Absinthe Minded

Whilst this is not of any particluar relevance to man or beast, I absolutely love the 1970s group Lietentant Pigeon. I am playing their signature tune "Mouldy Old Dough" as I organise and publish my journals. I wish that you were here by my side, and we could have a jolly old chin wag over an absinthe. Wherever you may be in the cyber spoon, pour yourself a glass of the old green devil bongo juice absinthe ... let us get acquainted. What sort of sound do you like, and how the blooming heck are you?

Back to my neck of the woods... and things are much the same. Daily chore of rising at 10am and filling the day with coming and goings and matters and the like. That lot that were filming with puppets in the next door flat have left, thank heavens. But to update those that give a fig:

• Downstairs in the hall of my building in Belgravia... Captain Jones, our doorman, still passes one racing tips and is once again making a spot of absinthe in the cellar with an absinthe kit.

• My business partner and great chum Highness (Nigerian royalty) is still fighting for the release of his treasure box in Abyssinia.

• Miss Duke the elderly lady in the upstairs flat has developed her home webcam business. Old harpy now sells a range of items... tee shirts, coffee mugs and the like. Duke is now a big thing in Ibiza, where she has visited a technical dance club, and sang the Polish national anthem in hip hop... or something like that anyway.

• The Ginger Cat that lurks in the communal garden at the rear of my building, and gives one dirty looks, is called Napoleon Jim. This information was only recently learned...plus data on the cat's activities; resides with a Madame Potrovsky, an Albanian emigre who runs a local bistro.
  

News Flash: Cognac, fine wines and the iPod now all banned for export to North Korea. Reuters say Kim Jung- il "boasts the country's finest wine cellar with space for 10,000 bottles".  Wonder if he's got any absinthe down there? Dreadful little fiend in platform heels and an ill-fitting wig, Kim has a fear of flying and goes everywherer in an armoured train; also likes weaving carpets! The old soak spends  $700,000 a year on cognac; obviously has a taste for snifters.

Anyhow, Kimmers may be sans absinthe, but the good news is there's absinthe to be had chez moi, so do feel free to pop round for a drink. If the Dear Leader is reading this and fancies a libation, he should ring bell marked GEH, Malaprop and I'll buzz the fella in.

What will follow are my journals for 2005. Much has happened since... but they are my diaries, and you may take them or leave them as you please. Wouldn't mind getting involved in a spot of online chitty chat if anyone's interested... need to ask Miss Duke how one does that though. Do drop me a line a say hello... frankly, I am a bit of a lonely old sausage; would welcome the chance to share a slurp of absinthe with the world. Won't you join me? You know you want to... raise the absinthe glass and let's be away my friend... away with the green fairy.

December 1st 2005

The festivities are almost upon us!  Captain Jones and I have embarked on a small enterprise, as is our custom at the coming of the Yuletide. We intend to make a few extra shilling selling homemade absinthe Christmas puddings.

Puddings laced with absinthe distilled from the wormwood herb.... harvested by nubile Albanian beauties outside Tirana. Good idea for photshoot if thing takes 'orf

Anyway, the puddings will not only contain absinthe, but steeped in a rare Welsh liquor – Cenhinen Draig –  Jones (doorman at my residence)  claims he can “acquire” at extortionate cost to good self. Intend to send puddings out to friends, and Delia Smith types, in the hope of creating avalanche of orders. Absinthe Pudding de rigeur at all Christmas dinners ..will buy new pair of cuff links by way of celebration. Ones with a flying duck..nice green enamel.

Retired early with hot water bottle, double absinthe and a pickled egg in case of getting puckish. Why are all dressing gowns now called bath robes? Gentlemen prefer winceyette...

Duvets there's another continental abomination...what is wrong with linen may I ask? Does anyone draw a bath any longer?...is it any wonder the asbots are ruining the estates....frightening the sheep I'll wager...the estates, once proud majesty, now full of worried sheep and inherited tax veins. Shame...night cloaks in.

December 4th

Received written word re consignment of Cenhinen Draig en route from Llandudno. Annoyed that Captain Jones - the doorman at my residence and former jailbird - now styling himself Colonel Jones, MBE. Understand that the title of Captain in fact obtained before his drinking days.... when he was a soldier of the Salvation Army. Still he's a good fellow and one shouldn't deny him his honorifics.

 Absinthe cocktail involving absinthe and cranberry juice in nod to coming festivities was enjoyed at sundown.

December 6^th

Cenhinen Draig arrived. Somewhat surprised that this rare exclusive Welsh spirit is contained in old Green Fairy liquid bottles – esp. given that Jones asked me for 180 pounds! Someone has scribbled “Bronnau fel bryniau Eryri” with a marker pen on the bottles. Most odd...hopefully not some ghastly Welsh curse...maybe the Jone's family motto?

As for Green Fairy...the legendary spirit in the absinthe bottle?

Dashed if I have ever had the pleasure of her company. When BRH drinks deep of the absinthe one has had an all together more alarming apparition; a purple budgerigar called Lawks.

Lawks: bloody thing fluttering around the room, perching on picture frame. Recall being desperate that the creature didn't foul the oils, told it so and rewarded with a barrage of insults from purple bird in Glaswegian accent.

In happier times Lawks used to pass on racing tips for horses ... subsequently discovered did not exist. Yeovil Sandwich at Catterick...Seal Liver at Sandown and Yellow Smarties at York. Haven't seen him for a while – perhaps the ginger cat had him for tea. Poor Lawks..must put some pepper down in the communal garden.

John Mccirrick is a rum fellow – dressy in a peculiar way, all velvet shoulder pads, Old Harrovian tie and gold knuckle dusters. Took a flask to bed and a cheese sandwich with spring onion. Drank an absinthe before midnight.

December 10^th

The puddings are made! The delicious delicacies created with the help of Miss Duke, an elderly neighbor, boxes delivered for packing by Mr Abdul at the Offy. Duke warns me that the Cenhinen Draig had a “vegetable aroma” like cabbage but, as I drink nought but absinthe, I refused to get involved – I am sure the taste will please.

Cenhinen Draig is a spirit; am told is the ancient liqueur of Welsh Gods and is used in ritual magic and the like...summoning up ancient deities to protect the virtue of Welsh maidens at a do called a Gorsedd. Ponder Welsh maidens. Charlotte Church isfoul mouthed little minx but is she interested in endorsing Xmas delicacy?

Interestingly, Jones clan claim their ancestor was a big noise in Welsh affairs in the 15th Century bearing the name Chwerwi. Fellow was such a sourpuss that the name entered the lingo: chwerwi [chwerw-] - (v.) grow bitter, embitter, become rough. Chwerwlys is the welsh for wormwood...the devilish herb that makes one's absinthe tang. Time for one now as I scribble the memoirs on paper...absinthe is a treasure makes one remember.

Always wondered about Hitler topping himself in the bunker. Long suspected that the blasted fellow slipped out of Berlin dressed as a woman. Suspect that he laid low in Filey on the Yorkshire coast, running a bed and breakfast name of Seabreeze Mansions. Damned cheek calling it a mansion ..as a little terrace with steep stair case and a disagreeable "back yard". Recall Fuhrer used to whistle in the morning and wake one up. Huge hooters (not owl)

Awful greasy breakfast at the guest house - suppose AH might have prefered cheese and some boiled eggs. One wasn't allowed in the "longue" after 9.30pm at Seabreezers and, if a pre diiner snifter was desired, the management charged 75 pence for a schooner of sherry!

I used to have absinthe (even in those days) Landlady - using the alias Ivy Clamp - wanted to charge me "corkage" for imbibing absinth at the dinner table. Charge of 25 pence for the delight of downing an absinthe before some dreary repast; sausages and chicken pie style. Sausages ...oh yes, hadn't thought of that..bosch delicacy.

Anyhow Ivy Clamp claimed the water on the table not for using in mixing drinks! One doesn't mix an absinthe, I explained, it undergoes the process known as la louche: the absinthe ritual.

Ivy and her husband Roger go beserk; started accusing me of being a "rock and roller" and how Harold Macmillan had once sent them a letter. Furious row  erupted and drove 'orf at high speed in the trusy Rover; found pub to have a spot of dinner. Afterwards met an Irish fruitmonger in the snug, and he told me that Ivy and her hubby, Roger, were well known in "outdoor circles"...fellow kept winking and saying "Core...what a pear". None the wiser.

Afternoon. The floor of my sitting room is awash with puddings – noted that Jones had printed aforementioned Welsh motto (Bronnau fel bryniau Eryri) on pudding box. Must ask him what it says. Still, adds to the sense of exotic...  spot on...what one looks in a Yuletide dish. Chwerwi and the valleys and all that, isn't it?

By sundown had Jones carting over 50 parcels to the Post Office, destined for those the lucky “first wave” of pudding connoisseurs. Sent one to that awful beady TV chef – Worral Thomas (nasal fella)  and another to lovely June Whitfield in hope of publicity on the television set. Another load to old friends and army types.

May well pop a pudding in the pan – do not (will not ) own a micro waife as they interfere with nature's radar and attract swans from their migration paths.

Devilish creature the swan when it's gander's up – geese too...steer clear of that sort of thing. Very dangerous animal and will attack one in packs whilst out for a stroll in the park. The rottweiler of the bird kingdom.....used to have a pillow filled with goosey down, made one sneeze rather. Swans are hissy blighters,one cannot eat roast swan as they all belong to HRH, The Queen. Goose eggs rather tasty one hears...but the fellow that attempts to swipe then from the goosey nest deserves mention in dispatches for bravery.

December 14^th

No orders yet for the puddings. Received letter from Aunt Petal in Nairobi. Absinthe from Albania arrived and had a slurp – retired early with a copy of The Spectator. Wonder if Marie-Claude Delahaye at the Absinthe Museum interested in a pudding for her exhibition?

December 17th^th

A television crew has moved into the flat next to mine.... how exciting! I understand that it is none other than Hello Magazine and a collection of glove puppets filming some new show for Channel Four. This information from Captain Jones, our Welsh doorman, who provides such information in return for money...not always accurate one might add.

However, unlikely Jones would make up such a huge porky and risk me rumbling him.

Jones once claimed that his granny was the subject of Picasso's The Absinthe Drinker and was "owed royalties"; asked me for 200 quid to see his brief. Turned out to another load of Welsh codswallop.

Back to the neighbours...two of 'em by all accounts. One of them is silent but the other lets 'orf high pitched shrieks during the sleeping hours. Popped round to mention the matter and enquire as to the cause....whether I could be of assistance...took a bottle of the Green Fairy, bongo juice absinthe to help break the icing but no joy.

The gentleman who answers claims very busy with his casserole informs that I should "f 'orf"  Returned with the green libation and spent the night in absinthe induced stupor. Listened with an absinthe glass to the wall; Sooty, Sweep and someone who I believe to be Basil Brush had a jolly time by all accounts... Passed out to the strains of The Messiah “Every Valley shall be exalted”

December 26^th

Red Alert: Major catastrophe in the works.

Awoken by hysterical neighbour (Miss Duke) who claims that absinthe puddings are incendiary devices and have been exploding across the Home Counties causing Yuletide mayhem. Also learn that Welsh ditty - added by Jones - translates as “tits as big as Mount Snowdon” and has caused offense in religious circles; extreme danger when set alight. Bishop of Truro's cassock badly damaged.

Jones has done a runner so absenta without leave (awol)...huge embarrassment looming..draw curtains.

Phone calls all day. Fire Brigade in Hants / Bucks areas want a word in my shell like, plus hysterical female (Duke) claims we are part of a plot by Welsh Nationalists, led by Jones!  Phoned Freddy from the booze shop at Victoria and asked about Cenhinen Draig...never heard of. Anxiety attack about Jones and the whole affair...where is Jones and the proceeds of the venture? Dastardly fellow; got rather tipsy and slept on the old chintz sofa...awoke in middle of ...with Vanessa Feltz sitting on face in picture form (Daily Telegraph)...most grumpy.

December 27th

More yuletide disasters. Received letter from Harry Christmas lot who are leasing Malaprop Hall in Shrops. Seems they expecting BRH to replace piping as leaking all over the old place. Dashed annoyed – pipes lasted 120 years and then Harry Christmas start chanting and carrying on and boom! Burst pipes to pay for!

Sect or sekt......bubbly vino from Hungarian woods...not Harry Christmas in caftans chanting and scaring the birds at dawn. Absinthe or three to calm onself to sleep. Gadzooks! Awoke from slumber... what of Eduoard Pernod 1914 absinthe in cellar of M Hall? have Harry Christmas flood the cellar? The bottles will be louched! Telephoned and news that one's pricless collection of pre ban absinthe is in tactus like a cactus. 

Harry asks, what is absinthe? Good question....what the hell is it? Bongo juice....but so totally delicious to taste, cool white clean and herbal...like a thousand angels with green wings singing a hymn to Rimbaud.

Dreadful scandal about the absinthe puddings. Really best not talked about any further: took a snifter of the Cenhinen Draig....like boiled spouts and alcohol, just as Miss Duke said, foul taste of vegetable. Called up Welsh rugby fellow that know from bridge evening. Laern that Cenhinen Draig means "leek dragon" and conclude that Jone's clan distilled explosive liquor from leeks...absinthe takes away foul taste.

January 1^st 2005

Ye Gawds! Awoke with a head that seemed to be the new abode of a family of rodents all bearing a facial characteristics of Noel Gallagher; the Neanderthal Manchurian noise maker. Annoying fellow with those eyebrows and frightful behaviour in public. Like that other fellow - Pete Doherty of The Babycham Bulls fame.

The night before was best forgot, but see hear! the artificial leg and rayon faux fur stole... strewn on the chaise long! What and where and how? ... a sudden anxiety attack of the most virulent form wrenched me back to the hours past.

5.00pm received call from unknown party regarding rayon faux stole and “incident” in the Gyles and Olivia Wine Bar at 2.00am Neither Gyles nor Olivia welcome my continued patronage – no mention of artificial limb.

January 10^th

Received visitation from His Highness Sammy Utto – Molox, a splendorous Nigerian gentleman who I met through the Internet / email McGubbins thing. His Highness and I are involved in a highly confidential matter relating to certain property stored in a box in Abyssinia. Poor fellow has been robbed by the African Government suits, and in desperate drama to get hold of box which contains jewels, bonds and so forth. Constant need to keep sending one's hard earned to Lagos – via Western Union.

Highness had another business proposal. The amazing Lasso Self Tying Tie is a mechanical tie which fastens itself by virtue of a patented spring thingy in the tie itself. Not visible to the eye; very handy on cold mornings.

A mere ten grand, Highness expains, and we could be the owners of that  patent. As I say the tie fastens itself about neck using a mechanical hidden spring. One simply pulls a lever on the back of the tie and hey presto! knot shoots up the chest and secures the tie around one's neck. This is one of those cracking ideas that is both simple and will catch on like wildfire.

Perfect for all those office wallahs who get up at gawd knows what hour, fumbling about getting attired before dashing off for the train. Now they just reach for their lasso tie and wham..job done. Time saving and natty too! What a winner! Celebrated new business venture with His Highness with Noonday absinthe libation.

Highness must away to the 'Change...where the suits lurk and discuss the various IPOs, bondage securities and other suit talk....told him to have another absinthe and to keep his wits about him.

Devilish fellows the suits as always trying to outsmart yours truly with fiendish financial machinations. God speed Highness.

Notes: Is second hand smoke a danger through walls? Poppycock! Captain Jones tried to make home made brew using an absinthe kit – steeped some vodka in wormwood, super mash. Miss Duke said it got into the air vents, made her feel frisky; threatened to call in the council.

Lit a Sobranie Balck Russian, toasted Gordon of Khartoom with an absinthe...toasted his Batman with a second, and the rest of the red breasts with a third. Fell asleep in armchair.

January 12^th

Was rudely awoken at 10.30 by the sound of neighbors having a "domestic". Quickly grabbed the absinthe glass and applied to the wall in the hope of learning more. Talk about a cafe or tavern called The Black Parrot. Intriguing stuff. Such an establishment does not exist in the environs of SW1, maybe Fulham? Perhaps something with Pizza and straw table mats?

Received email communication from His Highness pertaining to the imminent purchase of the Lasso Self Tying Tie patent by Absinthe Ventures Ltd. That is our new company headquartered at Flat 1a Lower Itching Place, London SW1, (Jone's dank abode in the cellar). Ha! Now I'll show all those City suits that I'm more than just a old soak with a wooden eye and a dowry! His Highness declares that Woolworths will buy us out during first year for 30 million smackers.

No sign of Jone's since pudding fiasco...what about mail? Note to self.

The original patent is held by some old codger in Bulgaria of all places. Highness needs some notes to travel to Sofia. Ask him to stock up on a few local absinthes which, a little bird tells me, have a whacko amount of thujone from the local wormwood.

After tea – absinthe fondant cake and Lapsang Sue Chong at the Grand Hotel -  went in search of The Black Parrot. No luck. Received call from His Highness informing me that Fides, the crafty old Bulgarian, is holding out for an extra five grand.

Informed that the stock market is abuzz with news of our venture and fears that none other than Tiny Rowland may make an offer to Fides and snatch the prize.

Call Mrs Edna Carstairs at the bank. Usual paranoia on her part that Highness is a wrong 'un; a 419 'er as she calls him. Isn't that something to do with the goldrush? Strange gal but a good card player. Carstairs claims that Rowland's is deceased, and asked if I had been drinking. The impertinence!

January 22nd

Highness dropped by with some papers regarding Lasso tie affair. Raised the matter of Tiny Rowland and Edna's claim that he "pushing up daisies". Highness informs this is a well known tax rouse used by cunning business types! Devilsih cunning these suits. One simply advertises the fact that one is deceased for tax purposes and hey presto the Revenue are out for 6... teatime and no resumed play. Later on, after musing on the matter over a glass of the green fairy absinthe, phoned up the Daily Telegraph and placed an advertisement:

Gustavus Ephraim Hottentot hereby declares that as of 12 noon January 23^rd he is deceased for the purposes of taxation and will decline to participate in such practices from this date. All parties that wish to propose otherwise have until the aforementioned date to lodge petition with my counsel....etcetra

Chortled to myself... that had finally managed to outsmart the devils in suits! Pour a absinthe or two, passed out during Countdown.

February 1st

Purple Alert: Serious dram-a-rama afoot.

Ghastly news! The Lasso tie affair has come a serious cropper. Yours truly owns the patent - wire in tie allows one to tighten with aid of a spring and lever on the reverse..negating need to bother ...all automatic.

Now seems that the device is deadly ...responsible for countless deaths in the Soviet Bloc circa 1974.  A design “error” means the tie slowly constricts the neck as the wearer goes about their daily doings. The unfortunate victim passes out around noon and is dead by Two O' Clock! Strangled by one's own necktie.

Many hapless victims were assumed by fellow workers to be sleeping 'orf an afternoon snifter – vodka not absinthe – and left to be choked by the Bulgarian mechanical horror.

Highness, my Nigerian chum who introduced the deal, claims that I am in deep water as there are lawsuits dating back to 1971 which are now my responsibility as I own the patent. Suits on feeding frenzy at the 'Change mopping us up like gravy with brown bread. Hell bells! All money up the swaney!

Highness has a plan - very hush hush - he must be away to the 'Change for some chit chat with the gentlemen on the Floor (drinkers to a man). Tea and some jam tarts - most agreeable. Like the yellow ones.

Chortled with anxiety and hope and poured another absinthe frappe. Mused on Highness standing splendidly with all those suits fawning at his coat tails! Most agreeable. Saw a ginger cat from the sitting room window eyeing me in a unpleasant manner.

February 2^nd

Jones reappears with a black eye. Question him about puddings matter. Claims he cannot comment on as all “sub judice” ; leave in a huff as he warns I may be infringing him under European Civil Liberties Act 2004 - says he will issue a writ.

Damned cheek of the fellow. Jone's brigade dwell in a dead end valley (Shinach) and down the ages have developed genetic cunning as regards : removal of durables from weary and disorientated travelers. Miss Duke says that the valley in question is home to the Welsh equivalent of the Sirens; travelers being tempted to divert from their path by muscular women up the valley path, so to speak.

Sirens? Welsh ladies compliment the victim on the size of their "luggage" and put on a show of arm wrestling. After entrancing the traveller, victim is invited to "take the hay". Suspect this is another yarn laced with inneundo and smut from the distrurbed mind of the spinster in the flat upstairs.

Val d' Travers in the land of Swiss is where the old devil absinthe comes from, every valley shall be exalted and every hill made low...think on.

King of The Bongo playing on the radio in the min cab;  reminds me of evening with Edna from the bank. Saucy gal when on the sauce.

February 4^th

Bored. Walked down to the foyer and struck Captain Jones up in conversation. The Captain is not only the doorman at my building, he was also an indispensable source of tittle tattle on the other residents, and often carries one home in the event of passing out in the foyer.

It seems that Miss Duke in Flat 9 has been interviewed on Polish televison!

According to the Captain, who listens in to her doings with the aid of the old heating pipes, she is a big thing in Ibizan "technical dance" clubs.

Duke has a webcam placed in her flat allowing dancers to log off and observe her life. Why anyone would wish to watch the old chestnut smoking gitannes and shouting at the guests on the Trisha Show is beyond me. Apparently at 21;00 hours precisely every day she sings the Polish national anthem! Why is this?.She was born in Rill and is as English as a custard cream.

Harrod's arrived with some cake and how's your father supplies and all. I tipped the delivery man who seemed to be a happy fellow. Poured myself a mighty absinthe and donned the bottle green smoking jacket, put feet up on old poof and watched Countdown. Where is Highness? Geneva? The Swiss are a crafty mountain folk and no doubt are vying for a slice of my pie.....dashed crafty chocolate eating devils...better get up early to outwit the 'Change.... devilish Swiss pastry face. Passed out during Deal or No Deal.

February 8^th

Turned on the old television set in the dining room for the first time in months. Fiddling about found a channel showing nothing but Crown Court, the 70's afternoon drama. Most agreeable viewing whilst eating eggs Benedict.

Highness arrived at noon with news. Bad news.

Lasso Tie Systems Inc is being sued by thousands of Ukrainian dependents of those strangled by the Bulgarian contraption in 1972. The Lasso was extremely popular after it was rumored Brezhnev owned one;  a rumour started by none other than the dastardly Petri Fides on a radio chat show.

Frightful drama at our Kiev office and must send funds to  pay for security guards for office wallahs. Ukranian's making a big stink and blaming yours truly! Most unfair as never heard of deadly Lasso Tie before a few weeks back...now up before the beaks with a 1000 uncivil suits. Awful suits.

Relief of Mafeking: Highness informs that a Nigerian lawyer he knows can frustrate the litigants and thereby push up the price on the "Change. Hong Kong investors waiting to bite like caged tiger. Annoying, must remit ten grand to the Nigerian wig by Western Union...Edna won't like it.

February 9th

Highness informs that Papa Doc has now got wind of the Lasso deal and is trying to throw his hat in the ring...no surprise there. Papa D  has always been a silent predator in many of the dealings that Highness and I have had over the years. The business with the Japanese submarine, the kosher ice cream fiasco and so on...devilish fella always popped up and ruined things. Cunning little fellow, short with wirey hair and a liking for drip dry shirts, I hear.

Highness and I share several absinthe frappes and speculate about the future.

February 10^th

The stress of the Lasso tie affair begins to tell .....as have a nasty headache and disturbing dreams. Pop over to see Doctor Ranter – aka Dr Death...so christened by Miss Duke, who claims that Ranter tells patients they are fine whether they be ill or no. Apparently, the Doctor does not like being disturbed by patients during daylight hours. Fellow is addicted to American TV shows which he watches all day long. Duke smokes 40 a day and can't be relied on for toffee.

Ranter rushes me out of the surgery and tells me I need to drink more tea. The receptionist looks doleful and says “EE ARR” as I hand over the readies to settle the bill. Most odd...is she a Somerset lass I ponder? No, they are rather gutteral or is that Corns of Truro? Cornish lingo.. Fatla genes? means “how do” but nobody speaks it anymore! So about as much use as knowing the address of Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen's tailor,...E Pluribus Unum.

Llewelyn Bowen, you say? Fawnish chap – bad type to have in a brigade of men as tends to create strife before attack on the Mau Mau position; hysterical and self centered like a walnut whip.

Return home and have a sun downer at 4.00 – absinthe and a spot of ham and eggs. The ginger cat is lurking in the communal garden...damned thing seems trained in giving one dirty looks. Captain Jones drops by and requests that I loan him a wager on Salmon Sid – a greyhound running that very evening in Whitechapel. I concur.

Absinthe drink bottle is empty and so open a new one.

February 12th

Highness reveals that I am Public Enemy Number One in Zimbabwe (after Mugabe) where the Lasso tie arrived in the 1980's after being banned elsewhere. Seemingly the mechanical ties were very popular for wedding guests!!

The result of this popularity was mass killing; the females naturally assuming that the menfolk were down wind of the sherry trifle.. as they were slowly choked during the nuptial festivities. Will cost an extra couple of grand to temporarily placate the Rhodesian contingent and Roland will trade within the week. Is Mugabe involved somehow?

February 13th

Received letter from Carstairs at the bank. The old harpy refusing to honour cheque made out to Mrs Hutu Lola Umbargo in respect on ongoing saga of Highness' safety box in Abyssinia ( which full of bonds, jewels and the like.) Umbargo demanded the fee to release the box; some blighter has altered cheque and now reads 100,000 rather than 10,000. Most peculiar - got on blower to Highness who promised to investigate.

Is Carstairs, (Edna Mrs) up to old tricks ... trying to get claws on Highness' tight sealed box? Tricky customer always looking to outflank a chap trying to make an honest crust. Suits are pulling her strings, big conspiracy against yours truly. Carstairs like devilish female pirate waiting to plunder my hull.

Jones drops by and informs that “my dog” was a dead loss. Was not aware that I was backing Salmon Sid, but apparently the case. New certainty at Cardiff Dog Track name of Bubbles Bad...Jone's informs that the hound is German and has a “special diet”....100 on BB for a bit of sport 50/50 with Jones...prices later.

Aunty Petal in Nairobi sends a postcard of a Zebra with inscription “ Warning: If you cannot think of anything constructive to say kindly restrict your conversation to the weather and the state of the roads” Obviously peeved about the pot holes again. Eventful day and thus put feet up with an absinthe or 3.

February (can't remember as stain in journal from absinthe spillage)

Matter of leg, artificial not “of mutton” variety finally... solved. Leg was discovered in bedroom after New Year's festivities. Leg belonged to Old Mary – barking mad artist a.k.a “Contrary” who has a studio in Charlotte Street.

According to the tobacconist, Mr Goiter, Contrary presented it to yours truly in Giles & Olivia Wine Bar as act of “artistic subversion” with the words “because your are less”.... erstaz Salvador Dali but rather drole. Contrary found artifical limb in a skip and signed it before presenting it in the vino bar....apparently one used it as a conductors baton during “Ol Lang Syme” and destroyed the chandelier. Thus Giles and Olivia seemed to have barred poor old me.......

Saw Heather Mills shopping in Harvey Nicks ; reminded of line from Shakers : “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety.” Exact oppo in HM's case as reminds one of a still life with old prune and stale Garibaldi biscuit (the one everybody secretly loathes...but passes itself 'orf as classy in the family selection) Tell you who is a cracker though....buxom blonde act on “How Clean is Your House” on television set....reminds one of those glorious matron types from the Continent but 100% English fillet steak by the looks of.

Had an absinthe and got back to thinkers on blonde lady...by third absinthe was also ruminating on bath full of strawberry jelly and custard..........Cleopatra used to bathe in asp milk..good for the skin..milky white like an absinthe after cold water added. Absinthe Spa...one gets to bathe in absinthe ...note to self: write to George Melly regarding opening of Absinthe themed turkish bath in Battersea....top flight ideas whilst liquored up...as always.

Never switch on television set these days due to inexplicable presence of vitriolic Scots – Colin and Justin – work for monkey nuts one assumes...talentless duo full of empty gestures ...sound and fury and signifying nothing....ghastly.... robbed of chance to see classy cleaner due to avoiding Caledonia crap.

What is Des O' Connor doing on Countdown?....my vote ( as Robert Morley is sadly not with us)  is for Russell Grant - but nobody listens to the loyal viewer. Dashed blue rinse brigade...rule afternoon television set. Russell Grant is a fabulous fellow – had a giggle to self about smutty joke name play on planet...was it mars in jupiter?

Recall something about backside...the moon maybe! Dashed annoyed that joke had got mixed up with other mess in closet called brain. Must do a tidy out. Big woolly jumpers and quite chubby...splendid ...nice fellow to share an absinthe with and have a chin wag about planets and that sort of thing. Little known fact about the poodle is that it is good hunting dog.

If Russell is too busy then why not ask Alexei Sayle? Fellow is an author and musician; I enjoy playing his song "Hello John" at bridge evenings.

February 17th

Extraordinary thing. See Jones and Highness in cafe on Sloane Street laughing and Highness handing money to Welsh balm pot. Must warn Highness about placing wagers with Jones – not aware that two were acquainted, rather miffed. Pull up collar on Burberry riding mac and merge with the crowds to avoid eye contact.

Asked Highness about matter of cheque altering alleged by Edna at bank. As per usual the suspicious old crow wrong about Mrs Hutu Lola Umbargo! Highness explains that said lady believed cheque was in Abyssinian Gongs (local currency) and that 100,000 gongs is 10,000 quid. Dear Mrs Hutu not wanting to cause cultural offense had altered it to avoid any embarrassment. Ghastly Edna at bank causing storm on sea of international trade!

Highness suggests that Edna is trying to muscle in on the box affair ... maybe working with African suits to prevent Highness from getting jewels, bonds etc.

Nigerian wig keeping Lasso Tie Affair under wraps needs more money. Highness claims that bad luck is due to a curse; that I should seek help about having it lifted from a gypsy. How does a fellow find a gypsy? Highness ruminates and suggests that I ask “that doorman”...meaning Jones. Suddenly dawns on me!! Highness concerned for wellbeing of yours truly - has secretly met with Jones and arranged for gypsy to lift curse. Royalty you see...nobles oblige...dashed splendid fellow.

Get rather tipsy with Highness drinking bottle of absinthe; throw a bread roll at the ginger cat as damned fellow lurks in shrubs. Fellow has an eye on it that would send a chill through Hades.  Enjoy an evening of merriment  as Duke drops by with a steak and kidney pie, and we three share the treat with a spot of the bongo juice, absinthe.

Duke lets slip that she's now flaunting herself on YouTube and invited to Rio de Janeiro Carnival to appear on a float. Feisty old dame is the Duke, Vera Lynn with knobs on; rousing chorus of "White Cliffs of Dover" causes visitation from Jones and even more damage to the absinthe supply! Happy times.

Received visitation from Doreen who is a relative of Jones and fortune telling gypsy lady.

Lady plants herself at the kitchen table and starts expectorating into my tea cup. Claims that BRH is "a cursed" and in dire need for ritual to cure the matter. She demands libation in order to send her into trance; offer her absinthe, which lady duly gulps down neat direct from bottle! Soon enough she's 'orf babbling; she is conversing with a spirit guide called Mama Doubs.

Then comes the real shocker! Doubs says she is in some velvet curtained room with gas lamps and gents in toppers. Merry place with a bit of a "knees up" going on. Doubs mentions it cost her 10 quid to get in and she wants reimbursing...so quite swanky if from the old days?

A dancing gal in the nether world approaches Mama Doubs and tells her she has the answer. She has cursed "the seed" of Randy Flowers Hottentot! Clearly not a flim flam as how would stranger know papa's name?

Ponder on this spirit guide; obviously not the sort of lady that would help a fellow pick a decent scotch or absinthe for the drinks cabinet! Most chilling...leaned over and grabbed the absinthe bottle and poured a shot into tea cup I was nursing.  Get dirty look from Doreen, or is that Doubs, perturbed about loss of bongo  juice. 

I urgently enquire as to why a curse on House of Hottentot? Story goes that pater whilst tipsy made some remark about a bee hive, which rather annoyed the gal...hence curse.

Suddenly Doreen out of trance and Mama Doubbs is gone. Now she claims I am a rotten egg! No, there is a rotten egg involved somehow. Makes no sense actually, but I must obtain two thousand quid and burn it in the fireplace to lift curse. Burning of fivers will help Mama Doubs placate the dancing gal, subject of the bee hive insult. Must call Edna at the bank and ask her for readies. Lady leaves after fee of 100 notes settled.

Most worried about whole matter. What the blazes was papa doing making remarks to gals about bee hives? Was it a hair do thing? But that was in the 50's....! Dancing types can be frightfully sensitive don't you know: throwing a complete hissy fit during the fandango and so forth.

Used to love doing the conga...always had a conga when the Hunt Ball used Malaprop Hall. Cannot stand flamingo dancers all that stamping and clapping....dancers always look so darned please with themselves...very showy and not on at all.  Advertisment for  Spanish beer where lady clomping about: washes her feet with champagne before downing beer! What rot! Champers from Spain is lovely...don't care for beer.

Do the Dutch have clog dancing? really must do research. Had another absinthe and lost in revery of small fellow saving the town by sticking his finger up Miss Dyke's nose. Miss Dyke was matron at Winkingdales School where yours truly was educated...idea of load of Dutch types dancing round in clogs shouting about rising water levels. This Czech absinthe absinth is rather potent, must have another.