, surrounded by never less than eight girls, usually looking slightly 'shop-soiled.' He was pleasant enough but could have used a good wash. Diana Ross was probably the most unpleasant celeb. Haughty, touchy, often extremely rude, especially with the waitresses and ash tray emptiers.

7 September - Lookalikes & Degrees

Ok this is weird. A while ago whilst chatting to JS who I had not seen for years
(and re-met this year and had to turn down several times though I believe it’s just a game for him at this point to try it on) he mentioned one of his exes is an actress called Rhona Mitra. So of course I go google her and look at photos. She’s got a bit of that Sandra Bullock manly face with square jaw but on some photos looks softer and who am I to comment, as there is the odd photo of me where I look like a Brazilian transvestite or at least I think so, the rest of the taxi driver community goes for SJP or Kylie) sooooo…. Looking at these photos I noticed that RM’s cleavage had altered significantly over the years (well you don’t get to play the original Lara Croft if you’re Keira Knightley). So I ask JS if he was her boyfriend before or after the new tits and he says both. Do they feel good I ask and he says ‘Fantastic, but remember her father is a well known plastic surgeon'. So yes, though we don’t think he actually did it, she had good advice/resources. The BF upon being told this story and giving me the usual you have great boobs, no need to enchance them, admits to one experience with girl with fake boobs. I ask my usual question, how did they feel and first of all he tries to say ‘Ok’ then a smile escapes and admits they were great. Uh ho, she’s Icelandic, wonder where she went to have them done? Wonder if you live in a low density country there’s one plastic surgeon who does them all and whether the guys get to meet the same tits even if they change g/friend/wife?

But back to why I started this posting. So I go to a gig last night with JS and his ex is there, the famous A. the mother of his 5 year old child. I’ve heard so much about over 7 years or so (or ok, not really as I said knew him back then, then met again recently). First of all I registered she’s practically my double, only a good few years younger and more tanned as she's fresh from Tuscany, same height, same face, same hair, same build, etc and then I also see some of the actress features in her. Talk about sticking to a type. Must discuss with him what the clincher attraction ‘item’ is about this type of face… Am not sure what she thought of me. Knowing her boy as she does, I did feel suspected but my consciece was clear.

5 September - Live & Learn or Learn & Live?

The book I’ve yet to finish writing is no Booker prize contender but believe me you need it. It’s called A Hundred Lessons You Really Should Have Learnt By Now. It will contain no doubt some profound philosophical deliberations on how to achieve constant happiness (no, no drugs allowed) and be written in a colloquial, not too highbrow Alain de Botton style I think. But it will also hand out some essential tips for practical living, like ‘Don’t present girlfriends with any ring containing looking little boxes if what’s inside is…. A bracelet and then you wonder why she stops speaking to you and similarly never ask a girl in marriage by prefacing the request with ‘I supposed I ought to ask you (to get married)’ and so on. You get the drift.

I had reason to re-learn one of my not yet learnt by now lessons the other night. It’s the one about always reading what it says on the label or on the tin. You may remember I thought long and hard (about an hour one Saturday afternoon) about purchasing a soft leather handbag in a cappuccino froth colour. I don’t’ wear jeans very often and for this reason they are still rich in denim dye and wouldn’t you know it, the dye rubs off a treat on light coloured leather. A few days into his new life as my summer handbag, it was looking like Kate Moss had dragged it around PD’s flat several nights in a row. Not clean, not new, not the bag I wanted. And thank god I hadn’t plumped for the one that cost three times as much or I’d have been so bummed. So I set off to purchase some Cif bathroom cleaner as it cleans leather very well. Yes, it is a bit scary to do so with a bathroom cleaner and a rough sponge but this tip was passed down to me by a D&G and Versace sales assistant many years ago and so I knew it worked. Though you get very scared when because of the water, your leather turns dark grey and wet. But it springs back to life when it dries, promise. As I was at the BF’s abode, I then searched for a tin of what I had seen in one my clear outs, neutral coloured shoe polish which was in fact a tin of saddle soap. Same thing I thought. This was yellowish and I applied it liberally and left it overnight for polishing off and buffing in the morning. I like a job well done. In the morning my bag was covered in yellow goo (footnote 1, don’t do important jobs in semi darkness whilst watching TV). And when I went to clean it off it didnt’ budge. Yiykes, bag ruined? After all that effort! Only then did I read what it says on the tin ie. to uses the saddle SOAP (not polish) much as I had used the Cif ie sponge wet and rinse off. Darn. But before I chucked my most recent bag in the bin I thought of doing exactly that because I’m an eternal optimist, and miraculously the yellow soap frothed and then was easily taken off. Bag as new, and awaiting leather feeding cream to be applied… soon. What you think? Is there a market for my book?

4 September - Perfume... not

Sometimes the world I wish to inhabit (doing nothing all day but reading, writing, having sex, exercising, travelling, reorganising my closet) is even further away than usual. It’s when you find yourself trawling the internet to find a product that may help ageing relative who has lost some/a lot of control of sphincter muscles and cannot tell if about to fart or not and more importantly can’t prevent that happening till she’s gone ‘outside’ as any polite person would do. Thankfully we’re not at the stage of leaking faecal matter yet. Plagued by this problem which she believes will make her a social pariah, she has resolved not to go anywhere enclosed thus reducing social life considerably. No trains, planes or coaches, gads, not even church??? I wonder.
So am reading up whilst trying to find if the paranoid Japanese may have invented some quick perfume release incontinence pads to mask any odours or if I should phone any GP in Vegas or LA Beverley Hills and they’d tell me where to buy or what these things are called. Various words sequences I’ve put in search engines have failed to throw up anything useful.

The info I’m gathering is not filling me with mirth. So it would appear that everybody’s sphincter muscles become progressively weaker and there is nothing you can do. Great. Ah, but it affects mostly women who’ve had children, the strain of expelling baby did not just affect vagina and urethra but the anus as well. Hurrah, that won’t be my case. Oh but reading further I probably have had more anal sex than several mothers I know so will not be immune to this weakening. But then again won’t suffer as much as porno actresses who've had to accommodate Rocco Siffredi. Yeay!.

Is it my job as older than a bevy of girlfriends to let them know they/we have this coming? Some sooner than others? I know only this week Brad Pitt is lamenting the changes in his face/body upon reaching 43 (the expanding brood can’t have helped) but do we all really have to go through this? Just had a flashback to when as kids we didn’t want to go visit some old grandaunt in some retirement home because ‘It smells in her room mum!’. And there’s nothing the poor old wretch could have done. It’s all very well spending hundreds on facials ladies, it won’t prevent you from farting indiscriminately and soiling the Agent Provocateur knickers. And your husband could still be bodybuilding but have piles or pancreatic cancer to deal with and some anal leakage too. This is no fun. This is not on. Old age sucks big time. But carry on with the pelvic floor muscles strengthening exercises. Every little helps.

3 September - Curry King & Benazir

Out with D. and the curry king friend, (when is he ever going to blog about his passion or form the Facebook curry lovers network? I keep telling him!) who happens to own a commercial promo company and whose 13 year old daughter has had a book published this week. For an advance of 1k and bear in mind it’s only 3000 words. Way to go teenage empire building kid. I feel humbled. So we celebrate and chat and just to get out of the usual pop gossip, how about a bit of political goss?
Our friend D. asks curry king if he knows how to get to Benazir Buttho (or Bhutto, sorry the net is equally divided over the spelling) since he went to Uni with her and D’s reporter friend T. is on his way to Pakistan to cover the elections/return of émigré prime minister etc. CK says he still knows someone who keeps in touch with her, though he personally doesn’t. A grin spreads over his face as he says when she was at Uni she was a bit of a fast girl. And he laughs. I think we should be told if CK has been there but he won’t reveal.

Uh ho! Maybe I shouldn’t stray into politics in my blog. Unsubstantiated ha ha ha. As it wasn’t him she slept with, but others. Several. Oh there I go again, casting aspersions. Somehow it just makes me laugh that all this Eastern leaders have to kow tow to their religious mafias when in fact they get up to the same as everybody. Bit like the catholic church thundering against gays and being the largest…. Oh I better stop there.

2 September - Prince Harry & David Gest

No, they're not friends but they share a title on account of the following.
So we go to G's birthday drinks in a posh pub on Saturday evening. Ok, it's in Earls Court but it's posh enough to be discussing stuff with horse breeders, mining prospercters or impresarios and the odd Morgan Stanley banker and a bevvy of Chelsea blondes. We're sort of interlopers in this world though when Rusty Egan arrives on his way to a dj gig in Sloane Sq then am not so much of an interloper. I mean, who else in this room went to Club for Heroes back at the Barracuda in Baker Street in, oh dear, let's draw a veil on the year. Anyway, nobody but me.
Certainly not his stunning Croatian nanny who says she's 21 and shy when I ask her if she wants to meet my friends. It's more likely she's laser eyed their attire and decided they're not worthy. Big mistake as J. is a mega hedge fund manager and it just so happens he has not put on any rich looking glad rags just to come out for a drink.
Anyway, we leave early as we have to go to a barbecue in a square nearby given by some adorable French yoga buddies of the BF. On the way out BF, who's a step in front of me says 'That's Prince Harry' and so he is, fresh from delivering his best ever memorial speech for his mother the day before. He's looking down trying to pass unobserved but he's just too recognisable with that hair. He looks up as M. goes past and catches her eye! Hurrah for M., a successful debut novel in your nearest Waterstone (handily positioned next to best selling Jodi Picoult) and now the royal eye. For all we know he may have purchased her book (or Chelsy has!) and never know who he gave the eye to.
Never mind.
The next day I email a friend to say the above as am all excited by having walked past royalty. Flesh and blood like you and me, but A list plus don't you think?
Her reply comes quickly:

Last night at Harry Morgan's (St. John's Wood salt beef bar and deli) who's there
table 1 - David Gest - alone and badly dressed !!!!
table 2 - Vanessa Feltz, fiance' and friends
table 3 - the P. family (visiting from LA) and me!

She wins!

1 September - tbc

Of CIA's men's wives with multiple lovers (hasn't happened to Jason Bourne yet) and regular Brit men who think they can have the bigamist life by importing Thai girlfriend of several years and expecting local girlfriend of several years to integrate her into their life.
Have to get my head around writing this one... be patient. tbc