So the suitcases have been put away, travel for the year has ended, my feet are back on terra firma.

Stop Press –

Dear Silvio marries his popsy………….77 and 28. It must be true, it was in the Mail Online. Is there nothing the man won’t do to deflect from the politics? Remember it’s all about me. Apparently she loves doing the conga and the bunga! As they said in La Grande Bellezza, “The trains (congas) at our parties are the best in Rome, because they go nowhere”.

There is hope for all!

So here I am, writing my newsletter on my birthday. It is early doors, but I am wide awake and staring at the ceiling, wondering what on earth today would have in store for me. Vash, lock up your champagne! If I ask for another glass, push me over, it won’t require a lot of effort, I’ll sleep where I fall.

Last night I ushered in today with Tony, espressos and Sambuca. No wonder I am staring at the ceiling.

With that in mind; respect for Michael, Perseus himself, he’ll no doubt be lying on a cold bathroom floor wondering when the hurricane spinning above him will pass. Just remember that feeling when you think you can get up; you suddenly realise you are in fact in the eye of the storm, and you still have to get out the other side.

Last night was dinner with Sam aboard the Space Shuttle. No not really, an Italian restaurant in Pimlico. Sorry Issy, but sometimes even I have to stray from you. It was great to have Sam here for more than a nano second. Apparently at Head Office they have noticed how little he was in the office. But his office is the sky! Those of you who worry about a company car, spare a thought for Sam, last night he was leafing through a brochure for a private jet….

Jake has avoided the festivities and tomorrows hangover to let fireworks off in Wolverhampton, and watch the mighty Wolves play Stevenage. Oh the ignominy! What is Steven’s age? It’s like the sign I wrote on the blackboard outside the shop that read “Hello Ian”….. “Halloween”. Geddit, no? I had to explain it to several people. They just looked at me as though I was stupid.  No change there then! Only one person got it first time. Well done Ian….and the boys.

Anyway can’t hang around, I’ve got a birthday breakfast with Marie shortly.

Apparently, I’m her “Toyboy”. Stop laughing! You don’t know how old I am, unless you can do the Math! Add a little Silvio, subtract a little popsy, multiply by 8, divide by 100, add a dash of tabasco, and there you have it.

One or two have enquired as to my secret, but if I told you then I’d have to find myself a suitable embassy to hide in until the effects have worn off. As for my other secrets, I don’t really have any, well I do have one, but it’s so small and insignificant as to be useless as a blackmail tool, and besides, I don’t have any money. Well not until the book is published, and the film is made.

Marie is 84; and recovering from a quadruple bypass, the fitting of a pacemaker and a new heart valve, so no funny business. She is delightful, and I have missed our mornings together at The Wolseley (quelle surprise)! It used to be a couple of times a week, but after the op. it has been once a fortnight. Those of you who know her will be pleased to know she is on the mend. Secretly, I think she has been seeing a celebrity customer of mine on the quiet. She has taken quite a shine to him and is always on the lookout for him on the telly.

I may even end up back at The Wolseley later for dinner.

A friend recently blagged a table there using my name to book it. Whilst they got drunker and drunker at the bar, they started to get cold feet; I was having dinner with Wolf, and Wolf spins a great yarn. We were mid dinner when I received a panicked phone call from this “young” man, who is old enough to know better, but cannot resist pushing his luck sometimes….. Please, please, pretty please could I join them for dinner? They had promised Matthew that I would turn up, and when it became clear that they weren’t going to be seated before I arrived, panic set in.

So I said my goodbyes to Wolf, hopped into a taxi and sped off to join them. A second dinner will mean a week in the gym! The wine, martinis, champagne, Amaretto and Sambuca continued to flow until the wee hours. At which point we staggered off to the Arts Theatre Bar in Soho. The music is terrible, no really, really terrible, and because everybody is as drunk as we are, you don’t really notice. Their idea of a DJ is a 12 year old child with an iPod and headphones playing mummy and daddy’s playlist from the 70’s and 80’s, or in this day and age his grandparents. These songs were old when I was dancing to them the first time around.

The place really comes alive when everyone starts singing along to “Total Eclipse of the Heart”. I just want to hold my head in shame, if it didn’t hurt so much. In front of me I can see Tony, Adam and Tom singing their lungs out, am I really here? Does anybody know me?

Then across the dance floor I can see Raoul my waxing technician dancing on the bar in what can be best described as a tutu and that appears to be the limit of his costume! I remember Limahl wearing a similar outfit many years ago, but he sylph-like physique was no threat to the structure of the bar. Raoul is an entirely different stature. Hell, now I’m in trouble he’s turned around and spotted me. His bright eyes sparkling because he’s recognised me. Damn now the records stuck in my head, oh well, every now and then I fall apart.

Neil from Ibiza has been there, he was horrified and I don’t blame him, this crowd were all in Pacha in August. Not quite the level of clubbing experience he’s used to. Well sometimes you have to get down and dirty. Adam, get off the floor, that’s not what I meant… The world is his oyster after that half marathon.

Update later…..or maybe tomorrow, or Sunday. If I can remember what happens.

Copyright © 2013 Adrian Holdsworth. All Rights Reserved.