Well here I am. This is blogging. My Goddaughter Daniella Minogew has been trying to drag me kicking and screaming into the 21st Century for an age I tell you. Not that kicking and screaming is anything new to someone who's been sectioned 7 times, mind you. But anyway here I am. You'll h have to forgive me the odd typing error or superfluous apostrophe here and there - it's been a long time since I did some manual labour like this. Sat at Daniella's laptop actually typing the keys. Usually I dictate and my secretary Mr Timberlake takes down my finer details but alas - he had to go. Yes even the Dykenhausen has been fingered by the credit crunch.
So where was I? Ah yes. My walkabout. As I'm a quarter Aborigine I can't set a stiletto heel on to Australian soil (now I'm allowed in) without Daniella prattling on about us going bush. I said to her 'Daniella, going bush is something I hardly have to travel for 24 hours to do.' But she means something completely different. So one night after a drunken tumble down the steps of The Sydney Opera House (I still maintain Kylie pushed us), I finally caved and said 'Alrroiight. Oy'll doyyy ittt'. And there we were chartering a jet to take us to the 'centre' as Aunt Noelene calls it.
Now it wasn't until we'd landed that she decided to let me in on the fact that Walkabout is supposed to last for six months. It's the tradition when the Adolescent Aboriginal Male learns to live off the land by being thrust into the wilderness with nothing but his spear and his Kookaburra for company. So as you can imagine I got a bit of a shock when I was forced to step into the great arrid vastness with nothing but my Femfresh and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Needless to say we lasted 2 days. Daniella was itching to get back to her Botox and I was itching all over, particularly in my nether regions having flown via Melbourne where they were holding a Neighbours reunion and I wound up in bed with Mrs Mangel. Luckily I don't go anywhere without my trusty GPS and before we knew it the lear jet was landing on a couple of hapless Kangaroos and we hopped it back to civilisation.
I must say it's a relief to be home in Liverpool, drizzling and depressing as it is. The grim reality of life barely reaches me at my home in Fallopia Towers, L3. I've got 4 of the 6 Sugababes coming round for a late night cocaine party, although I'll be frigged if I know which ones. I put them in my phone as Suga1, 2, 3 and such, but can't remember which one is which. All I can say is I hope that dreadful Mutya isn't one of them. Last time she was here she shat in my airing cupboard and got my Iguana drunk. Poor Sara, she's still got the hiccups to this very day.
I've got a cracking tan from my Walkabout - bang goes my audition for the new lineup in the group, my skin is far too dark for their latest incarnation. But at least when they get here I can preview my new demo to them. It's amazing what I can rustle up with an old karaoke mic and a small recording studio left to me by my ex lover Michael Jackson. It's a little cramped but he always did say 'Better to squeeze into a tiny hole than be left echoing in a gaping cavernous one'. Lovely boy.
I suppose I should run. It's taken 4 hours to type just this with my acrylics on. Daniella's got through an entire box set of The Golden Girls in the time it's taken me. She's braying so loud I've had to close the balcone window.
Off I go, I can hear Keisha's klip klop bounding down my halls.
Toodles dears x
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