Karma Karma Down Doobie Doobie Doo...

Eno pops over with a bundle of recent National Geographicals for me and a new random sudoku generator for the iPhone. It's the first time he's come to visit me at the Entertainment Artistes' Benevolent Home. The puzzles are virtually impossible to solve, but the programme does emit a very soothing ambient bleep every time you fill in a box wrong, which is nice; although, to be fair, the rather cumbersome transmitter he has strapped to his back and that is generating the algorithms also seems to be interfering with Lyndsay de Paul's electronic bladder control system, which is not going down too well in the girls' corner.

Whatever it is, something appears to be causing a severe inflation of her already rather bulbous beauty spot which is now beginning to exhibit the dimensions and appearance of a tennis ball that's been persistently soaked in a very muddy puddle. Fortunately, Yvonne Goolagong is up in front of matron, accused of graffiti-ing the ladies loo, otherwise you can see that it's an accident waiting to happen. She's vehemently denying it, of course; insists it's Virginia Wade who has festooned the women's powder room walls with the likenesses of koalas, wallabies and boomerangs. But then, as Mandy Rice Davies would probably say - 'She would say that, wouldn't she?'.

But yes, it's good to have a visitor and Brian's always excellent company, if a little quiet. He's also highly adept at smuggling in 'recreational substances' using his reliably garish headgear - although even he must have been *seriously* stretched trying to secrete a tub of industrial grade Air-tex inside an ostentatious ostrich feather tiara - can't imagine what that's done to his scalp. The ingenious scoundrel's somehow managed to keep it moist too. That little lot'll keep me pinned to the ceiling til next Tuesday, with any luck.

Suitably refreshed, we're having a lovely old natter until Neil flipping Sedaka starts pounding away on the old Joanna, completely destroying the ambience of dignified serenity. He's had that Rick Rubin in his swanky private chambers all week, recording his new hip-hop LP. It's great to see the old mincer having a new lease of life. but there's a time and a place, isn't there? OK, so Neil's never lost it, but is afternoon tea in a retirement home for superannuated variety artistes really an appropriate forum in which to be wailing out, 'Yo, I hear laughter in the Mo-fo rain' to an aggressively overdriven beatbox accompaniment?? I think not. He wants to get busy with the old dust pan and brush too, when he's finished pounding the ivories. It's like a sequin shagpile in here after all his matinee idol head shaking - the stuff comes off his shoulders like dandruff. Or maybe it is dandruff. Can you get it from a wig?

L.U.V. on ya,

Bob

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