What do you do when you've only got 5 minutes to blog before dinner?
Invite everyone to visit Belle Du Jour, toute suite. Fascinating, articulate, and, um, highly informative stuff from a London call girl, and still new enough to make reading the whole blog from Day One a feasible proposition.
I'm not using this Internet joint again. It's bloody roasting in here...probably the heat rising from the sweaty palms of all the pr0n browsers in here. Why do they do that in a public place, anyway? Are they just stoking up their memory banks for when they get home? Shameless behaviour...I never knew.
Look, it's quite simple: ALL of the royal family are gay. Yes, ALL of them. It's some strange in-bred genetic thing, probably.
Charles and Fawcett? Oh goodness yes, we've all known that for ages. The whole Camilla thing has just been an elaborate bluff, to throw you off the scent. Remember the "I want to be your tampon" tapes? Scripted by MI5, that was.
Andrew? A regular in the bogs at Heaven since the early 80s. I know someone who knew someone who ... well, best not say any more. Because THEY might be watching. (Didn't you think that whole "Fergie is still my best friend" schtick was just a little bit too cosy to be true? Hush money, that is. With lethal consequences if she ever blabs. No, I've said too much already.)
Anne? Butch as hell, that one. Come on, think about it. Edward? They called him "Barbara" in theatre-land, you know. As in Windsor. Michael Ball was "Lucille". I rest my case.
Wilma, Harriet, Nellie Linley, that Zara with the tongue stud & femmey old Lady Sarah Wotsit (kissing cousins? I'm saying nothing) ... and yes, yes, yes, PETER PHILLIPS! He's one of ours as well! No, really!
My old pal Jonathan's blog has been fairly swamped by Seekers Of The Truth over the past few days. Thrillingly, one of his passing readers has left some deliciously scandalous and indiscreet first-hand comments on those naughty queer-as-f*** Windsors - go to this posting, and read the third comment down.
They've all got lizards' heads if you rip their faces off, as well. Just like the Bush family, and Bill Gates, and Osama Bin Laden ... they all meet up once a year in a secret pyramid, and sup the blood of virgins.
Oh no! They're coming for me now! I can hear the helicopters buzzing!
So what have you got to say for yourself? Spit it out. We're waiting.
It's just that I've been a bit busy, and...
We're all busy, Mike. But the rest of us make an effort.
But I haven't been very...oh, f**k it. I don't have to explain myself to you. Like you care anyway.
That's not very...
Well, I do wonder sometimes. You can be awfully harsh, you know.
That's because you...
Oh, spare me your insights. Look: I've been travelling abroad for the past five weeks - Paris, Cologone, Barcelona, and I'm about to get on yet another sodding plane to Paris this afternoon, and I'm just so, so, sick of bloody taxi rides, and check-in desks, and boarding passes, and security X-ray machines, and sitting around in soulless departure lounges, and in-flight safety demonstrations, and waiting for the trolley to get to you, and aeroplane sandwiches from the "all day deli" (that would be the trolley, then), and swapping your sterling for euros, and the trudge to baggage claim, and standing around waiting for the conveyor belt to start moving, and the trudge to the taxi rank, and that ghastly, endless, one-hour-plus taxi ride into the centre of Paris, and the hotel check-in, and the unpacking, and the table for one in the café/bar next door, and trundling off to the the internet joint, and constantly hitting Q instead of A because French keyboards swap them round, and the crap night's sleep, and the early start, and the hotel breakfast lounge with all the other lonesome business wonks, and the metro ride, and the trudge across the bridge to the office, and buzzing to get someone to let you in, and the cordial indifference with which they greet you, and the grudging way that someone lets you use one of the spare PCs, and the constant thoughts of "why am I even here, and couldn't I have done this better back at home?", and that look they give you when you need to ask them something, and the tone in their voice when they ask you to do something for them, and the lunchtime sandwich from downstairs, and the journey back to the hotel, and repeat and repeat, and reverse, and unpack, and re-pack for the weekend, and unpack from the weekend, and re-pack for the week, and no time for friends, or to reply to e-mails, and the knowledge that this cycle is most probably going to repeat itself for the next six months at least, and worst of all, the constant tiredness and the aching limbs, from top to bottom, all day, every day, and what's that all about anyway, is it viral or psycho-somatic or stress-related, and come on, plenty of people are under far more stress than you are, and what's so stressful about sitting around in taxis and airports and planes anyway, wuss, though the doctor said that if it continues then she'll run some tests on you next week, your first week without travel for seven weeks, and oh God, you can't wait for the chance just to spend a few days in the same place for once, so yeah, I haven't felt much like blogging, yougottaproblemwiththat?
Huh? What? Sorry, I zoned out for a bit there. You do go on a bit sometimes, you know.
I know. I'm told that it's part of my charm.
Oh. Right. Whatever. So, are you going to snap out of it and make a bit more bloody effort this week?
My father used to say that. You get more like him with every passing year.
Well, you should know.
Ouch. Look, I think we're starting to freak people out. They're wandering away in droves. Don't you know there's a competition on?
You said you wouldn't talk about that. Not after last year.
What, the Socratic dialogue? That pissed people off rather effectively at the time, didn't it?
It certainly did. Hee hee.
Hee hee. You do realise that none of our newer readers have a clue what we're on about?
I know. And I don't care. Shocking, isn't it?
It's alright - I'm ill, I've got an excuse. Time I started packing up, anyway.
Don't forget to set that Out Of Office Assistant thingy.
I never do. Cheeky get!
You love me for it really.
If you say so.
I do. Now buck up, hit Post & Publish.
But I want to review...
No time for that now. They'll be grateful for your scraps, anyway.
That's a shocking attitude. I would never treat my...
Get over yourself, Mary. And stop writing, now.
But I'm enjoying this! I'm getting over my Blogger's Block, and it's fun, and I don't want to stop!
It's all displacement activity with you, isn't it? Well, if you won't pull the plug, then I'm doing it for you.
