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.