One Night Lonely

Home alone and distraught by current affairs, Bettie finds solace in the pages of her diary – and one or two sips of vintage vino.

Let’s not beat about the bushels, diary, old chum, I’m zozzled. Wallpapered. I’m higher than a giraffe’s toupee. I’m tighter than an A-cup bra on a Double-D tit… Yep, that’s right, I’m drunk. And I’d like to get a few things off my chest before I sober up.

The reason for this little state of affairs – or at least the catalysticlysm for it – is that I’ve been invited to a wedding. Not, you may at first think reason for declaring war on one’s liver, but in my book the merest mention of nuptial commingling sends me screaming to the drinks cabinet. Why? Well, it all comes down to two pints:

(1) it usually involves hauling my sorry ass back to Akron, Ohio, and,

(2) I keep expecting my dead father will show up.

Now, everybody who’s nobody knows that I’m more than a little thin-skinned in the Daddy department, as during my formative years, he cheated on my real mother with my fake one and then – one day! – Mommie Dearest was found poisoned by a herbal infusion from her spell book. The official report was ‘Malleus Maleficarum Aforethought’, which roughly translates as death by witchcraft. Personally, I think the USS Invincible dunnit.

Real dad and fake mum were married soon after, and Muffy graced us with her not inconsiderable presence soon after that. I moved out to grannie’s round about the time Daddy started his next affair. Then he vanished. The official report was missing presumed dead, but I know the she dunn-that, too.

At this point, the USS Invincible went stark raving mad and Muffy had her incarcerated “for the good of humanity.” I say it was murderous guilt that drove her over the edge. Or maybe she’s not as mad as she seems and it’s all a front. So you don’t have to imagine how I feel to be living with a suspected felon wanted in at least four or five different languages. Sorry, countries.

Hmm, I should’ve known this confession was on the cards when I got home and found a bottle of nicely chilled Chablis under each arm.

Now Muffy’s daughter is getting hitched and obviously no tasteless expense is being spared. I’ve only met her fiancé once, but they are a frickin’ unsufferable couple. My only salvation is the hope that they die before the event. Or I do.

Oh, and another thing worth mentioning: the good Dr. Dinkelïcker’s schmuck therapy is not going well. Take, by way of a great example, our first session where all three of us spent over two hours hunting for my stepmother’s revolutionary invisible hearing aid. Apparently, she’d put it down and now couldn’t find it. Eventually when we got started, his treatment consisted largely of connecting her to various bleeping machines and whistling Dixie.

OK, I admit, I might be a little biased here, as personally I think therapists are about as effective as most beauty wonder cures: i.e. a complete and utter waste of time and money. I mean, take anti-wrinkle cream. How can that ever work? If it did, women wouldn’t have any fingerprints.

“Aren’t I late for my spot on What’s My Line?” she said, as even she tired the lengthy analysis.

“Oh, only by about sixty years,” I answered.

When things were finally over, the quack gave me his verdict. Here, for posterity, is exactly how that went:

“In my professional opinion,” Dinkelïcker started, “your mother–”

“Stepmother,” I corrected.

“Your stepmother is a very melodramatic woman who adores misery.”

“And – let me get this straight – we’re paying you for these revelations?”

“She also thinks she’s Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Genius. How much?”

“$500 every hour.”

“Then, in my non-professional opinion, she’s not the only one who’s batshit bonkers here.”

OK, my fessing up’s over. It’s late and it’s time to die, sorry, dry the ink on my wedding RSVP before I order Mona to start creating some of her one-of-a-kind wedding favours…

Hitting Bottom

Heading for home, Bettie discovers two new things have arrived on the Isle of Man in her absence. And she can’t decide which is creepier.

Like the moment I first saw a woman kickboxing with genital warts on prime time television, there are times when we’re all reminded that everything changes. One minute, we’re all covering table legs to avoid excommunication every time the vicar drops by, then – quicker than you can pop a pair of joy beads up your lovebox – the next I’m being asked if I want to vajazzle my pee-pee place every time I go for a wash and set.

I heard that little gem while visiting Time To Dye Salon De Beauté and Charcuterie (aka the haunted hairdressers of Ballasalla) and I haven’t been so shocked since I switched to margarine after watching that Last Tango in Paris butter scene.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I arrived back on the Isle of Man to the usual madness. This time I ignored Big Frank’s online groans, my stepmother’s First Lady drones, and Mona’s cat-related… well, moans, and headed straight for my bi-weekly hair appointment. I was a full day and a half early, but it was either that or go insane on the doorstep. Still, as I left, Hubby #3 managed to wave a copy of our latest financial statements outside the taxi window, and it’s fair to say it contained more red figures than a Ralph Lauren textile factory.

Arriving at Time To Dye, I was greeted at the door by the owners, the lovely Baz and Lionel.

“You look positively haggard!” exclaimed Baz. “Doesn’t she, Li?”

“Oh, positively,” agreed his partner. “What has happened?”

“I think I’ve just hit bottom,” I said, as they bundled me inside.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s all the rage. We hit bottom regularly.”

Inside, I found the clientele were acting like sex just got invented that week. The reason? The meteoric rise of ‘Mummy Porn’ that was currently being thrust down desperate housewives’ throats – and all because of some sexed-up kinkfest paperback that Baz kept calling, “Fifty Shades of Gay.” Bondage, Discipline, and Sado-Masochism was suddenly in Vogue – no, literally. Now, you couldn’t pick up a copy of a glossy women’s weekly without there being a whip, flogger, or spreader bar nipple-clamped to the front cover.

Truth be told, diary, I’ve never been au fait with kinky sex, but that’s probably because my past is packed full with loser lovers. Take, for example, one lacklustre Lothario who extolled his intimate sexual knowledge by spouting lines like, “The best way to pleasure a woman in bed is to go straight for her clematis.” Then there was the Army lieutenant who thought it was sexy to talk in combat code. That relationship ran into major snafus right off the bat. I mean, it was hardly the biggest of turn-ons being told he wanted to take me back to his place for a Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo.

But, back at our house of horrors, I pulled up to discover we had another bat for the belfry. My stepsister’s white-coated therapist and some fur coated woman were standing on the doorstep, trying to convince my crusty maid they weren’t cat exterminators, but were instead there to see me.

“And you are?”

“I am Dr. Helmut Dinkelïcker.”

“And this is?”

“My wife, Helga.”

“So, she’s a Dinkelïcker, too?”

“Oh, ja! We come from a long line of Dinkelïckers.”

Sheesh, this island’s turned into a heaving hotbed of supercharged libidos and now everything sounds like bad innuendoes! Making my excuses, I dashed indoors. Because, at least I knew I’d be safe from anything even approaching sexual there…

Bend It Like Bettie

Arriving back in Las Vegas for a well-earned work break, Bettie finds that her first foray into the world of fashion is far from glamorous.

Ah, now this is more like it. Here I am, diary, soaking up the sin in Glitter Gulch; the world’s favorite gambling capital, Las Vegas. And, utterly by accident, I’ve arrived at the start of Mormon Fashion Week, so you can bet dollars to doughnuts it won’t be long before my coordinated ebony one-piece and character turban will be trending faster than a tits-out vacation shot of the Duchess of Cambridge. And before you say, ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas,’ that choice phrase only applied when the way to break gossip was by carrier pigeon. Now if you commit a faux pas in the Flamingo’s poolhouse, the whole world’s been texted before you even have a chance to re-hitch your mesh bandeau and boyshorts.

So, that said, I was on my second-best behaviour as I swung into the lavish Sands Expo and Convention Center for its Haute-Tu-Trot Fashion Fantasy Extravaganza. Barging through the crowds, I stumbled from unaffordable collection to unaffordable collection, eventually taking a well-earned break watching what I thought was the kiddie’s catwalk breakout session. Turned out I’d stumbled into the daycare dungeon, but, still, it was a lot quieter than the main floor and meant at least I got a seat. Unfortunately, my final perch was right next to this cadaverously thin woman, tattooed husband, and their rabble of badly behaved brats causing havoc in the ballpit.

“You really are tres rocking that homeless chic look, no?” the featherweight female squeaked as I sat down.

Not really sure how I was supposed to respond to that, I instead pointed out that she looked positively gaunt.

“Gawd, thank you!” she replied, pleased as punch.

Still, always grateful for someone to chat to, I ignored her permanent pout and started yakking, telling all about me, 39-4-Ever, my current stepmother troubles, me, the embarrassment that is my third husband, me, me, and, well, I might have mentioned myself once or twice. After about twenty minutes of this, the malnourished missus told me I talked too much.

“Only in the company of people with nothing to say,” I said.

“Dernier cri!” she shrieked suddenly, realizing she was late for the Kourtney Kardashian Skin Winnowing Workshop, and I was left with her hubby who had his excessively inked hands full, trying to control their daughter and three sons. The resulting barked exchange went something like this:

“So, what do you do for a living?

“Harper!”

“You don’t look like a musician. Perhaps, more of a–”

“Romeo!”

“Well, you’re not really my type. For a start, there’s all those tattoos. Were they done locally?”

“Brooklyn!”

“Ah, a New Yorker. Did you fly here?”

“No, Cruz!”

“To the desert?”

Before I knew it, it was time to leave the fash-pack world far behind and slip effortlessly into my next – if you’ll pardon my French – Les Liaisons dangereuses.

I met Mister Tall, Blond Dalliance in the free drinks queue at some Fontana Lounge bash, while behind us the Bellagio fountains shot water and bland pop classics into the night sky. He asked if I was enjoying the expo, to which I replied that I was mixing with the kinda people who, at the end of the party when they say “Bye”, they’re asking you a question.

“Fancy a quickie?” he next asked, with a wink.

“As opposed to what?” I replied, picking up a vodka with more vodka and heading over for Siegfried and Roy’s new show, ‘Tigers of Passion’.

“Are you leaving already?” he questioned as I decided to cut things short. “I was hoping for dinner and a show.”

“You’re seeing nothing,” I told him over the roar of Celine Dion.

Later, we met again. Same drinks queue. Different venue. By now, I was on to pink gins. He said, “Look, tonight, would it turn you on to tell me when you have your orgasm?”

“OK,” I said, “but before I call, I think my cellphone needs a recharge.”

And so there I was, leaving Las Vegas. Shuffling up the carpeted concourse at McCarran Airport, I’m in line behind Quasimodo’s younger sister who’s enthusing to someone on her phone.

“Oh, it was so magical, I cried,” she simpered. “When I watched the fountains at the Bellagio, they had Whitney Houston singing ‘One Moment In Time’…”

Some people deserve to die. Repeatedly.

This Time, It’s Personals!

Struggling with her sudden return to work, the online gaming industry’s answer to Dear Abby finds that pretending to care is high on her first day to-dos.

Hi, diary. Today is my first day of… work.

I’m sitting in my attic office bent double over a desk that probably belonged to Bob Cratchit, sifting through my first In Tray task: tackling the backlog of 39-4-Ever’s gambling problem pages. And, boy, do we have some out-there customers. It’ll come as no surprise that compulsive gambling is the notorious pimple on the backside of the casino industry and somewhat of a double-edged sword; it cuts both ways. So far, Big Frank’s policy on anyone stupid enough to sign up for our suite of games is to suck every last cent from them as quickly as possible. But, as I’ve said before, he’s about as subtle as a wet tongue in your ear.

After a dash of research, I found some casino in Barbados had recruited Miss Hope, a recovering compulsive gambler herself, who offered encouragement and advice – and I thought we needed some empty promises of our own. So, today I start my role of Miss No-Hope. Because, hey, we can all pretend to care for a living. Here's a few of my favorites, scrapbooked for posterity:

From: mrluvverman

Subject: Unrequited love

I am the online gaming world’s Latino lover. Every lady worships me. Just one flash of my white suit and black shirt and they’re mine. All that is except ‘The One’. I met her at this fabulous cocktail party hosted by Ladbrokes to celebrate when Aspinalls Online Casino closed, but she ignored me totally. Can you help me turn my considerable charm up another notch?

Dear mrluvverman: I could be wrong, but I think that was me you were trying to impress. And you’re mistaken when you say I was ignoring you, as this is impossible when someone is holding onto your bra strap for grim death. Truth is, buster, I tried so hard to get away that finally the elastic snapped and catapulted me into the restrooms. So as first impressions go, you scored nil points. Bottom line? My body is a temple and I don’t want just anybody poking around my portico.

Hmm, this is easier than I thought. Seems putting the online gaming world’s problems to rights is a natural talent. Moving swiftly on...

From: ms goldenslotz

Subject: Help!

Being a woman in the 21st century sure is baffling! Just when I found solace in mint slacks, now the boob is out and the stapled bellyhoop is in. I just don’t know where I’m going to be injecting the next bag of collagen. Any advice?

Dear ms goldenslotz: Women’s roles are shifting so enormously, it’s a wonder we don’t break our hips. I suggest that since fifty is the new thirty, being thirty-two, you’re technically now only twelve, so I’m putting this down to a prepubescent tantrum and mailing your mother.

Well, by now diary, it’s midday and I’m pretty pleased with my progress. So much so that I’ve decided for lunch I’m gonna fly off for a few days to celebrate a great first morning.

Still, as I’ve previously mentioned, it’s a helluva long trip to Heathrow, so, suffice to say, when I finally reached the terminal, I was very, very late.

“Gate’s closed,” the high-altitude heffer announced as I staggered up to the desk.

“But I can still see the plane. You just have to let me on!”

“No can do…”

“But what about your ‘We Live To Serve You’ initiative?”

“Sorry, we’ve rebranded.”

It was then she pointed out the big sign swinging above our heads. It read: ‘BAA. We Couldn’t Give A Flying F**k.’

“But– But–!”

“Last bag for Vegas!” the bunchucker called, as I scrambled up the ramp.

Ah, grannie told me they’d be days like these. Pity she couldn’t have mentioned they’d be so frickin’ many…

Donkey Work

Much to her dismay, Bettie finally realises that her new-found involvement in the trials and troubles of 39-4-Ever is going to mean that she’ll have to do some work…

Why does my life have this habit of always getting complicated? While already having a troubled third marriage, an ailing online portal, one high-passion, low-cost lover, one high-drama, low-sanity stepmother, and a dodgy hip after falling overboard spectating at the Isle of Man hosted Olympic event of Synchronized Mackerel Trawling – now Big Frank says I’ve gotta earn my keep.

Sorry, diary, just had to have a little pause there to take a mental douche. Apparently, money’s getting tighter than a gnat’s a-hole, and Hubby #3’s had to let quite a few of 39-4-Ever’s staff go. And guess who he’s nominated to fill their forums? Still, the way I see it I’ve little actual choice. For while grannie always used to say, “Marry in haste. Repent in costume jewellery,” I’ve found that the real trouble with men is that you can’t live with ’em, and can’t buy anything without ’em.

And while I’m not one to promote – or even suggest I have – weaknesses, it’s also hard to admit that the reason I’ve never had a career is because basically, well, let’s face it, I’m unemployable. The mere thought of travelling three and a half hours every day in bumper to-bumper traffic to be the whipping post for a megalomaniacal boss with sado-masochism as one of his Facebook Likes sets off my psoriasis. Friends have suggested that perhaps I could work for myself, but, unfortunately, the same rules apply.

At the other end of the spectrum – in many categories – is my housemaid, Mona. When I talked to her about my predicament, she stopped mid-oven scrub and announced that to make ends meet, she had three jobs. I was almost as shocked as when she announced, “I ’ave me fingers in a lot of pies,” while Big Frank was eating her apple surprise. I mean, I didn’t even know they advertised for Internet trolls.

“When I’m not scrubbin’ my bowels out here,” Mona bemoaned, “I’ve got a craft stall flogging me real-hair handicrafts – and then there’s the charity work…”

Well, at least I think that’s what she said. Most of the time, her dialect’s so thick I can’t understand a word she’s saying. Apparently, the last native Manx speaker died in 1974. Probably starved to death trying to order dinner.

While I had not had the pleasure of experiencing her table mat sets made from pubic clippings, I have seen her in full-on animal welfare action on the Douglas dock front a few weeks back. She was standing shaking a bucket of assorted coinage under a sign that read: ‘Fighting Donkey Cruelty Since 1891’. Obviously it was taking her a lot longer than she thought. For every donation, Mona also gave away a selection of trinkets. But I wonder, could she not see the irony of giving good luck charms to children in bags marked ‘Potential Choke Hazard’?

“Do you think donkey coats will ever come into fashion?” I’d asked, staring at the various posters, poised to part with my two dimes and a Dr Pepper bottle cap.

“I hate mule-baiting,” she replied. “It gets on me nerves.”

While I had yet to stoop to these dismal depths, I was suddenly realizing that implementing some of my “brilliant, darling, brilliant” ideas for 39-4-Ever.com was going to mean that… I gotta go back to working for a living!

Hot dang!

Times are still tough for Bettie as she gets forced to offer her inimitable talents for Hubby #3’s online casino.

Formally released a week later, me and mine breezed in to find the Isle of Man was hotter than July. In July. Go figure. Chomping at the bit to start the task of turning around the fortunes of 39-4-Ever, I started scribbling out plans to add a host of hot extras to the site; a Dear Abby column, multiple choice therapy quizzes, debt counselling, etc… The final list was impressive, and certainly firmly in my mind as I joined Hubby #3 at his weekly Gambling Gathering Group (being the official meet-up for all the folks who run e-gaming on the island). It was a poor show as the gang now consisted of the lads from 666Bet, Doris with the drooping eyelid from StripPokerStars, and the suited brigade from Macrogaming. Huddled around a small table in the non-air conditioned sweatbox that is the Parrot and Mongoose, a clutch of bon vivants we ain’t.

Still, the press coverage garnered from my High Court hijinks gave us a much-needed cash injection – as did the fact that our web address got spray painted on the back of a camel that happened to catch fire and was filmed by CNN in an effort to fill a lull in its 24/7 Iraqi Blitz ’n’ Titz live coverage. This minor blip of excitement aside and finally home at last, I unpacked the Duty Free, watched the sun set through my vodka and lime, then checked my messages. Worryingly, I found Jerinda’s daily emails were already stacking up.

> Are You Prepared To Cross Life’s Electric Fence?

> Get All Your Pistons Firing As You Start Living Your Wow-Now!

> Are You Ready To Show Off Your Big Fat Hairy Goal?

After twenty or so of these high-drama calls to action, I needed to lie down in a darkened room. Regrettably, sleep was not – alas! – on tonight’s agenda. For no sooner had I said hello to Mister Sandman, then my iPhone started blaring out Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries. Aw, crap! It was my psychotic prom-queen bitch of a stepsister, Muffy.

“How considerate of you to call me in the middle of the night,” I said. “We’re five hours ahead, remember.”

“Are you? It’s hard to keep track. Anyhow, I’m just home from my yogic-therapy evening and thought I’d call. I was just trying to be nice…”

“Nice? You’re nice in the same way that you’re blonde.”

“I am so offended by that remark.”

“I’ll let you know if I start giving a damn.”

Icy silence reigned, then:

“I’ve spent the evening with Helmut…”

“Your therapist? That guy’s such a jerk.”

“Oh, I just adore him,” she said, sounding like she was calling from the 1950s. She also, I noticed, sounded out of breath.

“Are you calling from your treadmill?” I questioned.

“No, tantric sex. Nothing really happens for hours, so I’m catching up on my To-Dos…”

It was then that I asked if there was an actual point to the call – other than to pant in my ear? To which Muffy replied that she had started investigating alternative therapies to cure her mother’s insanity. And that she was sending her batshit crazy quack over for a series of sessions.

Boy, now there’s something to so look forward to. As if the Isle of Man wasn’t littered with enough loons, already…

Bettiegate

Our heroine takes on the U.S. Justice Department as she tries to rescue Big Frank from his impending jail time.

My arrival in New York, New York, was timely to say the least. When I reached the final hearing in United States v 39-4-Ever.com, it was not exactly a hotbed of activity. While the collective members of the country’s primary federal criminal investigation and enforcement agency were supposed to be debating whether the world’s best online casino for women on the verge of a Bingo meltdown was used to launder money, actually they were mostly either asleep or sitting around on their ever-widening asses.

As I took my seat, the Deputy General Assistant Attorney Something-or-other was waxing lyrical about how the Federal Wire Act prohibits all forms of U.S. gambling. This was then countered by Hubby #3 who pointed out that it was for this precise reason that we had been forced to move to the Isle of Man to run what we were laughingly calling our business. Well, it certainly wasn’t for the joy of hearing The Bee Gees Stayin’ Alive being played night and day from memorial speakers in the local graveyard, I can tell you. Then Big Frank launched into a long and extremely boring exposition about how the island’s government made it an attractive locale – financially at least – with all kinds of juicy tax breaks. Though, admittedly, to benefit from that meant you had to earn enough to actually pay any tax.

It was round about then that I decided to chip in.

“Look, I’m the wife,” I shouted, “so I have a pretty large stake in the outcome of all this. I also come from a family that firmly believes the word ‘wife’ is not an acronym for ‘Washing, Ironing, Fu– Fornicating, Etc’. No, our voice counts.”

Unfortunately, my voice didn’t count.

Still, after sorting out all that contempt of court nonsense, it was nice to see Wanda, my NYC girlfriend, in the gallery gracing us with her not inconsiderable presence. Also saw that her latest tweet was true – ‘Dear friends, it’s #LMLM Day: Liquid Midface Lift Monday!’ – I don’t know if she wanted to look like someone had taken a Chippendale wing chair and stuffed it behind her mouth, but her cheeks were now so pronounced, every ten minutes or so her neck got tired and she had to rest her face on the seat back in front of her. As you know, diary, I’ve never been too keen about nips and tucks – which all stems from my years with Hubby #2, the rhinoplasty surgeon with the hump removal fetish. Of course, I’ve always wanted to go in for a face lift, but I’m just too damn petrified at what they’ll find underneath.

Anyhow, never one to miss a money-making opportunity, I sold my body as advertising space for the Isle of Man Government. When I sashayed past the cameras with my backless Yves Saint Laurent evening dress and ‘Let’s All Gamble In The Isle of Man’ shoulder tattoo combo, it certainly spiced up the closing argument. I mean, I’m not sure what I had originally planned for Thursday brunch, but bringing down the U.S. Government was not high on the list.

The resulting hoo-ha saw several barked exchanges, a jury punch-up in which the prosecutor lost his toupé, and I ended up compromising my Honour. The New York Time’s headline “Bettiegate Topples Supreme Court, Plaintiff’s Rug, Into Judge’s Lap” was definitely one for the scrapbook.

Success Stress

On her way to New York, Bettie finds time for a surprise visit with her new Success Coach – and completely fails to make an impression.

For all its obvious pluses, living on the Isle of Man also means every time I want to fly anywhere international I am forced to schlep to UK’s fine capital. Still, never the one to miss turning a negative into a positive, I killed two birds with one martini-shaped stone by scheduling a London layover that saw me trying not to be seasick at the Lyceum iGaming Summer Social Boat Party, before popping in to see my new Success Coach.

Like Abraham Lincoln, I’ve failed my way to success every time, so the thought of paying some string-thin Brit bint to tell me what I was doing wrong was never going to make my Top Ten list. But after my maid Mona put the fear of God into me by pointing out, “You’ll end up living foot to mouth – you see if I’m not right!” I decided I needed to take action fast.

Actually, I got the idea as I snatched my diary back from Mrs. Roosevelt and caught sight of the back cover blurb about the author, Jerinda Rawls Kingston-Royce:

Jerinda’s Success-A-Day Diary

One Diary… A Lifetime of Experiences!

Internationally-famed Life Strategist, Success Coach and Stay-At-Home Mum, Jerinda perfectly balances her life with yours. Do you Want to Achieve 101% of your Destiny Potential? Of course, you do! Then…

Blah-de-blah-blah-blah… It went on like that for a while, but the general gist was, in addition to daily Top Tips, Words of Wisdom and Inspirational Nuggets, jolly Jerinda offered coaching to get one’s life back on track. I figured it was worth a shot.

How to describe the swanky Kensington offices of Living Your Success Limited, diary? Well, since London was still clearing up the discarded Kate Middleton masks and Union Jack bunting from HRH’s Diamond Jubilee bash and was now in full Olympic Games frenzy, the place felt like an oasis of calm by comparison. It also suited its CEO who, it’s fair to say, had more personality than Barbara Streisand’s drinks cabinet. At first she was reluctant to grant an audience, but it’s amazing what waving a Mastercard can do.

“I’d like to start with a bit about you,” the backcombed businesswoman began. “Can you fill in this brief questionnaire?”

A long time later, Jerinda grilled me over my answers.

“You’ve left a few boxes blank?”

“Like what?”

“Like birth date.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Yes. How old are you?”

 “Thirty-nine… Ish.”

“And for Sex M/F, you’ve written ‘one and a half’.”

“Well, that’s how many times I had sex between Monday and Friday.”

As you can imagine, this went on for some time...

Finally, Jerinda announced that time was up, but she really didn’t need a crystal ball to see exactly why my life was in the crapper.

“You need to take control,” she said simply.

“Of what?”

“Of everything. Your marriage, your twisted family relationships, the business…”

“The business?”

“Yes. Let’s imagine you ruled the world, Bettie. What would you do?”

Well, didn’t that open the floodgates. One minute I was bemoaning the fact that, for Big Frank, expanding our online offering meant little more than offering punters beauty tips with their blackjack. The next we were talking about my entire laundry list of woes and my ideas to turn 39-4-Ever into a raging success.

“That’s more like it!” Jerinda enthused as she bundled me out the revolving glass doors and into a waiting taxi. “And remember: The secret of future success lies in being successful in the future!”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that.

On the drive to Heathrow my head was reeling, but one thing was crystal clear now: Starship Bettie was ready for lift-off!

Desperate Measures

After thinking her diary lost forever, Bettie rediscovers her journal of woes in the strangest of places…

You have to be frickin’ kidding me, diary! Here I was thinking you’d been lost for all eternity or just spontaneously combusted with the heat of all the hot gossip sandwiched between your pristine pages. But, nah, nothing so dramatic. Instead, you were buried under a pile of briefs and thongs in the bedroom closet of  former First Lady, Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt. Yep, that’s right. For the last four and a half months, I’ve been sharing this crumbling ruin, marriage and family business with my stepmother, the USS Invincible, who now no longer believes she’s been abducted by shape-shifting aliens and replaced by a plant-based replica. No, now she thinks she’s Mrs. F.D.R. And that you are her – wait for it – FBI file.

“J. Edgar is never getting his hands on this anytime soon!” she shrieked, as I wrestled it from her white-gloved grip.

“You’re damn right about that,” I said.

“Show some respect! I’m ranked in Gallup’s List of the Most Widely Admired People of the 20th Century!”

“Only after you’re dead,” I replied.

And though it pains me to say, this is the least of my problems.

Add to this that our Isle of Man-based virtual casino continues to guzzle a fortune in cash, my husband’s been arrested by the Feds, and our home is still plagued with more tailless felines than you can shake a stick at – and you can see how I might have benefited from some cathartic scribbling over the past however-many weeks.

Actually, it’s rather timely we’ve been reunited, as in the next few hours I’m setting off for New York to attend Big Frank’s final judgment. The charge? It turns out that 39-4-Ever, the world’s largest online casino for women with more wrinkles than Ben Franklins, has transgressed several ridiculous gambling commandments concerning something called the Wire Act, though all this makes me think of is some clown tightrope-walking across Niagara.

But, re-reading these pages, it does make me realize I’ve gotta keep more of a lid on my revelations as there’s some pretty damning evidence here. My Greek tryst with Mr. E Blond for starters. I mean, I have to think of Big Frank’s weak heart – and his three-hundred-bucks-an-hour attorney. Actually, on this island, it wouldn’t surprise me if adultery was settled with a beheading.

So, it can’t be stressed enough, diary, these are desperate times and they called for desperate measures… of gin. Still, I haven’t gone through this many husbands without knowing all about comebacks, and in my hours alone, I’ve devised a way outta this mess that’s a sure-fire winner.

My evil master plan? I’m getting a Success Coach…

The Adventures of Bettie: the Complete Season One

The Adventures of Bettie: the Complete Season One (Episodes 1-18) available today at:

CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/leahfrederickjohntrevill2

iTunes: http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/adventures-bettie-complete/id545049707

Look, let me get something straight. Now, I know you love your weekly dose of my weird and whacky adventures, but let’s face it, wouldn’t you really like everything in one Bettie-shaped bundle? Sure ya would!

So I’ve collected every last one of my quips, tips and bad travelling trips into one complete episode – and every entry comes with its very own extra-special intro from Jerinda, my new Success Coach and the brains behind some quite astonishing inspirational nuggets.

November                                   

Today’s Top Tip: Get two for the price of one on all items this week by putting one in your shopping cart and the other in your coat pocket.

What? You still here? Get downloading, already! Or do I have to come over there and sort the damn thing myself?

The Adventures of Bettie: the Complete Season One (Episodes 1 to 36). Available to download on CDBaby, iTunes, Amazon and many other cool places.

Download now at:

CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/leahfrederickjohntrevill2

iTunes: http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/adventures-bettie-complete/id545049707

Are you on that yet?

Heavens To Bettie!

World-weary Bettie finally wises up to the fact that the universe is trying to tell her something – and that something is actually far, far worse than even she could have possibly imagined.

Fresh from the news that my stepmother was released from her Lake Erie looney bin and sent via crate to the Isle of Man, I abandoned Big Frank in London and hightailed it back for the five-hour boat ride.

Arriving in Douglas harbor, I questioned the authorities and found that the USS Invincible had faked some medical emergency and was fast-tracked to the Genito-Urinary Trauma Ward. Jumping the taxi queue, I headed for the hospital only to find that my hypochondriac stepmother was already scheduled for more surgery. And I couldn’t get to see her as only family members are allowed and she’d signed herself in as ‘Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt’.

There was nothing for it but to wait for her release, and I decided that the best venue for my vigil was somewhere that sold liquor. The Isle of Man’s beatific populace was once described as 80,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock. That night, there were eighty-thousand and one.

Unfortunately, as scotch follows gin, my subsequent arrest was less than ceremonious. Just before dawn, as I was staggering along the shoreline in the general direction of my home and hearth, the cops jumped me. The official report said that I was found pissing on a sign that said ‘No Dumping’. Technically not breaking the law, I argued. Unfortunately, the po-po thought different. The final straw came when they questioned what I was doing shambling around Ramsey beachfront at daybreak wearing one stiletto and half drunk.

“It’s not my fault,” I pleaded, “I ran out of cash.”

Bundled into the local police cruiser, my civil liberties were not the only thing at risk as they sped me down the country lanes and marched me into the cop shop. Obviously since my days as First Lady at Bazongas, the world’s only nudist casino, my profile has slipped a bit.

“Don’t you know who I was!” I yelled as I was dragged kicking and screaming into the cell. Regrettably, they didn’t.

And it was about then that Mona broke through the pig blockade to deliver a telegram from my dearly beloved. It read:

ARRESTD BY US GOVERNMENT STOP DEPORTED 2 DC STOP DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE HEARING NEXT WEEK STOP CU NEXT TUESDAY? BIG FRANK

Hell’s bells, diary, just what’s going on? My bet was on something to do with 39-4-Ever, but who knows? All I did know was that in the past four months my life had gone from tip-top to rock bottom. Since Big Frank got hit by the crazy notion of selling our Bazongas cash cow and buying this 39-4-Ever money pit, we’ve moved from the desert to an iceberg, I’ve lost everything I valued in a Size 9 Wide, and my world has spiralled into what can best be described as the Seventh Circle of Hell itself. Now my insane stepmother is about to check in and it sounds like this whole brainless business is about to check out.

There’s only one explanation: the universe has it in for me. What I needed right here, right now was a comeback plan.

But luckily, diary, comebacks are what Betties do best…

Cold as ICE

Ever-optimistic Big Frank and his long-suffering wife head back to frozen England and find that a casino conference in London – in January – is no winter wonderland.

Unlike Rush Limbaugh’s personal trainer, I like being busy. It does after all keep me young – or at least, keeps my mind off being the other word. The only sticking point to my endless social whirl is that I have about as much free time as one of Beyoncé’s bra straps. Post-launch, Big Frank says that our online casino is cranking up to meltdown, though how this is possible when only twelve people have signed up, I couldn’t say. But hubby #3 is adamant that we’re on the way to our first million. We were also on our way to UK’s capital for another show.

London, England was colder than my ex-husband’s lawyer. Whoever thought of putting on a show here in January for heaven’s sake? I say, find ’em, strip ’em and leave ’em handcuffed to a Thank Your Lucky Slots machine in the car park. Everything was booked solid. While Big Frank got in the staff dorms at the Sheraton by posing as a night porter, I was offered the option of sharing a suite the size an LAX Terminal with this woman who was some big-shot in Middle Eastern bingo. Strangely for an Israeli woman her coiffured locks were (a) blonde, and (b) straight as a Hollywood actor going for a leading man role. I haven’t run so fast since seeing a poster for Mother Teresa the Musical, because as grannie used to say, “Never trust a woman who irons her hair.”

In less than the time it would take for a major asteroid to crash into the planet and wipe out our entire ecosystem, I was standing in the packed lobby of the International Casino Exhibition at Earl’s Court. With its seven sparkling gaming sectors, ICE was a celebration of tacky over taste. It was also packed to the gills. In no time, I lost Big Frank in the crowds and found myself crushed between thirty Coco the Clowns, a dozen half-naked showgirls, and this tiny guy who bored me stupid nattering incessantly about his no-download poker offering. This joker talked so fast and so squeakily, it took me all of ten minutes before I realized he was trying to sell himself, too. Told him how it was kinda novel having a Mickey Mouse operation actually headed by Mickey Mouse. But what I really wanted to say was: Jesus, if you like sleeping with ugly men, then the casino market is definitely the place to be.

About then my cell rang. It was Muffy.

“You still on that island?” was her opener.
“You still on that medication?” I replied.
“You total, total witch!”
“Poof! You’re an asshole.”
“Look, I’m calling about our mother. You know, the one that suffers from insanity.”
“Your mother,” I corrected. “And, let’s be blunt, she enjoys every frickin’ minute of it. What’s your point?”

So the pampered Akron steel tycoon’s poppet explained that due to a virulent outbreak of flesh-eating bugs, the Lake Erie Facility for the Terminally Bewildered was having to close and discharge all its 3,852 loonies into the community.

“She just cannot come and live with me and Theodore. Our wilderness lodge is so big, she might get lost and starve to death. So she’s going to have to stay with you.”

“What! When?” I demanded.

There was a pause. No doubt, the Muffster was doing some remedial math.

“By my reckoning, she’s already docked and is going through quarantine.”

Forget icy London, diary. Hearing that the USS Invincible was coming to the Isle of Man was like feeling Hell freezing over…

Seven-month Itch

Unable to cope with life in doom-laden Douglas, Bettie tries to find comfort in a dirty weekend in Greece that turns out to contain entirely the wrong kind of filth.

The real, sorry, scratch that, the only joy of being in the United Flag-waving Kingdom of Queen Elizabeth II is that Europe is less than an hour away. So when I got what I thought was another call from a rabid family member, it came as a pleasant surprise to find that it was in fact the man I had woken up with at The Dorchester. Yeah, him. Once I’d got over the shock, recovered, then navigated past the twin terrors of “How’d you get my number?” and “Sorry to hear you lost your Rolex”, he dropped the bombshell of asking if I’d like to meet again.

I was, like, ‘Whoa! Gimme a moment here!’ but in light of the current state of my latest marital mess, the offer of a weekend in Greece was too hard to resist. And, yes, what this also meant was that technically I was now having an affair.

After telling Big Frank I was at Time To Dye for a crack-wax super-intensive, I arrived in Athens a day early. At loose ends for a full eight hours, I took some pictures of the surrounding buildings in case they decided to fall down before I got back and went in search of the Acropolis. Never did get there, but instead ended up at several other must-see places, such as the Tower of Wind (which had blown down), Socrates’ Prison (he’d escaped) and the Roman Angina for a view of the entire city – which, if you get a hot flash flipping through Construction Site Quarterly, is a must.

I came, I saw, I ate a little lunch and that’s when I felt the first twinges of what swiftly became a chronic case of the poop cramps. Here, diary, is where the real horror began as the last restroom I’d seen was at Heathrow Airport.

Wildly searching the streets, I went into Café Sappho and asked Madame X behind the counter, “You got a ladies room?”

Bad mistake. And once that little misunderstanding was sorted out, the she-man explained: “We no got toilet. We got cappuccino, Coca Cola, Seven-Up…”

Rushing outside I managed, between spasms, to discover there was a public restroom in Greece, but it was located on the Piraeus dock front – over ten miles away. Helpfully manhandled onto a bus, I was squeezed between the collective armpits of eighty-five Greek fisherman who’ve lived their entire lives on a diet solely consisting of garlic fish paste sandwiches. Arriving hours later, I staggered into what can best be described as the vilest torture device ever invented for the weak of bowel. The toilet – and I use the word in its loosest possible sense – consisted of a sludge-filled hole with two footplates positioned at the optimum crouching distance from a gurgling funnel that in any other country would be called the seat. But, by now, I had to go, and that was that. And, je t’adore, it’s funny how you never realize there’s no toilet paper until it’s far too late.

Not what I had in mind when I planned a dirty weekend, I can tell you. Still, at least I’d wasted the entire day.

Rushing back to the hotel, I waddled in and there he was. Tall, handsome, blond and reading a copy of The Reader’s Digest Atlas Of Places Americans Will Never Go To. He was perfect. He’d also bought me a thoughtful gift – a Tiffany something-or-other – which only served to remind me how the last time Big Frank tried to buy me a present, he went to the local jewellery store, asked for something cheap and they handed him a mirror. For the first time since setting foot this side of the Atlantic, I was feeling fabulous.

Later, as we lay alone together, he said, “Ever since our eyes first met across that crowded casino, I wanted to make love to you in the worst possible way.”

Unfortunately, diary, he succeeded.

Manx Minxes

Bettie finally arrives back home only to discover that, in her absence, things are definitely sliding to the crazier end of the scale…

The way I see it, diary, the world falls into two camps: those who believe everything comes down to two outcomes, and those who don’t. And as I arrived back at our crumbling ruin of a new home, I could just smell we were approaching zero hour for the success or – more-than-likely – total and complete failure of Big Frank’s 39-4-Ever misadventure.

Stepping from the taxi, I met hubby #3 acting head honcho as hordes of workmen wheeled expensive-looking computer servers into the coal cellar.

“Hi, honey!” he said, as I breezed past.

“Good morning, darling,” I replied. “I see the assassins failed. Been busy?”

It turned out he’d been fiddling with his backend all week – hardly a revelation – so I escaped inside to unpack and freshen up. This turned out to be far harder than I’d imagined as when I arrived in our Dickensian-drama of the archaic kitchen, I found my maid Mona laden down with bowls of tripe.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m feeding the cats.”

“Cats?” I questioned. “We don’t have any cats.”

It turns out I was wrong on that count as, following the crusty slattern to the back yard, I found the entire place was stuffed full to the fence posts with dozens and dozens of freaky, tail-less felines.

“What are these?” I said.

“They’re Manx cats,” Mona replied, reminding me that anything from the Isle of Man was dubbed with the descriptor, ‘Manx’.

“There’s two varieties,” Mona continued, as I stood in shock. “The rumpy what ain’t got no tail, and the stumpy what’s got this twisted lump of…”

“Stop,” I said. I’d heard enough. “If you don’t, we’ll be overrun!”  

“I tried not feeding them, but they just picked up little stones from the rock garden and pelted the bedroom windows morning, noon and night. It gets on me nerves.”

“But I hate cats!” I shrieked, which is true as I believe they are the work of the devil on a mission to enslave all mankind. It will certainly come as a surprise to no one that if there was a little red button on my desk that would exterminate every cat on the planet instantly and painfully, then I’d push it. Repeatedly.

“Maybe that’s because you were a dog in a previous life,” Mona intoned.

Thinking, ‘Well, that’s far better than being a dog in this one’, I left her to sort out the chaos, and headed back for the front door. Only fifteen minutes home after a twenty-six hour flight, and I already wanted off this island more than a whole planeful of Lost regulars. Still, as my anxieties and stresses of this whole venture collapsing into its own half-cooked conception reached boiling point, I decided that now was as good a time as any to confront Big Frank. Yep, I hit my ever-loving husband with the big one. The $64,000 Question? Since buying this online casino, relocating to Nowheresville and stocking up with enough Eskimo seal jackets and huskies to survive the British winter amounted to one huge chunk of change, would it ever – could it ever – like, make any money?

“If you build it, they will come,” he said.

Jesus, if only that was the byline for our sex life.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think your truly appreciate the sacrifices I’ve made on this crazy scheme.”

“Like what?”

Well, round about then I let him have it. The List. How things would be like dancing on the steps of Disneyland Palace:

-       if it wasn’t so fricking wet

-       if it wasn’t so fricking freezing

-       if it wasn’t so fricking dark all the time

-       if I didn’t have to suffer a nine-hour flight every time I wanted to visit my nearest Walmart Supercenter

-       if it didn’t scare the Holy Bejeebus out of me at the amount of money this was all costing

-       if there was proof of a God, so that at the end of civilization as we know it I had any chance of being saved

-       Yada yada yada…

The final rant took the best part of an hour, and you’re just getting the highlights here, diary, but when it was over, you know what the big lug said?

“Is it really nine hours to the local Walmart?”

Arrrggghhh!!!

Homeward Grounded

Returning to her less-than-beloved Isle of Man home, Bettie welcomes in the New Year stuck in San Diego with a plastic surgery princess and some less-than-achievable resolutions.

Holy crap, diary, what a way to start a perfectly good new year. Three days in and I’m delayed at San Diego International, a virtual prisoner of Air Archipelago’s Crème De La Crème Class. I’m on my way back from the Pacific island paradise of Vanuatu after a blissful week of palm beaches, Piña Coladas and Port Vila pub crawls. But for the next Lord-knows-how-many hours, I’m trapped in that special limbo world of the airport terminal.

I’m also squashed next to this Phoenix-born denim-and-rhinestone beauty queen who’s reached the age where she’s more plastic than person. As I gaze around her radical rhinoplasty, it goes without saying that I’m not a fan of the modern obsession with nips, tucks and whacko treatments. Sheesh, every time I think of having something retouched or tightened or whatever, I have nightmares that some crazy white coat will pick up the wrong chart and I’d go in for the face of Angelina Jolie and come out with the ass of David Gest.

“Did you make any new year resolutions?” the self-built Barbie just asked. And I was going to say, ‘No, do I look like a dumb ass?’, but could see I’d already scrawled a few on a torn-up packet of Marlboros. They read:

1) Purge extraneous fat.

2) Casually disassociate with anyone who’s seen my birth certificate.

3) Give up my many worldly vices in favour of health and happiness. If health and/or happiness prove elusive circa January 15th, realize eternal quest for self-improvement is doomed. To supplement disappointment: Go blonde; buy higher heels.

Lord only knows when our flight is going to actually go anywhere? There’s been no useful news, just endless passenger announcements – but we’ve got so many passengers of a Hispanic persuasion, you can never be sure if they’re giving out another name check or just clearing their throats.

Bing-bong!

“Would passengers Joaquima, Hesus-Esperanza and Chiquitillo-Suárezpachão pleased be advised that you are now delaying the departure of this flight. We have identified your cheap-looking luggage and will nuke it if you do not arrive at the departure lounge in twenty, correction, eighteen seconds.”

Much, much later, I arrived back on the Isle of Man – you know the one where even the sheep get bored. Flying in was bad enough as I lost more than a couple of swigs of rum and Jack while the pilot tried to hit the postage-stamp of an airstrip. The indignity continued post-baggage claim, when the airline offered me a measly $25 meal voucher to compensate the inconvenience of the delay. And how is that commensurate to the loss of a half dozen hours of my life, I asked? If I was a high-class hooker, I’d have earned $25 just by taking off my coat. Six hours is like losing over seven thousand in measurable income. But the galley-hag just couldn’t see my reasoning.

Oh, and one more tip: when going through customs, if asked, “Are you carrying any drugs?”, do not reply, “Sure, what do you need?”

As I said, diary, what a way to start the year, but I had a sneaky suspicion that before the next twelve months were out, I’d require more than a swift slug of that Auld Lang Syne cup of kindness crap. I’d be needing some honest-to-goodness New Year miracles…

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?