The most spectacular reception (not BBC1)

And so, thanks to an unknown philanthropist settling some disputable debts and bringing cheer to the “Oooh poor me I need a holiday by the seaside and hot food” orphan-types, I am returned from my travails.

In my time a-roving our spinning globe I have seen many strange and disturbing sights, so I was pleased to enjoy the rapturous welcome home party put on for me by Club Derrig. Everyone was there and kicking up a right old rumpus and necking supreme-quality cava and cassis (a ‘Cherry Fizzbomb’ is the correct term I am advised). Roistering and exuberance in excelsis was the order of the day.

One of our very own - Lady Amanda Kendal - was there in the guise of a potpourriazzo, snapping away for what I am sure will be an exclusive lengthy photo-essay in one of the upmarket celeb glossies.

I can’t recall a time when the Club was so densely packed with well-wishers and admirers, thronging together in the most joyful and companionlike way. It was standing room only, and a lengthy queue at the door for those prepared to wait for someone to leave and make way for them (fire regulations, you know). Several times my elbow was jogged by the crush of jostling revellers, leading to cherry fizzbomb (accidental) spillage occurrence incidents, but I maintained my poise.

What a merry - if overcrowded - band we all were!

Except of course for Mr.Thomas, who was now returned to his lowly position of BarSteward, having been lording it over the Club in my absence. Never has someone been so lax in so many ways: letting the levels of Jagermeister fall below a good evening's-worth of drinking; persisting in forcing his team of stewards to expose themselves to the horrors of dermatitis through his neglect of the bottle-washing equipment; and the loss of reception of BBC1 - the Queen's own broadcasting system - on the bar television, meaning I had to forego the pleasures of Eastenders and the One Show during the celebrations being held in my honour!

Never have I seen someone look so glum, save the time when he had the nerve to try and fake a whiplash injury in my vehicle as I dragged him from the near-to-exploding burning wreckage, in spite of the many and dreadful injuries I had myself sustained.



PS - For those of you fond of the temporary international header to my webblog journal, here it is for posterity.

Tour du monde VIII: The Big Country

Yesterday I was travelling the length and breadth of the good old yee-hah gun-toting cow-poking USA of A.

Impressive?

No. Not really.

Tour du monde VII: Larceny ahoy!

Stepping ashore from my skiff in sunny Tajikistan I am greeted by a banner which announces that it is International Pirate Day.

I have consulted my everyday diary and see that it is filled with these events, so:

20th September – International Buccaneer Day
21st September – International Pillager Day
22nd September – International Cut-purse Day
23rd September - International Freebooter Day
24th September - International Ben the Burglar Day
25th September - International Corsair Day
26th September - International Picklock Day
27th September - International Bandit Day
28th September - International Brigand Day

And so on throughout the year.

It seems to me these are little more than opportunities for feckless profiteers to make money out of the gormless. However, I am all for enterprise and see no reason why I shouldn't join the ranks of these cunning speculators.

I have consulted my diary for a free day which can be inaugurated henceforth as International Derrig Day, a day on which I will be celebrated in ways which far exceed the quotidian.

I see that not much occurs on 25th December, so I have settled on that. You may send me cards and gifts at the usual address.

Tour du monde VI: A Fishy Thing

Stretched out as I am on one of Toulouse's many beautiful sandy beaches, I can feel the old garlic charm entering my very person. Not to mention the foie gras slicking up my bloodstream.

Interestingly, and typical of the independently-minded Frenchoise, they actually have different words for things to us. I don't mean 'I' or 'we' or 'and' or 'but' or 'or' - although that's their word for silver - but our everyday English nouns, like 'chaise-longue', 'souvenir', and 'entrepreneur'.

Sheer madness.

But - and imagine my shock if you will - that our very own "hake", the mythical undersea fish-like creature, is known by the entirely inappropriate name of 'Colin'.

Immediately I finish this entry I will be penning a formal letter of complaint to El Presidente de Gaulle.

It's not as if he doesn't owe us one.

Tour du monde V: Raffles Hotel Star Spot

Here I am sitting in the shade of a Goolagong tree sipping a Long Tea Iced Islander, and what should I see but an unmistakeable lookery-liker.

Strutting alongside the pool with his swagger stick swinging wildly out of control (he could have someone's eye out with that) and trailed by a swarm of local lovelies of all genders and none, one can smell the dissolute old suave's after-shave from here.

I think from the aroma it may be called 'Brutal' or 'Chip Shop'.

In this photo you can't see the safari suit that clothed his portly frame, or indeed the pithed helmet he bore tucked under his arm, but Lordy-a-Mighty what a ringer for Clark Gable!

Tour du monde IV: Takeover bid

On my travels a lot of people have asked me why I’m not a world leader yet. My answer is: democracy.

People will only vote for those they feel are not too superior to them in physical and intellectual assets. After all, they are supposed be representative of their electorate.

So I would garner absolutely no votes in the average election by the hirsute near-primitives I am forced to move amongst.

Having said that, I do have a strategy for becoming a world leader by force. The numerous military commanders who admire me have been asking me to lead them in a campaign which will see the world bathed in the hot pink light of Derrigism.

Over recent days, under cover of the seemingly harmless board game "Risky" and an unfeasible amount of alcohol, I have spent long hours ensconced with various Generals in a secret room of Club Derrig (County Mayo Branch). We have gone through a dry run of troop deployments and the arrangement of a complex set of alliances which we can forge and splinter at whim. To date the Derrig Empire’s shadow campaign has secured most of the globe, save Bangkok where, for some reason, our only serious adversary has corralled over a million of his troops for a spot of R’n’R.

Weather and hangovers permitting I believe that we will be ready to start the real thing sometime soon. We'll be starting in Coulsdon.

"KEEP YOUR HINTERLAND COVERED" - the Derrig family motto - will see us victorious.

Tour du monde III: a thong in my heart

The Incredible Green Giant

The Jolly Hulk

I was laying on the beach at Toledo watching the volley ball and pondering on a matter that has often been raised with me. On this particular conundrum I have frequently found myself unable to cogently express my boundless knowledge for the images that sprang unbidden to my fevered mind.

So I think these two above - often confused in the minds of the feeble - are a perfect way of demonstrating the old "thong or g-string" dilemma.

The Jolly Incredible would clearly benefit from wearing a g-string, whereas the Giant Hulking Green may best be served by wearing a thong.

Tour du monde II - Tallulah Writes

Tallulah sends a lovely homemade postcard from the room where she has been holidaying in the arms of a Mr.Smirnoff. It was delivered to me on my travels via the internationally-famous 'Poste Restaurant' system.

"Tapas" she writes, "is actually a way of allowing ladies to get drunk. Toodle-pip. Did I mention my parents' Ladies No.2's Detective Agency? Smashing. BEHIND YOU! LOOK OUT!"

Dear Tallulah! Where would I be without her?

In fact, where am I? Must have another gander at the A to Z.

(Copyright Col Derrig.)