Punk & Blanket & The Mummy Blogger: Chapter 1

We have had to sublet part of our workspace due to the Global Financial Crisis which is really hitting Australia hard.  Mia, an online editor and publisher of issues to do with parenting has moved in.  In her application she demonstrated a vast knowledge of our site as she had noted the various ups and downs with our tenuous, volatile relationship with Sir Elton.

Mia has three children with partner Jason: Baxter 6, Atlas 4 and a little girl called Flynn who is 15 months.  She's very busy.  Kerryn, her personal assistant helped her set up her workstation. They've been friends for a really long time and finish each other's sentences. Kerryn is also a mother but only has her children fifty per cent shared care as part of the court order with her ex. As we watched, Mia art directed her 'Wonder Wall', a collection of keepsake images of her family. Kerryn suggested using the proof sheets of Flynn's professional shoot and Mia went with it, deciding on 'eye level, and to the right'.

On her application, Mia had ticked the box for coffee machine. We were slightly deflated when Kerryn unpacked the Nespresso, and with that we discreetly retrieved our Gloria Jean's loyalty cards from the bin. Kerryn was coming at us with Decaffeinato Lungo, we diverted the situation by popping the bottle of Bollinger we'd bought especially for the occasion. As always happens with French, one bottle is never enough. Mia gave Kerryn money to go to the shops and buy three more bottles. Before too long, we were all shouting to each other about ourselves. No one was listening. The last memory is Kerryn shouting down her mobile to her new partner Brendan saying she's maggoted.

Natalie, Sir Elton and The Altyian Child

As we predicted, proximity to Altyian was a piece of cake. Last weekend we were helping our copper mates with a Blue Light Disco. As we were cutting up the oranges, Altyian arrived with Nikki. This was our opportunity to become firm friends with the winner of The X Factor. Nikki, in her somnambulistic way, posed no barrier to a quick friendship with her intended. We went straight up to Altyian and asked him whether people had ever told him he looks just like the late Michael Hutchence. Fifteen minutes later we are helping a weeping Altyian into the car and taking him to the beach where he sits in a lotus position on the sand. He stares silently and intensely out to sea - like Bono thinking about the third world - for a good minute and a half. He turned to us, and with the last vestiges of the day's sun glistening in his glassy eyes said 'You guys...are the best....best friends...I've ever...ever...had.' Nikki remained in the vehicle.

We spent the next few days ferrying Altyian and Nikki from one facebook hook-up to another and engaging in what is perhaps technically considered in the eyes of the law, stalking of his former Altourage. During a boring stake-out of disgraced manager, Steve Gold's new townhouse, we felt Altyian was ready to be briefed on Sir Elton's proposition. Leaving out the bit about the cave, which is really a stupid idea, we tell Altyian Sir Elton wants to meet him. Nikki rested in the passenger seat (we'd let her ride up front).

As you guys know, we have our moments with Sir Elton and we're a little bit mischeivious re his husband, but he is our friend, so we were really disappointed by Altyian's dispassionate response. He said he had trusted the wrong people from The Win onwards. A lot of people were trying to impress him and quite frankly, he said, he was taken for ride. This had caused him to 'shut down'. We go 'Altyian, Sir Elton has seen it all before. He's had his fair share of freeloaders. It might be really good for you to talk to him.' Altyian, who is looking more and more like Rasputin on a dark night, starts pointing his finger at us and says 'The stage is calling out for me, and I really need it. It is my second home and it does things to me that I could never express in words.' We go 'Altyian, Sir Elton is a performer too. He's had a lot of experience.' At this point, Nikki wakes up; she wants to go home.

The next morning, we weren't surprised when Natalie Biddles rolled up uninvited to breakfast with Altyian. She is exactly as she appears on Channel 7's Today Tonight, a smitten single mother using her daughter, Elle, as a proxy server. As she parked her bottom on the seat next to us we smelt trouble. Omitting introductions, she just started asking private questions about Sir Elton. We indulged her a little bit - yes, he loves flowers. Yes, he is neat - but when she asked us schoolyard questions about the gender dynamics between the couple, her time was up. We dropped a couple of Xanax in her scrambled eggs and waited for her to bid her farewells and go home to bed.

We were now alone with Altyian (Nikki was there but was busy drawing Altyian's tattoos on the tablecloth with the crayons the waiter provided). This time it was Altyian who raised Sir Elton's offer, inquiring as to whether Sir Elton will be providing him with a contract, songs written by him and Bernie, video clip deals, merchandise, a publicist and options on feature films. We were aghast. Altyian is a lazy reality TV star with a shocking sense of entitlement. Thank God for the digital mandala Claire sent us when she heard we'd befriended Caveboy. We held our phones in Altyian's direction and left the building. Nikki focussed on keeping the colour within the lines.


Thank you to the Herald Sun and Today Tonight.

Caveboy

We didn't get an invite to Friday's wedding because William and Harry hold us responsible for coining the term 'The Booze Brothers', not that we care anyway. Looked more like a funeral to us.

Sir Elton's husband, David Furnish, took our flippant request to send us a couple of pictures a little too seriously. Self-shot images of David with his arms around Ian Thorpe, David with his arms around the King of Tonga, David in peels of laughter with Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, close-ups of the china and David with his arms around Ian Thorpe again...and again clogged up our phones and made us miss seeing one of our AFL friends score two goals. We were getting a bit over David's, 'I'm middle aged but I'm up with technology' catharsis when things changed dramatically. An image came through of David nursing a weeping Sir Elton John. A concerned Ronan Keating can be seen hovering behind them. This was followed by a text from David going:

OMG! He's just finished rescuing Leon Russell.
Now he's heard about that Altiyan Childs.
Better clean out one of the spare rooms ;)


Leon Russell, dressed by Sir Elton John

The next thing the phone rings and it's David saying 'Sharon wants to speak to you,' and a sobbing Sir Elton gets on the line. 'That poor boy! The poor gypsy boy!' he cries into the receiver. 'He lives in a cave! Those animals. They let him fly. They let him fall! Have you got his number? David could call him for me....get him over here for some proper re-hab.' We tried to interject as we are don't think Altiyan's on drugs - if only it were that simple - he seems to have a host of psychological problems. We weren't sure that spending time in Sir Elton's compound would be in Altiyan's best interests, but Sir Elton was already on to renovating one of the spare rooms into a cave and was shouting out the numbers of slate companies to David and telling him to write them down. 'It's all about the cave,' said Sir Elton, 'He needs to get in touch with it again.' We finally just started talking over the top of him, informing him that Altiyan's was no romantic cave, but a miserable shelter on a suburban beach littered with empty V cans and McDonalds packaging. Sir Elton didn't seem to get it. He just paused then said 'I can get those things.'



Sir Elton wanted to leave the wedding (and the filthy power ballads playing there). He now had one purpose: Save Altiyan Childs. Frankly, we don't think it's worth it so to prevent them from jumping on their jet we said we knew Altiyan really well (which was a lie, but we felt confident that if pressed we could establish an intimate relationship with Altiyan in a very short space of time) and we'd have a chat to him. Using flattery, we convinced Sir Elton that Altiyan would need to be prepped before meeting The Most Famous Homosexual in the World.

So Long Hedi

After a couple of wonderful months we've had to let our tapeworm go. It's been such a gas having him on the inside, but Hedi exists in his own right. In a way it's been too good with us, we've been catering to his every whim. He's got to realise his full potential as a parasite and move on to more character building hosts. Let's take several minutes to relive our journey with Hedi to the tunes of Sir Elton John...

Excerpt From Our Travel Journal

December 22, 2005
0530 hours

We have just returned to our hotel room from Sir Elton and David's wedding reception. It got ugly, real ugly. You could say it was a blizzard, cocaine everywhere. Take it from us, Sir Elton is NOT clean, and neither is David. It was pretty clear it was exceptionally good gear (apparently). Things started to go downhill from the moment Sir Elton sang his song to his new husband titled 'My Husband David' (yet ANOTHER rehash of 'Candle in the Wind'). Cringing, we slunk out of a flap of the marquee and sat by the pond for a smoke. To our dismay, we were attacked by a very vicious and angry Karl Lagerfeld. He'd read Liquid Karl and he was very cross. His breath stinking of sunflower seeds, he poured out his fury in colourful Deutsch expletives, ubernouns that made no sense. We were distracted from our berating by a wide-eyed Liz Hurley and Arun Nayar (who bears such a striking resemblence to Bobby Ewing from Dallas, we secretly refer to him as Bombay Bobby). With rolled 50 euro notes, they divined cocaine on the shoulders of Karl Lagerfeld. We were amazed and amused as they were so out of it, they didn't realise they were hoovering the talcum powder that Karl uses to whiten his hair.

Turkey Of The Year - Nominations - Cast Your Vote

For the first time in history we are opening up our blog for comments to collect votes for the inaugural Turkey Of The Year Award.

And the nominees are:

FRIED TURKEY(S): The Bali 9 for thinking that, in the climate of Schapelle Corby, they could get away with strapping heroin to their bodies and going through Indonesian Customs.

ROAST TURKEY: Donatella Versace

SLICED TURKEY: Mickey Rourke

NOT TURKEY (VEGETARIAN ALTERNATIVE): Gwyneth Paltow

TURKEY BASTER: Michael Jackson/Debbie Rowe (take your pick)

WILD TURKEY: James Hewitt for consenting to hypnosis for the purposes of reality TV.

BUSH TURKEY: George Bush

CHRISTMAS LUNCH: russell crowe

EIN TRUTHAHN: Prince Harry for bearing the swastika.

TURKEY BREAST: Vicky Beckham

TURKEY LOAF: Steve Vizard

COLD TURKEY: Joe Korp

FROZEN TURKEY: Nicole Kidman.......sooooooo creepy

TURKEY NUGGET: Charles Spencer Crowe

STUFFED TURKEY: Katie Holmes

TURKEY BY POPULAR DEMAND: Michelle Leslie

Vote now via comment or email.

Turkey Of The Year will be announced sometime in the New Year when we get back from Sir Elton's Wedding.

punkandblanket@yahoo.com.au

Sandwich

The lunch at The Botanical™ really shook us up. Our thoughts were in a whirl. Ever since Pip came along there's been this tension between her and us and now she is coming between us and Claire, helped along by that little poser Grayam. We can handle being around dicks like Pip but when it threatens our relationship with our medium we lose our cool, hence the inbox incident. Claire is everything to us, she's the reason we are so successful, she's our Paul Burrell, our rock! We love her and feel confident that when we die she won't write books about us. What made us really mad was the fact that somehow we were being made to feel that we should have informed Claire about something that was Pip and Grayam's business. We were the meat in the sandwich.

We didn't have any Xanax left as we have been handing them out to our friends in stock broking who are afraid of psychiatrists. In situations like these we find active meditation is the only way to relax, dolphin sounds and breathing do nothing for this type of pathology, so we started to arrange our CD's into the Dewey Decimal Classification System. We kept getting distracted by playing various sad tracks from Claire's favourite and least favourite acts, like Sinead O'Connor and The Smiths respectively. Tears streamed down our cheeks two lines into Nothing Compares 2 U, by the second verse we were down on bended knees before Claire's photograph on our altar. Shaking from the uncontrollable sobs we embraced in an attempt to earth ourselves. Delirious with sorrow we found ourselves in the bathroom, razors in hand, about to shave our heads when something (probably an unseen force) brought us out of it and suddenly that unopened letter from Sir Elton possessed us. We dropped our razors and with shaving cream in our hair we raced to the studio to open it.

We had assumed it was the wedding invitation but seeing the secret address still shocked us. We shared a herbal cigarette and discussed our issues with Sir Elton. It was only this week we'd seen the pictures of Sir Elton's White Tie and Tiara Ball, which showed his impropriety. In the climate of Live 8, David and Elton curiously chose an African theme, which involved the use of wildlife (zebra, gorilla's, giraffes etc) and desserts of chocolate huts with coconut roofs. Apart from the immorality of the celebrities eating the homes of African villagers, it is outrageously wasteful as most of the party goers were thinner than the folk living in the huts - Liz Hurley wouldn't have touched it and Eva Herzigova gave hers to the giraffes - although Linda Evangelista and Diana Ross did share a coconut roof. As Australians we're wondering what it is with these affluent Britons and their African themes? This sort or thing really stirs our inner-communist and we'll need to decide if we will forgive Sir Elton his trespasses.

Sustaining and juggling friendships in this day and age is difficult and sometimes it can become overwhelming. We just want harmony with others but we felt broken, the shattered pieces of our confidence floating weightless around the room. Fatigue began to set in and we slept fitfully, waking each other up with our screams, finding ourselves still on the couch bathed in our own sweat. If Claire hadn't texted us then and there we don't know what would have become of us. Her message was simple - my anger this afternoon was misdirected sorry love you claire x. The relief was amazing, we were new people, and we were free.

CHOCO SHOCKO



DAVID AND SIR ELTON'S PARTY SAFARI




COCONUT ISN'T FATTENING




VICKY BECKHAM WITH APE

Surprise Invite

About a week ago an unmistakable envelope arrived in the post. We've seen that paper many times before. To appease guilt brought on by his endless consumption, Sir Elton John recycles his flowers into paper and, like his favourite late Princess, he loves a thank you note - not that we've gotten any since the scene on the Gold Coast earlier this year. The envelope has been sitting on our desk reeking of Sir Elton's custom made fragrance (a gift from David), all this time as we've been wrestling with our pride. We know it's The Wedding Invitation. We'd been expecting Sir Elton to extend an olive branch but we never thought David would let him invite us to the wedding. It's thrown us into emotional turmoil because to tell the truth, we buried that friendship long ago (something that was surprisingly easy to do with no counseling required) and now our ability to forgive is being challenged. On another level, we have been perplexed by Sir Elton publicly nuzzling around Sir Moses Geldof, promising to bring him the lamb of Pete Doherty.

Crystal Dig Goes Horribly Wrong

We've had enough of Claire's new bestie Pippa from New Zealand. We are not covetous and we are not paranoid, our disquiet is shod by a long history of witnessing the sideshow of unsteady people who misconstrue Claire's purity as weakness and attempt to manipulate her, only to be shocked into suspended animation when she exposes them by letting them know she really can see their souls. We've seen them come and go, so the other day when we went round to Claire's for her half yearly crystal dig on a waning moon we were in for another spectacle. Pip was there, sitting on Murray's Jason Recliner, next to Claire in her's, watching The Bold And The Beautiful on the huge TV (Claire has the biggest and best tele of anyone we know, including our former friend Sir Elton). The arm rests of Claire's recliners are so greasy from wear that your arms can slide off, so it was hilarious to see Pip top to toe in Trelise Cooper looking like a kooky fairy caught in a grease trap. We had to be nice to her because the crystal digs are sacred events. Things got a touch hairy when we mentioned that the tattoos the Maoris had in Once Were Warriors were really cool because Pip tried to belittle us by starting on about the 'bourgeois gaze'. We didn't snap, we didn't send bad vibes; we took it on the chin because we knew Pip was feeling empowered by this intellectual nonsense and we generally find it's best to let these kinds of people think they have the final say.

Pip was constantly referring to her much younger boyfriend back in Auckland, and the more Baileys she downed the more explicit her talk became. Claire was too gripped on the Greyhound Races on Foxtel so Pip zoned in on us. It turns out the young man has spent time in ashrams in Bali where he learnt the fine art of Tantrism, and he has taken her to raves where she has had ecstasy. Another Baileys and she's telling us (with graphic detail) of the pleasures she derives from his tongue piercing. It's been some months now since our hospitalisation for post traumatic stress disorder induced by the Gretel Killeen/Saxon Small coupling but we are still vulnerable and need to avoid certain situations that can trigger re-experiencing phenomena such as dreams and flashbacks so Pip was really playing with our nerves. Claire sensed the emergency and took her eyes off the dogs to ask Pip to go smudge the backyard with sage in preparation for the crystal dig.

When the doorbell rang Pip ran to answer it as we were still vaporising on the carpet. It was Grayam, Claire's grandson who'd come down for his Gran's dig from Byron Bay because his moon is in Virgo and it was a Virgo moon on the wane. We've heard a lot about Grayam from Claire as she has been concerned by his lack of spiritual depth, suspicious that his interest in mysticism is merely to find out when he will be famous. He hangs around with a superficial boy called Oscar Humphries, a child of an Australian icon who, in an autobiographical piece for a major broadsheet wrote:“Celebrities have groupies and fans and adoration and love on tap and gushing praise and requests for autographs…I want that. If I were famous girls would want a piece of me and I’d give it to them.” Last year Claire spent a lot of time absent healing Grayam when he became lost in cyberspace. He was constantly posting on the forum at vogue.com.au Apart from chatting up the Voguettes he found a place where he could freely discuss his right wing views. As he walked into the room he seemed like any other brand of awkward youth in floppy jeans with holes and paint spots. Pip rolled a joint and passed it to Grayam who sucked on it so hard we thought the dust buster had turned itself on. We didn't partake as we know Claire feels it interferes with the energy of the crystals so Pip kept rolling and Grayam kept sucking. They engaged in a flirtateous discourse about joint rolling techniques with Pip quick to point out that she preferred the Hawaiian Method. Grayam asked Pip if she had been to Hawaii and Pip said "no", she learnt it in Berlin. Then Pip told Grayam that he had a unique look and asked him if he'd ever modelled.

Just at the point where we'd had enough of Pip's red-eyed pawing at Grayam the alarm on Claire's stove went off; it had been exactly six months since the crystals were buried and it was time to dig them up. Claire was particularly excited because these were the crystals she had used for extensive healing sessions with a footballer (no name). The crystals' energy had become dangerously depleted. They were cloudy, and had begun to repel Claire's attentions, hence the six month cleansing period. We instinctively marched behind Claire into the backyard, assuming Pip and Grayam would be following. We shovelled for about an hour without stopping. We did not notice the absence of Grayam and Pip, such was our focus, even though their presence would have lightened our load considerably.

After our excavation was complete with the re-energized crystals home in Claire's Healing Box we went back inside. The scene we observed there was, in short, vulgar. Grayam was pouting into Pip's camera phone, with Pip slurring about 'the new Travis' and mms'ing his image to her friends at Chadwicks and Mercedes Fashion Week. Now, Claire is a tolerant person but there is one thing that boils her blood and that is male models. It really is the worst thing that could happen to Claire. When we saw that look in Claire's eyes and heard that throaty hum we knew to stand back. With hands splayed by her sides she began to sing as she approached the couch whilst singing;

There is freedom within
There is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a papercup

Pip starts to sway her shoulders in time with the beat. Deadpan, Claire inches towards her continuing her song.

There's a battle ahead
Many battles are lost
But you'll never see the end of the road
While you're travelling with me

Pip openly grieves for the late Paul Hester.

Hey now, hey now
Don't Dream It's Over
Hey now, hey now

Pip trys to start a debate as to whether Crowded House were an Australian or a New Zealand band. She clearly wasn't getting it, it was time to put her out of her misery. We said, "Philippa, this ain't no party, this ain't no disco, it's a crystal dig, you are being sung*, we suggest you go". We called Murray to come and sit with Claire as she was extremely shaken. We bundled Grayam and Pip into the car and drove them home. We're choosing not to tell Claire that Grayam got out at Pip's house.



* Ancient Australian Aboriginal justice ritual in which the victim is literally "sung" to death.

Falling Out With Sir Elton

We'd like to take this opportunity to thank our readers for the thousands of emails within the last month wishing us all the best for 2005 and asking as to our whereabouts. So far our new year has been exhausting to say the least. We have fallen out with one of our dearest friends, Sir Elton John.

At the end of last year Sir Elton was embroiled in a battle of words with other senior recording artists and the Taiwanese press. As we've discussed before some of his comments had merit, but by years end our Sir Elton was a veritable volcano, his eruptions becoming increasingly indiscriminate. When George Michael found himself covered in Sir Elton's bitter lava flow things were clearly out of hand, so we arranged a conference call with David and Sir Elton; we wanted to bring Sir Elton to The Gold Coast to cool him down. We were focused on talking Sir Elton through some of his issues but David seemed fixated on the accommodation. We had thought that a private residence on the Isle of Capri would be ideal for our friend as it is quiet and close to Jupiter’s Casino, but David kept talking about Palazzo Versace. We found ourselves sitting by the phone listening to them squabble. David was citing inducements such as fresh flowers in the room every day, glamorous crockery, and he even went so far as to suggest that staying anywhere else would offend the late Gianni. Suddenly David went quiet and we heard sounds of a struggle. Sir Elton's voice seemed muffled with tears as we heard him say in a stern, low registered tone that he could not be seen publicly in his swimming trunks.

For the first few days we tried to make things as comfortable as possible so that Sir Elton could de-steam: a quick trip to Byron Bay for some colonic irrigation, jet skiing in the pristine waters surrounding Isle Of Capri, marlin fishing with Jamie Packer (David kept leering at Jamie's Speedos, we lost a lot of rods because of that) and plenty of rest in between. In the evening we'd sit on the deck looking at the skyscrapers workshopping some of Sir Elton's issues. The atmosphere changed dramatically when we brought up the George Michael matter. Sir Elton kept insisting that George was in a dark place at the moment and that it is evident in his work. We pointed out that George has had a lot on his plate with the death of his mother and stalkers camping under his floorboards. Putting on his 'not listening face' (a trick he learnt from David) he went on about how George should get out more and criticized him for not touring. We tried to explain that George has more than compensated for his lack of touring with his pledge to allow the public to download any future recordings free of charge. We knew that this would hurt him because we know for a fact that he cannot even turn a computer on. By this stage Sir Elton's face was an unrecognisable contortion with golf balls of sweat streaming down it, reducing his spray-on tan to stains on the carpet. He stamped his foot and in that same stern voice we had heard on the phone said, "George Michael is not as good as me". Aghast by this display of narcissism we calmly took a sip of our mango smoothies before we gave our former friend a dressing down; unlike George he has never written his own lyrics, he didn't even write an original song for Lady Di's funeral, he hangs around with turkeys like Liz Hurley and everyone is laughing at him. Elton turned on his heel and began to leave the room so we delivered the final crushing blow by saying that George was a fully fledged pop star whilst Elton was nothing but a World Class Cruise Ship Entertainer. Elton fell to the floor and started beating his fists on the ground, squealing, "I am a pop star". We picked up the phone and called David who was shopping at Pacific Fair and told him to come and collect his boyfriend as they were no longer welcome.

If anyone is looking for the said couple we suspect they will be at Palazzo Versace.

Counselling Sir Elton

From the moment Sir Elton opened the door we got the vibe that things weren’t right; he was in his adidas, and he doesn’t like people seeing him in his casuals. He didn’t even comment on what we were wearing. Sir Elton seemed quite manic and he was perspiring heavily. He ushered us to our rooms, past all of his vases, apologising repeatedly for the dead flowers. Knowing Sir Elton’s penchant for fresh floral arrangements we knew he was unhappy.

We’d never met David before, but over drinks he gave the distinct impression of a chatterbox. He was talking over Sir Elton and being very loud. It was difficult for us to get a word in. Sir Elton was becoming increasingly frustrated and eventually slammed his Pimms onto the table. He stormed out, the whooshing of his tracksuit the only sound in a finally silent room.

David opened another Cristal and talked passionately about his time in the advertising industry. There was no mention of any forthcoming wedding. When he spotted the gifts beneath our feet he made it obvious he wanted to unwrap his present. He was so excited when he opened the box containing RM Williams boots; we’d chosen the Cuban heels for David and the Pony Club for Sir Elton because of his back. We pretended to be tired from the flight and told David we were off to bed.

We got lost when we went to look for Sir Elton, his house is such a labyrinth. Eventually we heard sniffing from behind the door of one of his bathrooms. It sounded like Sir Elton might be crying. We pulled out some tissues and slipped them under the door. After a while he let us into the room and invited us to sit on the edge of the spa-bath. He sat there on the bidet like ‘The Thinker’ for about 5 minutes and then told us the wedding was cancelled, or postponed, or something. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Sir Elton was very confused, but it didn’t seem clinical.

Whilst we were concerned for Sir Elton’s plight, we were jet-lagged (our excuse for leaving David was not entirely untrue) and we had been eyeing off the spa for sometime. We suggested we all hop in for a more comfortable counselling session. Sir Elton’s enthusiasm was indeed surprising, he turned the taps on and started ranting about his many natural bathing products from the south of France. He was going on about L’Occitane, Cote Bastide and Lothantique, regurgitating what to us seemed like press releases, stuff about how Olivier Baussan (L’Occitane founder) discovered shea butter by sitting next to an African lady on an aeroplane. And how a mother and son team found ancient body care recipes in a barn on the coast of Bastide and prepare the potions by hand; they only wear hessian and handwrite all of the labels on recycled paper and attach them with string. Privately, we refer to these products as French Scams, but given Sir Elton’s state we couldn’t bring ourselves to tell him.

The spa seemed to release Sir Elton. He spoke more calmly and explained how David was The One but there was something nagging inside him. At first he thought he had residual issues from his first marriage to Renata Blauel in 1984, but we weren’t convinced and probed him further. After several hours, Sir Elton finally cracked and in a frantic monologue (with some shouting) poured out his heart. He said he had as many issues as he had glasses, and he did: lots, some of them contradictory. He said if he wasn’t in the public eye he would marry for love, and love alone, but he is a Knight and he has duties. He seemed obsessed with the gay marriage debate and his role in it and asked us for our comments. We explained to Sir Elton that his was an interesting moral dilemma, particularly in the current global climate. On the one hand, marrying David could be seen as aping ideals that were designed for the creation of family units to further the Gross National Product of the industrialised nations of the West. On the other, given the rise of Christian fundamentalism in Western politics, a high profile marriage of a homosexual icon could be seen as an act of defiance against the insidious elements of the Far Right. Sir Elton seemed overwhelmed by his predicament; we certainly didn’t envy our friend. To soothe him we offered to wash his back with the Tunisian sea sponges we’d picked up during our shop-over. As we squeezed the fragrant water over Sir Elton’s shoulders we told him that we listen to Claire in times like these and her advice for any crossroad problems is to simply do nothing, just be yourself, and the answer will come.

We left Sir Elton alone in the spa for some quiet time. With our pruned fingers and toes, we were keen to dry out. After getting lost again, we eventually found our room and were shocked to find we had a visitor. To our horror we found David, hunched over our luggage, copying notations from our journal into his mobile phone. As we had caught him red-handed he had no excuse. He squirmed as he told us that he had been experiencing a creative block as a writer and that if he ever published anything of ours he would give us money. He begged us not to tell Sir Elton and even had the audacity to threaten us with his proximity to powerful people in the ‘industry’ who could make sure we’d never work on this planet again. We told him that it was not the time to be talking intellectual property rights or intimidation when Sir Elton was at his lowest ebb. He ran from the room with his tail between his cargo pants.

The next morning at breakfast Sir Elton seemed much better. He was chirpy in his new boots and we remembered why he is so dear to us. He was teasing us about how we were eating so much toast, but Sir Elton gets the best orange marmalade from an innkeeper’s wife somewhere really obscure in the English countryside. David was nowhere in sight and we didn’t ask any questions, or mention anything about the theft. We knew that Sir Elton had a lot more thinking to do. He was obviously on a little bit of a high from his psychological break-throughs the night before. To give him space we called Arab Emirates and changed our flight details so we could get to know Dubai (we’ve heard it’s a safe way to see the Middle East) before returning home to Melbourne. Entwined in Sir Elton’s bear like hug we told him how proud we were to see him living his Knighthood with such a profound sense of duty. We were tempted to criticise Sir Mick at this point but we’d heard he’d be catching up with Sir Elton in Bali next month.

Even though it was rather exhausting, our short time with Sir Elton was wonderful in the sense that we rarely see him alone. He’s had more hangers-on than a Northern Territory road train and some of them were just big sulks who knew how to press his buttons about being ‘hassled’ by the media to get an invitation to stay at his house. There was a point where we thought Sir Elton was running a safe house for self-saucing victims. David never reappeared so it was just Sir Elt’s (as he calls himself when he does silly voices) at the door seeing us off. We knew he would make the right decision.

Offline - 4 a special invite

punk and blanket are on vacation. They flew out just before the Cup on an Arab Emirates flight bound for Europe via Dubai. Sir Elton has invited them to help celebrate his engagement to long-term partner David Furnish.

Screams Inside Beckingham Palace

Transcript: Conversations between Mr and Mrs David Beckham
Recorded: October 9, 2004

*Out Of Your Mind by Victoria Beckahm playing on the sound system*
*Door opening*
*Soccer boots clicking on marble tiles*
Victoria :*Distant screech* Where have you been?
David: ugh
Victoria: Daaaaaaavid?
David: ugh
*Footsteps, (highheels) approaching*
Victoria: I've been on the phone all day trying to clean up the mess that lying cow made.
With no help from you, I might add.
*Sound of soccer ball being kicked into a wall at close range*
*Phone ringing*
Victoria: Daaaaaaavid don't you dare answer it. I'm talking to you.
Answering machine: Beep!
Voice from answer machine: Hi Vicky, Hi DB, it's Sir Elt's. Just wondering how you're coping. F***ing media, those vile, vile pigs. If you're wanting to get away David and I would love to have you guys over, so, you know, if you need some time out. We've just gotten rid of Robbie, and Liz is trying to patch things up in Bombay. So er, the guest wing is free, so, you know, you're welcome anytime. Don't worry we've got a great beautician we can hook you up with. He does great spray tans. Oxygen, not sugar. Great game last week Dave. Love to Buster and Monster, chins up eh! ciao
David: Sir Elton is really nice, isn't he. Are they a couple? I've been hearing rumours he's a homosexual. But he writes all those love songs.
Victoria: Sometimes I can't believe how dumb you are. Mum always said you were really stupid. Aaaaand lower class.
*Sound of television being turned on. Theme song of Neighbours plays*
Victoria: Have you had your head shaven again? I thought we agreed you were going to grow it out.
*Sound of incoming text message*
Victoria: Who's that.
*Sounds of text message being written*
Victoria: Who is it Daaaaavid?
*footsteps, soccer boots across marble tiles*
Victoria: Where do you think you're going?
*Door opening*
Victoria: You're using me, confusing me, two-timing me!
*Door closing*
Daaaaaaaaaavid!

Some Potty-Mouthed Truths From Sir Elton

We would like to congratulate Sir Elton for lashing out at Madonna. Sir Elton spoke for all of us when he highlighted the injustice of charging 75 quid to watch her mime. Using strong language to cite his case Sir Elton risked his seat on the next Kabbalian camel train, but his committment to pure musical experiences overrode his affection for Mrs Ritchie. Our wonderful Claire is supporting Sir Elton (even though she hates swear words) and even sent us a text whilst the story was on the news, saying 'he's right u know'.