Fame, fortune, lack thereof, and Queens Park

"This one's a goner". That was the remark Andy, our Mancurian friend, made last night as he carved up the lifeless body of Ben's carefully roasted chook.*

Happily he was not referring to the snot-faced, sobbing American girl we had to rescue at 2.00 in the morning. Andy, Ben and I were having a glass of wine or three in the living room when we heard someone crying uncontrollably downstairs, on a mobile saying 'I don't know where I am' over and over again. Racing downstairs heroically, we then attempted to call her a cab. She just kept swearing at us and spilling great deals of cash into the road. "I just want to go home, why is that so fucking difficult!" she said. The taxi driver was distinctly unimpressed by the time he did turn up, as were we (largely because we suffered abuse for twenty minutes with no cash reward). Andy woke up early this morning in the hope that a stretch limousine would be outside and a large Texan with a Stetson would be knocking on our door saying 'Thanks for saving mah daughter. Y'all get $10,000 each.' I noted that the girl was hardly in a state to recall where we lived. Andy was extremely disappointed.

Meanwhile summer in Queen's Park rolls on with Pimms and G&T all round. Yesterday we discovered that David 'Doctor Who' Tennant lives around the corner, a piece of news I was incredibly excited about. But despite my strolling about the park alluringly in skinny jeans, aviators, Scottish-radio rock star tshirt (he's Scottish, guess he can't help that) and messy hair... he has failed to materialise.

I have also embarked upon OPERATION: CAREER CHANGE and am eagerly awaiting a rejection notice for my application to work as an Assistant Producer on BBC drama 'Waking the Dead', which would be an exceptionally appropriate project for me (and my career). If that fails, I will study filmmaking in the autumn with the Monty Python filmmakers (no seriously, they support young Londoners, particularly those suffering at the hands of a boss who is deluded that he works at The Times and phones at 6.30am to ask why The Guardian has beaten us to a story -- something the Guardian journos think is quite funny), and my world domination or at least, Hollywood superstardom, will proceed from there.

Meanwhile it's back to Sweden this week (thank God), and I celebrated today by meeting Sven for a huge smorgåsbord brunch, whereupon we managed to meet the King of Sweden's former drinking buddy and hear lots of gossip from 1965 about all his model girlfriends. Unfortunately I don't think the King will be attending Pelle's midsommar party in Sweden but you know, the way fate is treating me lately I wouldn't be entirely surprised.



*Chook - noun - Australian for chicken, also used to affectionately describe a female as in 'Cheer up you silly old chook'.