Let's Do Launch!

As the year grinds to a close, Bettie and Big Frank jet off to Las Vegas for the 39-4-Ever New Year’s Eve launch party extravaganza.

Since swapping the whirling plums and melons of Bazongas, the world’s largest nudist casino, for 39-4-Ever, the world’s largest online casino for women who lie about their age, life has been like a bad trip. But like thirty minutes on the circuit trainer to get a month’s free gym membership, it’s totally great when you stop. That’s how I ended the year back in the land of the palm tree and supersized portion. Mother Nature’s tanning salon; sunny Las Vegas. Hubby #3 and moi are over here for some annual jolly thinly disguised as a conference. I mean, any event that doesn’t start until after lunch is hardly work, is it? Oh, and, of course, for the illustrious launch of Big Frank’s get-rich-real-soon-now online cash cow site, 39-4-Ever.com. Bless his heart.

But the sinking feeling began as soon as I arrived at the Convention Center and started searching for our stand. Three hours and three million square feet of brushed nylon carpet squares later, I finally found someone who didn’t think they worked for a higher authority and learned that locating Booth 3685 was easy as it was right next to the john. Cute. Still, though the pubescent guard was like the Dougie Howser of corporate security, he was also so checking me out. And he must have liked what he saw as when I headed off I heard him say, “What an ass” under his breath.

It was sundown when I arrived at the gargantuan 39-4-Ever exhibition stand. You see, Hubby #3’s not too big on subtle. Fighting my way through the sea of pavement signs, literature racks, tinsel-wearing showgirls and a maze of elasticated queuing lanes that would have looked a damn sight more impressive if there were any people actually queuing in them, I found Big Frank just this side of his third coronary. Apparently, he was stressing about the color of the fake silk backdrop, but that was the least of his worries. I took one look and said, “Honey, the color’s fine, but put one more tart on that stand and you could double for the Bellagio breakfast bar.”

I didn’t stay long. Once the pony-tailed punters started swarming, I escaped next door to the Puerto Rican Hairdressing Convention and, three days later, rendezvoused back ready for the packing up. Found Frank explaining to some tuxedoed chimp who’d broken the interface that this was only the alpha version (that’s Latin for ‘doesn’t work,’ apparently.) He also mentioned that in my absence I’d missed hordes of celebrities absolutely fascinated by 39-4-Ever’s unique route to crippling debt.

“Like who?” I asked, reluctantly.

“You know, that woman who has the name of a capital city and that hotel chain.”

“Prague Hyatt?” I guessed.

Still every cloud has a silver lining, as I’d received a life-saving text from Wanda inviting me to celebrate the New Year with her, Barbra, Uri and the Goombay Dance Band on a rice barge in Vanuatu. Couldn’t find it in the atlas and to get there took four flights, but sounded a damn sight more fun than joining Barry Gibb and his chums for Celebrity Crab Catching in some Isle of Man rockpool.

Anything but dull Douglas, darling!

Hitting The Pot

As the season to be jolly looms large, Bettie is feeling far from festive as she’s packed off to get the inside story on the intricacies of female poker playing.

I used to love Christmas – the gift giving, spending quality time with the family, eating myself sick – and then I turned five. After that, all the be-jolly-by-golly, if-you-don’t-believe-you-won’t-receive crap wore thinner than reality in my stepmother’s mind. Now I hate it with about the same intensity of an alien death ray. As grannie used to say, “Christmas cookies and happy hearts just give me a case of the holiday farts.”

So, it was no surprise that while browsing the Isle of Man Examiner for anything even approaching news, a quick peek at the ‘Top Xmas Events’ list had me reaching for the bong pipe. I mean, Festive Felting with Annie  and the Groudle Glen Santa Train were hardly c’mon, baby, lighting my fire, you know what I’m saying?

It all came to a head at the Bargain Bucket O’Fat, the local Eat-As-Much-As-You-Weigh deep-fried fish emporium. Obviously my husband’s choice. Personally I try not to eat in cheap restaurants because, while I’m not exactly fussy with food, in my experience, once you’ve got something in your mouth, you’re kinda committed.

As Big Frank returned with his fourth dessert, I said that enough was enough. I just wouldn’t – couldn’t – spend the festive season here. It had also not escaped my notice that the march of days was bringing us ever closer to the end of year launch date for 39-4-Ever.com, the world’s largest – and not surprisingly, only – online casino for women of a delicate age. In light of this, Big Frank decided he wanted me to get au fait with all things online and gambling. After I’d explained that I knew more about the inner workings of my stepsister’s sex life, he said, “Exactly.” Apparently, female poker playing was on the up-and-up, and he was adamant that 39-4-Ever needed a slice of that action (for ‘action’ read ‘cold, hard cash’).

Now, as I’m sure you’ll be aware, diary, I’m totally clueless on the intricacies – or even the point – of this stupid game, but, hey, that didn’t stop me from whisking off to the Tina Wallmann School Of Poker. For a mere $10,000, I got enrolled in the ‘Buxom Princess Strategy Intensive’, and by year end, this is what I’d learned:

• Don’t limp when everyone behind you is very tight ­– and never come on the flop

• If you’re left with a pair of queens, split them and play with both hands

• You need a strong hand if you’re going to dominate, especially when there’s been a lot of action with the flip-flop

• Be aggressive if you are hit, especially by fish – unless you have a small pair, as you might be dominated

• Don’t play mind games unless you are (a) still sober, and (b) sure you had a mind in the first place.

I haven’t been so proud of myself since I completed that 500-piece jigsaw in less than a week when the box said 2-4 years.

After the course, Tina took me to one side and whispered that just for me she would impart her two rules for ultimate success in poker. Rule one was easy, being ‘Never tell everything you know’. Unfortunately, the brainless bimbo never got round to telling me the other one.

Still, the course did mean one thing: I missed Christmas in its entirety. How’s that for a straight flush?

Medium Rare

During a visit to the local haunted hairdressers for a long overdue pampering, Bettie ends up making a spiritual connection with a long-dead ancestor.

So where was I, diary? Ah, yes, I needed to tell all about how my innocent hairdressing appointment resulted in me awakening my dormant psychic abilities and getting on the ghost phone to good old grannie.

Now, before I go any further, I must state that secretly I’m a very spiritual person. For a start, I have my chakras centered on Medicare and once employed my very own Feng Shui Zen Master. Though the sum total of his input was to inform me that the waste bin was in the relationship corner of our bedroom. Now, doesn’t that make a whole bunch of sense.

I also have a great respect for the dead, but this is totally due to grannie being an honest-to-goodness medium. Trouble was she didn’t so much see dead people as smell them. And in the height of summer in New Orleans, that’s not a gift, I can tell you. But really, the spirits used to tell her everything – what wars were coming, what shoes to buy, everything – and, as she said, three hundred billion dead people can’t all be wrong.

What with all the rushing to relocate to this hardly-paradise island, it had to be said I was in desperate need of some ‘swimming in Lake Me’ time. Now, I know what this sounds like. That I’m one of those sad, assed Americans who’ll pay anything to stay young forever, but that’s not true. I’m on a pretty tight budget, here, but boy, do I long to be back at the age when I turned heads not stomachs.

Though it was upstairs over a butchers, it turned out Time To Dye Salon De Beauté and Charcuterie was a revelation. Not only were they an award-winning, top-rate tonsorium – scooping up the coveted Helena Bonham Carter Crazy Crimping Award three years running – the place was also actually haunted. Now I know that sounds crazy, but folks who don’t believe me should get right on down to Baz and Lionel’s for an appointment. I mean, things go on there that would put the willies up most people.

Showing an interest, after my wash, tie and dye session, the boys whipped out a ouija board and in no time we were nattering to my dead grannie like she’d never fallen from that Welcome Santa Parade float while dressed as a jolly green goblin, impaling herself on her own pointed elf ears. It was a family tragedy. Still, as soon as the cosmic call connected, I asked her if there was anything she wanted to pass on to the living world. The planchette pinged over to ‘Yes’ and we all waited with baited breath. Then an eerie voice drifted across the salon, imparting grannie’s last words of wisdom:

“Remember! Remember! If ya got it, honey, flaunt it. And if ya ain’t, keep it hidden in a burlap sack.”

Well, after all that channelling of passed-on progenitors, I was plumb wore out. Which was not a good state of affairs, as next on my agenda of major crapola was the festive run-up to spending Christmas on this frozen rock.

Ha, diary! Like that’s ever gonna happen…

Maid To Measure

Stuck in her creepy Isle of Man mansion, Bettie decides she needs some help around the house, but ends up going back to her roots at the local haunted hairdressers.

Finally, after weeks of tweaks, trials and tribulations, Big Frank announced that he’s settled on a launch date for his – sorry, our – online casino. But, more importantly, he’s also got his gimmick. Final inspiration came from his one and only muse, which would, of course, be me. His hook and tagline? 39-4-Ever: the world’s largest online casino for women of a delicate age. Hmm, it sounded to me like clutching at straws, but, hey, he’s the guru for all things gullible, so I let him have this one. Because, to be Anne Frank, diary, I was up to my ankles in applications for the position of maid in our crumbling ruin of a new home. You see, here it’s Halloween every fricking night of the week. Bats in the belfry? Check. Cobwebs in the cavities? Check. Possibility of George A. Romero filming his next zombie apocalypse in the cellar? Check. Check. Check.

I say ankles instead of armpits, because this being the Isle of Man, thorough and efficient Merry Maids were a little short in supply. And if you added the word ‘sane’ to that description, the number dropped to one. The name that graced the top of the only possible resumé was obviously from a dyed-in-the-wool local family with ancestors going back a million generations to Noah – and was completely unpronounceable. All I can say for sure is that it started with an ‘M’, had thirteen syllables, and featured enough diacritics to sink the Queen Mary. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, so I decided to give ‘Mona’ the benefit of my considerable doubt.

After a quick call she trotted right over, but let me tell you, first impressions were not good. Still, as my morning’s email missive from St. Oprah had focused on accentuating the positive, the best thing I can think to say is the crusty old fart certainly suited the house. Regrettably, this meant she looked like the Wicked Witch of the West’s slightly wartier sister. Caught off guard, I asked if she’d come far – which was a fairly stupid opener as we are, of course, on an island smaller than my local JCPenney Outlet back in Reno. She replied, “We’re neighbors,” yet, you know, if she’d answered, “From Salem via broomstick” I wouldn’t have batted my eyeliner.

“Why should you get the job?” I asked.

“I hate dirt,” the hatchet-faced crone replied. “It gets on me nerves.”

When I asked if she was a hard worker, she told me she worked like a Trojan, which was odd because I didn’t think the people of Troy were especially remembered for their Hoovering and dusting.

“I used to mop up at the morgue. But that was just corpses, corpses, corpses, morning, noon and night. So I set up me own business at that haunted hairdressers down the road in Ballasalla weaving discarded clippings into coasters. Did it till I lost all the feeling in both hands…”

“Stop,” I said. I’d heard enough. “Did you say, ‘hairdressers’? 

It turned out she had and that was enough distraction to cut short the conversation, hand her a mop and bucket, and book myself an appointment. And so, I ended this nightmare with a new maid, a new hairdo and a new-found love for all things ghoulish. The reason? Well, I also managed a one-on-one connection with some ancestors of my own, but that’s a whole other story…

All Spain, No Gain

Bettie suffers another week as wife to an ailing online offering, before fleeing to Barcelona for 39-4-Ever’s first intercontinental conference.

As some do-goody adulterer once said: “It’s not work that kills men, it’s worry,” which, though comforting, means Big Frank is dead cert for a coronary unless he can get this crazy 39-4-Ever casino up and working. Only a few weeks into the whole stupid idea and Husband #3 is already having a hard time with his online offering. And, typically, his bedtime offering is going the same way. I’ll give you an example. There we were post Book at Bedtime and he turns to me and says, “Bettie, do you love me just because my father left me a fortune?”

“Aw, no,” I says back, “not at all, honey.” Which is God’s honest truth as I would love him no matter who left him the money.

The other fact that’s driving him bazongas is Muffy’s done a pretty good job of turning my soupçon of gossip into a veritable eighteen-course smörgåsbord – and now every one of the Akron clan is out with torches and pitchforks. And while having a stepsister with a worse privacy reputation than Facebook is extremely advantageous, it does mean our servers keep crashing under the strain of all the family phone traffic.

Apparently, this is due to our bandwidth bit cap, but to my ears this is just so much yada yada yada… Actually, I recall the exact moment I discovered I was computer illiterate. It was when Big Frank asked me to back up my hard drive and I couldn’t find the stick shift for reverse. Of course, in my world, machines should become more people-literate, but I’m digressing.

This is best illustrated when I intercepted a call I thought was from Aunt Irena – she of the legendary crumbling shoulders – but was instead some IT support dork ringing to final sign-off the 39-4-Ever.com web design. As Big Frank was out trying to buy 12lbs of rib steak on an island that last had bison circa the Ice Age, I thought, ‘What the heck!’ and stepped in to help. The final Q&A session was the stuff of nightmares, and went something like this:

Q: “What sort of backend are you looking for?”

A: “Preferably one that can crush walnuts in hipsters.”

Q: “What do you want to do about the possibility of user error?”

A: “We’ll replace them with another user.”

Q: “Would you like a demonstration of my latest bottom teaser?”

A: “My word, can we even do that on a mere phone call?”

After finally hanging up on him when he asked me if I’d ever had experience with a woman’s portal, it all left my last marriage looking like the Holy Grail of relationships in comparison. But as grannie used to say there’s three things you should never go back to: an unexploded firework, a wounded ninja or an ex-husband.

Still, one thing that’s true in this industry, there’s never time to sit back and sip Mai-Tais, for next we’re off to our first conference. This one was in Barcelona which had two things going for it: Spain in December is a few shades warmer than the UK, and I’d heard they’d just passed a law banning anyone whose not smoking in public. Sounds like my kinda town!

Three days later and all I can recall about this exposition-summit-whatsit was this nasty rash of a man who attached himself to me in the dinner pavilion. Got stuck with him all evening. Claimed he knew everybody and said to hit the Big Time, all you had to be was ‘juiced in.’ To this end, he suggested I join him at the casino’s private members’ club. Said he was onto a come bet, but to me didn’t look like he’d been close for a while. Much later, after one-too-many free Proseccos, he tried to impress me by saying his life quest was to do something for humanity. I suggested sterilization. That did the trick! Never did find out what he did for a living. Best guess? Stripping paint with his breath.

Suddenly the Isle of Man seemed like Fantasy Island in comparison – and definitely a case of Sagrada Overly-Família…

Doing Douglas

Arriving on the dismal Isle of Man, our hapless heroine finds that, even at this time of year, Thanksgiving is not on the menu

Hi, diary. This week I have been mainly: keeping my hands from around my husband’s throat. Because, though love is blind, boy, is marriage one helluva eye opener. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound bitter about being dragged to a rock in the middle of the Irish Sea – in winter – but, hey, I am, so I do.

In case you didn’t know, here is a tiny island pretty much equidistant from Great Britain, Ireland, Scotland… in fact, everywhere else in the entire civilized world. The highlights? Well, the Isle of Man has a flag consisting of bent human legs and is home to the oldest parliament in the world, which all calls to mind a crazy old bunch of Gandalfs building wicker men and burning outsiders at the stake. And – that’s about it. Oh, and Barry Gibb was born here, but that’s hardly a recommendation, is it?

Home Sweet Home, it turns out, is a decrepit Victorian manse on the outskirts of the capital, Douglas. By the end of the first week I’d visited both shops, been banned from all three bars, and was spiralling into depression. To make things up to me, Big Frank decided to spoil me rotten by taking me out on the town and showing me the sight. Which was – ta-da! – the world’s largest water wheel. Well, whoop-de-freaking-do. Hubby #3 sure knows how to pull out all the stops. Still in a way I was relieved as I’d heard the island’s top spot was Gef the Talking Mongoose.

Trying to cheer me up a second time, Big Frank consulted Fodor’s Everything You Can Possibly Do On The Isle of Man: Complete And Unabridged – both pages – but found that every entry was ‘Closed For The Season’. Eventually, he selected the Douglas Head Incline Railway and Falcon Cliff Lift. Whatever that was. After two and a half hours trudging through a hailstorm, we found out. Being a broken tin shed and a vending machine with a sign on it that read, ‘Warning: this machine takes your money and gives you nothing in return’.

Sounds just like my ex.

Hubby’s third fabulous idea was to announce that as a special treat he’d arranged Thanksgiving with family – and was flying in cousin Edna and her husband (the fake Scottish laird who insisted I call him ‘Uncle’) from their baronial home in the Highlands for the annual stuffathon. I was speed-dialing even before the words were out of his little piggy mouth.

“There’s been an outbreak of turkey plague,” I informed the pair who were already in their helicopter, mid-flight. “We’re quarantined.”

The God Squad were unconvinced, which is not surprising as most times, it was all I could do to stop conversations centering on the eternal salvation of my immortal soul.

“You’re lying,” cousin Edna replied. “That’s a sin.”

“And the wages of sin is death,” Uncle Feckswithin added.

“Well, hey, at least I’ll get paid,” I replied. “But, y’know, unfortunately you’re preaching to the perverted.”

“You do realize you’re going straight to Hell in a handbasket.”

“Gucci handbag, darling,” I corrected her.

Call over and disaster averted, at last I’d found something to be thankful for…

Lady-O-Ga-Ga

Still in London, Bettie’s serious research mission goes completely off the rails as she tries to be sensible, only to discover that the only thing she's good at, is being bad.

After a night at the Rock Hard Casino and way too many cocktails, Lord knows how I managed to navigate the near-infinite hotel options and back to the right hotel room. Last thing I can remember was when my craps evening climaxed with six Screaming Orgasms and a Loose Deuce. After that, it’s a blur. Because Big Frank had told me to go careful with the pennies, I decided to not book my usual Roof Suite at The Dorchester – and settled for a Deluxe. While I missed the Hollywood glamour of gazing up at the same pink marble ceiling as Elizabeth Taylor must have done from beneath Richard Burton, as I crawled from beneath the crumpled silk duvet and shrieked the words, “Starbucks! Get me Starbucks!” into the intercom, I comforted myself with the fact that, hey, at least I was being sensible.

It was about then I noticed the naked man in my bed.

Whoops! Did I just write that out loud? Making a mental note-to-self to get a padlock for my diary, I tiptoed back and checked again. Yep, it was a man, alright. As he roused and peered around, I next noticed the big chunk of gold wrapped round his wrist.

“Hey,” I said, “those fake Rolexes sure are convincing nowadays.”

“It’s real!” he spat back.

Unperturbed, I let that go, for as he disappeared into the en-suite, at least I’d discovered how I was going to pay for my ridiculously expensive night out.

Outside, qu’elle surprise, it was raining. Well, doesn’t that figure? The way I see it, diary, England is a fine place to live – if you happen to be a pond slug. But being a non-mollusk with more backbone than most, the prospect of schlepping about in a tempest is not high on my list of good times. Still, I had a frantic need to get to a pawn shop for some reason, and for that I had to venture outside.

It’ll come as no surprise to anyone that since the Prince of Pop came to The Dorchester, London’s premium hotel for all things fabulous is now packed with more nuts than a Wal-Mart on welfare check day. For example, as I was leaving the lobby I collided with a woman tottering on seven-inch heels smothered in stuck-on crabs and paparazzi.

“Don’t you know who I am?” the crazy-lady asked.

“No, don’t you?” I replied, though by the look of her it was more than likely she didn’t.

“Here’s a clue: I’m more famous than Madonna.”

“Are you Jesus?” I tried. Though why the Son of God would be born again as a woman covered head to toe in crustaceans was anyone’s guess.

“Try again.”

“Is it World Whelk Awareness Week?” I asked, whereupon she stormed off in a huff and promptly fell into the gutter.

After seven hours of fluorescent pink and green signs screaming ‘SALE! FINAL REDUCTIONS! 99 PER CENT OFF! LOWEST PRICES EVER!’ in ever-increasingly desperate lettering, I felt a lot better. Staggering from damp retail chain to dripping department store, I was once again educated in the three R’s of shopping: Reduced. React. Regret. Or, more likely: Receipt, Return, Refund. Because, in my experience, the secret to a rich and fulfilling life is to find what makes you happiest and then damn well just go out and buy it.

Yet nothing lasts forever as I was reminded when Big Frank’s card melted at the Harrods’ handbag clearance counter – and it wasn’t long after that that I was summoned by my beloved to the fabled Isle of Misery, I mean, Man…

Crazy Bet

Big Frank heads off for the Isle of Man leaving Bettie all alone in Old London Town where she’s amazed to discover the secret to making money in a casino.

So here I am in the Big Smoke. Feeling like a big schmuck. What do I think of London, you ask? Well, all I can say is, it’ll look a damn sight better when it’s finished. Big Frank has gone on ahead to set up shop on the Isle of Man – I said not to worry, I’d write – leaving me to reacquaint myself with the pomp and peculiarities of Old London Town. And, boy are there a lot of those! There’s also miles and miles of cobblestones which is just murder on the Jimmy Choos. No wonder all the women here wear sensible shoes. And I just thought London had a surplus of lesbians.

Look, diary, to make things clear: Frankly, I’m not one of those loud, crass Americans who are criminally obsessed with all things ‘England-ish’. Ut-uh. I don’t go all misty eyed when Dame Helen Mirren simpers even the simplest sentence or break down into sobbing fits every time I catch sight of a carousel of Princess Di postcards. Actually, while I find the thought of a country enslaved by a matriarch with more diamonds on her hat than there are stars in the firmament extremely appealing, the reality of this tiny island is far removed from the hype. I mean, it’s not all thatched castles and Jack the Ripper, I can tell you. And, roundabouts! Just don’t get me started on roundabouts…

My first morning, I decide to start making good on my promise to my beloved and do some research into the local gambling offerings. After a few dead-ends checking off from Big Frank’s list of top-places-to-bet-that-turn-out-not-to-exist-because-his-guidebook’s-four-years-out-of-date, I stumbled up the steps of the dazzling Rock Hard Leisure Palace off Piccadilly Circus. Ah, location, location, location. Being close to three McDonald’s and the Mamma Mia! musical was obviously no mere coincidence. It was marketing genius. Speaking of which, over at the crap tables I got to talking to this PR guru called Harvey Nichols. Apparently he’s named after the shop his parents bought the bed he was conceived in. Which was weird, but nothing compared to meeting his brother named the QE 2.

Still, back in familiar territory, I opened Frank’s expense account and started doing what I do best in these places: losing. Sheesh, I learned a long, long time ago, the only way to make money in a casino is to sleep with someone who owns one.

At this low point, my cell rang. It was my stepmother, the USS Invincible.

“You know I don’t approve,” she said, immediately.

“What?”

“I heard you were in England.”

“I heard you were on Alpha Centauri.”

“Don’t be facetious. Nobody’s gone that far. I’m on Pluto.”

If it’s not one thing, it’s the mother.

I hung up. It was either that or put the bitch on hold until she was dead. Anyhow, turning back to the tables, my Chinese croupier was handing me a new pair of dice.

“You like a crazy bet?”

You’d better believe it, buster. You’d better believe it…

Bing-bong!

It’s all aboard Air Islamabad as Big Frank and Bettie depart the United States in less-than-luxurious style, all to the melody of a million in-flight announcements.

Bing-bong!

Welcome onboard this Air Islamabad Boeing 777 for Pakistan via London Heathrow. While our In-flight Galley Hags are passing down the aisles with prayer mats and complimentary Qur’ans, please take this moment to open your hearts and minds to the Oneness of Sunni Islam before placing the rest of your body into the upraised hands of our captain…

Lordy, how I hate flying.

To explain: It’s not just the annoying flight attendants, the ceaseless announcements, or the façade of safety while seated in what no one can fail to notice is just a big winged missile with stowage. Yes, it is all those things, but mostly, it’s the indignity of being forced to fly Coach. Husband #2 would have flown me First, but with Big Frank it’s Economy all the way. Of course, it’s not called that here. Oh, no. On this bucket, it’s turn left for Brahmin Class, turn right for the other castes. And us? We’re all the way at the back in the seats marked, ‘Untouchables.’

Bing-bong!

In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen veils will magically descend from the Heavens. First, stop screaming, praise Allah and pull one over your face. If you have a small child travelling with you, secure your mask before assisting with theirs. If you are travelling with two small children, decide now which one you love more...

Yet while I hate air travel for aesthetic reasons, Big Frank just pops open the valium at the merest thought of this whole hanging in mid-air thing. We’re not ten minutes past take-off before he’s asking a passing wagon-dragon: “Isn’t this the same make of airplane you people dive-bombed into the World Trade Centre?” Actually, at the prospect of the next half dozen hours strapped next to him, I realize the real issue I have with flying is his ass doesn’t fit all on one seat.

Bing-bong!

Please be advised that in addition to our selection of hot food and cold beverages, we offer affordable will writing services. And as a special Eid-Ul-Adha promotion, each completed affidavit comes with its very own flame, shrapnel and explosion retardant Black Box, making sure your last wishes have a statistically improved chance of reaching those you tragically leave behind…

Later, after the cart-tarts have sloped up something unidentifiable and curried for dinner, my nearest and dearest breaks away from Jodie Foster’s Beaver and asks: “How long to go?” For like the millionth time.

“Out of eight hours?” I reply. “Six and a half.”

I daren’t tell him that with the combination of the clocks going back at midnight, flying across the International Date Line, and through the Bermuda Triangle, we’re unlikely to get to England this week.

Bing-bong!

As we descend for our approach into London’s Heathrow airport, we hope you enjoyed your totally and utterly alcohol-free flight. And we also hope you enjoyed giving us your business as much as we enjoyed taking you for a ride.

“Thank you for travelling Air Islamabad,” says the beaming dyed-blonde as we shuffle down the ramp. “Apologies for the rough landing.”

“Oh, we landed?” I say, “For a moment there, I was sure we’d been shot down.”

Terminal 3 at Heathrow is even more drab than I remember. Everything’s grey. Still, I had to admit it all perfectly matched the grey everything else outside. After the glitz and rainbow-neoned glamour that was Mesa Palms, England looked like an Ansel Adams Polaroid.

Welcome, diary, to the land of the bland.

Easy Meet

Go-getting Bettie rendezvous with Big Frank in the Big Apple before their even-bigger flight across the Atlantic.

I’m not sure what was more stupid: that in the wake of 9/11… 10… er, 11… Big Frank’s choice of el cheapo airline was the Arab-stuffed fuselage of Air Islamabad or that my diary’s Word of the Day for today was: Tchotchke. Being the only passenger to leave the airplane not in a burka, is it any wonder that I fell under the watchful eyes of the hyper-tense TSA officers? Guess it was also not the day to test-drive the new La Perla Underwire G-String, either.

Still, at least having eight hours of solitary confinement meant I could simmer down from my stepsister scrap-fest, and catch up on action items for my overnight in the Rotten Apple:

(1)  Rendezvous with husband #3

(2)  Overnight in Manhattan

(3)  Witness Wanda’s new hairdo

(4)  Leave country forever

I really didn’t know which I wanted to do least.

Already with an attitude set to ‘shred on sight’, I wasn’t best pleased to find that Big Frank was nowhere to be found. Typical, as this left me to dodge the herds of Save-A-Soul extremists barring my way between baggage reclaim and the real world. In the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Xevadiah, they were trying to raise much needed cash for distraught victims. I settled on a combined clothing and food parcel: an Alexander McQueen Spring Casuals collection and twelve dozen Beluga bagels, all to be airlifted to starving survivors at the Gramercy Park rooftop restaurant.

Finding Big Frank, our luggage and a cab all in the same New York minute, we finally arrived at the Waldorf=Astoria at the stroke of midnight. Salvation! Well, that was until I walked into our twelfth-floor pied-à-terre and found that Big Frank’s Girl Friday had booked us a double bed. Well, that just wasn’t happening. But, instead of insisting we move hotels, I gave him my spare pajamas. They were far too small, but I insisted, saying, “If I roll over in the night and touch your naked flesh, I’ll be sick.”

Next morning I set off to meet Wanda, my NYC girlfriend. Our midday meet-up hardly filled me with glee as Wanda is a bon vivant, fashionista and ten years my junior. Not sure exactly what Wanda does for a living. Mostly she seems to just stand around and look fabulous. Her latest tweet was all about her new blood-red bouffant – ‘Dear friends, by the time you read this I will be red…’ – and now I was to see it for myself. “Whatcha think?” the fur-coated pop-tart asked, on the curb outside that half-peeled Guggenheim place. I told her it was ‘beyond intensity’, but – really – it made her look like a cherry-flavored Charms Blow-pop stuck to a Chinchilla’s back.

Still, no time for dawdling, for it was off to the hotel ready for transfer to JFK Airport. Next stop: Jolly Olde England.

Veni, Vidi… Vices!

After a swift round of free whiffies, Bettie announces her departure to her stepsister, Muffy, and finds that – guess what! – mother wouldn’t approve.

Do you know what really pisses me off about people, diary? Those that think just because they can spell Châteauneuf-du-Pape, they’re good enough to drink it. Y’know, the sort who name their daughter ‘Lasagna’ because it sounds exotic. And at the Courtney Pines Golf Course Gym and HydraSpa, the place’s just full of ’em.

It didn’t start good.

As I swaggered into the lounge, I spotted my stepsister immediately. Muffy was surrounded by her usual playboy set. I recognised nobody, but guessed the gang included Skip, Chip, Kip and Blip, followed by a couple of Binkies, a few Jockies and a Bunny. How’d I know this? Because a duffer without a stupid nickname is like a Kennedy without a criminal record. I tried to act casual, but blew it all when I ordered everyone a round. Hey, how was I to know that the “Free Whiffy” they were pushing on the sign outside was a geeky Web connection, not a drinks promotion?

As I said: it didn’t start good, and it didn’t get any better.

Cosmos in both hands, Muffy looked me up and down and commented how I was looking tired and bloated. “Let me sign you in upstairs for a session at Salon Tanfastic,” she suggested, ever the queen of the passive-aggressive put-down. I told her nah, sorry, I don’t do tanning – which is true as I’m one of the few people who think they were actually born the right color.

Seeing this was going to get ugly, Skip and the gang vamoosed, giving some reason I can’t quite remember. Best guess? Probably to de-lint the Lyle and Scott lambswool from their navels. Perfectly alone now but for the cocktail waiter, sommelier, maître d’, and three busboys, I announced my imminent departure as casually as if I were ordering vegan at a LongHorns. The Muffster looked gratifyingly shocked. And you could so tell she’d never heard of the Isle of Man. Probably thought it was some all-male harem in Casablanca. Still, no way was I going to let her geographical ignorance slide. Ut-uh. I’d brought a map.

“Mother will never approve,” Muffy said at last, after several minutes squinting at the tiny green blotch on page 146 of The Reader’s Digest Atlas To Places Americans Have Never Heard Of. I hate to admit it, but she was 100% correct. My stepmother never approved of anything, ever. It was her defining principle. The contributing fact that her-mother-not-mine was currently chained to a table at the Lake Erie Facility for the Terminally Bewildered loudly proclaiming she had been abducted by shape-shifting aliens and replaced by a plant-based replica meant sis was certainly odds-on with her current bet that, no, the USS Invincible would not approve.

Still, I couldn’t let it go at that.

“Mother’s on another planet,” I said. “All I’ll be is on another continent. Get over it.” Just with a touch more color.

I came. I swore. I conquered. Mission accomplished.

Knocking back my third Cherry Bitch, I said my ciaos and set off for the Cleveland Frequent Flyer cocktail fiesta. Because, after an afternoon in the bar with the Muffinator, boy, did I need a drink.