At last!

I am for once able to rejoice in my utterly and totally agreement with that World's Greatest Singing Racist Mozzerrissey when he takes them royalty to task for being simply there to scrounge up our benefits for our own entertainment.

It's just not at all good enough for us to get a day off for our own disposal thereof and not to get an actual invitation up their Mall.

I have been sitting by my door waiting for a fridge-freezer engineer far too long now and am fully apprised as a result of all that time spent in my passage that there has been no royal communication stuffed into my postal slot. To date.

Of course, come the Royal Day of tomorrow, I will be out in the street with the best of them, seated at my wallpaper pasting table in front of a plate piled high with festive meats, out of my brains on beer.

God bless you, your Majesty and his new one!

Sicilily: Farewell, Sparkling Jewel of This World

And so we are back where we started from - the hell-hole of delight that is Palermio, or to be precisionful, it's airport. We await our transport back to Blighty and ponder all we have seen and drunk.

But don't take it from me - visit this oasis of pleasure for yourself and be quite literally stunned.

Sicilily - Cefaloo: The World's Most Beautiful Beach Resort

Sicilily - The Grandeur Of Ancient Toarmania

Sicilily - The Awesome Majesty Of Mount Edna

Sicilily 7 - Our Hotel in Scenic Catanio

Sicilily - The Greek Remains at Syracuse

Sicilily - The Great Lake of Nototo

Sicilily - The Great Gardens of Ragusa

Sicilily - Gorgeous Agrogenti (Valley Of Them Kings)

Sicilily - Sun-drenched Palermio

Sicilily - and we're off!

Today I have embarkened to Sicilily.

Indeed I write this as I sit at an secret airport awaiting my private jet to transport me and my companions luxuriously to there.

For those of you unfamiliar enough with what it is, it is Sicilily: an island in the middle of nowhere in the Caribbean, but which is described by all who have visited it as probably the most of the beatifullest islands anywhere in this old world of ours.

Page after page of descriptions by the islands very own tourist department lauds this sensationalistically gorgeous destination for the intrepid traveller like me, portraying it as a never-ending carnival of colour, sun, sea, sand and sexists.

I travel not alone, as is my preference but as per the terms of an injunction still in force, with Beattie, Tallulah, and the Genius Amanuensis. Lordy, lordy.

I have stuffed my box brownie 'dans mon trunks' and I will capture the glory of the island for you in all its glory, presenting it to you on a daily basis as "Glorious Sicilily", a collection of photos which I hope to parlay into a coffee table book of an photo essay type one for sale to you all at a reasonably price for your coffee table all of you.

Adieu!

Goodbye old friend

There simply are no words.

Happy 53rd birthday Genius Amanuensis

Dump-Aid

Do you, like me, suffer from that uncomfortable bloated feeling?

Do you find it a wrench to get it "out of your system"?

Do you make yourself hoarse from making suitably encouraging noises to assist said process?

Have you ever wondered is there was an over the counter all-in-one remedy that could banish your distress?

Look no further! Free up all your passages with Streppersils!

Every damned year

Well it's rolled up around again: The birthday de Beattie. Bum compleano, my old friend. And here's the conversation we have each year.

Me: So what do you want for your birthday.

Beattie: (slumped in a somewhat eel-like posture, resting on whatever it is he has instead of a spine) I don't know.

Me: There must be something you want.

Beattie: Can't think of anything I want.

Me: Something you need then.

Beattie: A million pounds. World peace. Broadminded twins.

Me: Oh, you mordant wit. See my sides a-splitting up. Help, it hurts. No, really - what do you want?

Beattie: Surprise me.

Me: Well, give me a hint at least.

Beattie: It wouldn't be a surprise then, would it?

Me: Just a nudge into the right ballpark.

Beattie: Anything.

Me: Socks?

Beattie: Socks. Surprise socks. I'd be overwhelmed. No, a surprise.

Me: You want a surprise?

Beattie: Yes. A surprise would be lovely. I'd be very appreciative of a surprise.

Me: Just a surprise?

Beattie: Yes. That's right a surprise.

Me: Not a particular kind of surprise.

Beattie: A surprising surprise.

Me: Not even a teeny little hint?

Beattie: No. Just a surprise.

Me: Are you sure?

Beattie: Yes.

Me: A surprise, eh?

Beattie: That's right. Something really really surprising would be great.

Me: Something you're not expecting?

Beattie: By George, I think he's got it!

So when he was out I smeared jam between the sheets on his side of the bed.

Happy birthday, Beattie! Enjoy your jammy jim-jams!

Aciiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeddd!

Unlike that preening popinjay Cap'n Jon Richards and his tailcoat-riding acolyte Braisers, I refuse be bound by the fashion conventions that dictate one should not mix diagonals and verticals, different shades of baby pinks and baby blues, or polyester and lycra.

I also refuse to accept that one should not get dressed under the influence of hallucinogens.

Trapped inner man? Not me, Alison.

The darkness descends