Dumped

For some time now, Richard and I have been thinking about writing a book together called How not to pull, How not to get laid and How to get dumped. We are each drawing on our own areas of special expertise - Richard, a past master in how not to pull and how not to get laid, and myself the bees-knees on getting dumped. To be honest, if your chat-up lines include telling a Claudia Schiffer lookalike your A-level results, or informing a gorgeous Danish girl that Danes take out more library books than any other nationality, then you're asking not to pull.

And my bit's easy too. Normally I can get dumped as easy as pie. In the days before digital cameras, I could easily get dumped before I even got the holiday pictures back. People have dumped me by email, fax, text and phone. They've dumped me in person. They've dumped me by not calling. One dumped me at the Ikea check-out. Another dumped me by emigrating. When I got back from a weekend away, the cupboards were bare and he'd moved to Spain. Then when I moved to Spain, he moved back to the UK again. He said it might be a record, emigrating twice to get away from me.

In June I went on my first-ever romantic mini-break. All I can say about it was that if that's what romantic mini-breaks are like, I don't want to go on anymore! It was mini, and I guess it was a break but it certainly wasn't what I call romantic. I was dumped in the first two minutes. He said he'd fallen in love. I asked when? (slightly surprised as it was only two days since we'd spoken) and he said: Yesterday.

And then, of course, there was Pau. He made sure I got all the dumping practice I needed by dumping me constantly. On, off, on, off, on, off. It was like dating a light switch.

So, dumped. Soooooooo dumped. I am a dumpee.

But it's been a good few months since I last got dumped and while Richard has been going great guns with his side of things - hasn't pulled, hasn't got laid, despite strenuous efforts on both counts - I was getting a little bit worried about my part of the bargain. Fact is, I met someone truly wonderful - witty, clever, tall, gorgeous. He liked me, I liked him. He laughed at my jokes AND he fancied me. My god, it looked as if it might work out. Not easily, but possibly. I didn't dare tell Richard - he was doing so well! And I was with someone who might not dump me!!!

Well, rest assured, dear reader. All is fine. Everything fell into place and I got dumped this morning. So, quite relieved. While Richard is out and about this evening conducting further field research, I'm sitting at home drafting a few chapters of our book.

I don't want to give too much away but ultimately it's all about choices. If you want to get dumped (and who doesn't!), then make some bad choices. Choose someone unavailable, unattainable. Choose someone unstable. Choose someone married. Or, my personal favourite, choose someone with Asperger's.

And if all else fails, just choose Pau. He's a dead cert for a dumping. Muaks right back at you. xx

Tanned and Titled

A picture of Liza Campbell shamelessly promoting a) a tan; b) herself

You can buy Title Deeds ANYWHERE but Amazon is cheapest.

It's brilliant (not biased)

Spaced out

Although an invite from the Midget to join him and his ego in a menage a trois was clearly tempting, a slightly better invite turned up from Stu.

Space Closing Party, VIP Pass. No contest.

I'm nice. I like to dance and no have girlfriend.

So, last night, stood up by Spearmint for what I was hoping was going to become a nightly ritual but turned out to be - jeez - not ANOTHER one night stand, I turned my attention back to Pau. Pau is useful for one thing right now and that's dancing. He knows the music I like and he knows where it's playing. Sometimes he's even playing it himself.

So, for days now, i have been texting him in the hopes that he will tell me where he is "setting up his decks" as I believe the expression goes. He likes to be enigmatic so he said Ibiza. Turned out to be true. The texts went like this:

Me: Stop fucking about. Where are you playing.
Pau: Ibiza. Wanna come?
Me: No. Yes. Don't know.
Pau: Nice idea. Menage a trois.
Me: Fuck you, you bastard. All I wanted listen to some good music but forgot you wouldn't know about that.
Pau: So rude! I'm joking. You are really welcome if you whant to come. Just broma!
Me: I don't want to hang out with you and some slut.
Pau: What is Slut? Just you myself and I. Big trio.
Me: Ok. I'll come but only if you promise to be nice and we go dancing and you don't pull any girls in front of me.
Pau: I'm nice. I like to dance and no have girlfriend. You need more?

The answer to this was obviously "no" so I started looking up flights. Pip would have killed me. Fortunately, Pau was joking again (gosh, he's witty) and backed down.

So I watched Battlestar Galactica instead (Series 2, Episodes 2-4) .... still haven't been dancing...

Lifts

i actually really like hotels - except not the Langham in london, which despite the pretty pictures and exorbitant rates, still had me caged in a lift two nights ago for more than an hour.

I shared the exquisitely-decorated (18th century marquette) but incredibly tiny space (max load 6 people, must be thin) with a Norwegian journalist (hunky), a two-year-old (very well behaved, thought he was just in a small room), a demented Irish woman who was CONVINCED we were going to run out of air (and was reaching appropriate levels of panic should this actually have been possible) and her jolly irish husband.

A lift similar to the one at the Langham

As it happens, an hour in the Langham elevator would have been totally fantastic with JUST the Norwegian journalist and not that bad at all with JUST the irish guy (he and i spent much of the hour making prop bets on whether we were going to be winched up or down (both as it happens, not simultaneously).

The moronic staff outside the lift door (once we had been winched up) kept reassuring us that they knew what they were doing as they had been on a training course. shit training course if you ask me as they clearly DIDN'T know what they were doing or we would have been on the same side of the lift door as they were.

Anyway, as the temperature slowly rose to 140 degrees and the staff continued to advise me that the best way to get out of the lift would be if i "collaborated" rather than swear at them.. (i couldn't really see how i could NOT collaborate but still... semantics), we finally convinced them to stop following the training course guidelines and RING THE FUCKING FIRE BRIGADE. who got us out in five minutes.

A fireman

So my lifelong Fireman Rescue Fantasy finally came true (there were five of them - took AGES to kiss them all) and the upside was i get two more FREE nights at the Langham as compensation - although i still don't really understand why, when hotels fuck up (remind me to tell you all about Monte Carlo one day when you look bored enough) they think that MORE nights in their hotel is a great way to make up for it.

soooo... hotels are on my mind ...

Vegas III

Gets more and more surreal. Did well in the media tourney - about 40th out of 400. my boss Brad made final table, despite the fact that he was sitting opposite a porn star (female) who is apparently the "Most Downloaded" on the internet. She was pretty ropey in real life.
However, my wall of fame chart is now off the wall!!! At the media tournament, I sat with Dick van Patten (old american actor - very nice but very old, in fact thought he might die during the game) and his yummy son Vince (right) who is WPT presenter but more importantly was once ranked 25th best tennis player in the world and beat McEnroe twice!

Actress Jennifer Tilley tried to sit down next to me but I put my Starbucks fudge cake on the seat to put her off. Really didn't want to be sitting next to last year's ladies champion.

Also hung out with Martin Amis (well, i call it hanging out but it's only because he was stuck next to me in the queue for the media tournament and couldn't get away) plus Anthony Holden (author of Big Deal and ex-friend of Prince Charles) and sat next to Tom Parker Bowles at dinner (seriously good fun, totally irreverent).

Saw Drew Barrymore and said hi to James Garner. (Last two probably don't count for wall of fame chart.)

Went to play poker at MGM and was all-in for 50 bucks on first hand with Aces. Very early night.

It all kicks off today - the first 2000 take their seats at 12pm, including my boss/hero John Duthie.

Editor's Note: Sadly there are no more Vegas posts from this correspondent....

Vegas II

haven't started official blogging yet as it turns out that i have accidentally come a day early.

it's now 5am and despite my best efforts to crack jet lag (staying up late and getting very very drunk) am wide awake.

yesterday was great. got to go to TWO HOT PARTIES. first one was literally hot - Joe Hachem (world champ)'s BBQ at a house in Rusty Branch Drive (just off Sleeping Tree Boulevard) which was several leagues away from the city centre and unknown to any cab driver in the city. (there are 3,000 cab drivers here so that gives you an idea of how very unknown this street is).

given that Joe Hachem is a multi-millionaire I knew this definitely wouldn't be one of those typical throw-a-prawn-on-the-barbie and grab-a-tinny things that Aussies are famous for. WRONG. this was exactly what it was - but lots of the guests were millionaires and some were film stars. also they were all poker players so there was - of course - a poker tournament. free to enter and the winner got a seat in the World Series (worth 10,000). i entered although Tamar warned me that even if i won, she wouldn't let me play. i outlasted Isabelle Mercier, but my pocket 3s (what is that in Hungarian?) were useless against JK.

back to the barbie. it was so hot that there was an air conditioning machine OUTSIDE spewing a fine mist of iced water on the guests. unfortunately, it was spewing so much fine mist that eventually it had turned a large part of the lawn into a Glastonbury-style swamp. when it got dark, some of the smaller guests sank without trace. marcel luske was there looking ever so slightly out of place in pin stripe and tie. Dave Devilfish Ulliot was there too (grunted hello in a kind of snarl - he will never forgive me for ruining his chance with Pip - well, that's how he sees it!)

After several hours of waiting for people to strip and swim in the pool (they didn't), we left - or rather we tried to leave but of course Rusty Branch Drive was unknown to any of Vegas' 3000 cab drivers so quite a long wait. A very grungy but completely gorgeous guy who looked like he'd spent the afternoon crossing the desert on a Harley was waiting with us. Could he share our cab, he asked. absolutely, we said (all girls). unfortunately two cabs turned up and he went in the other one. It was Woody Harrelson.

After dinner at Bellagio (in some wierd kind of Japanese restaurant where you have your own chef standing in front of you pelting you with shrimps) we went to the second hot party, hosted by Full Tilt in a very cool disco at Caesar's Palace. Lots of famous players. The entertainment was the Pussycat Dolls or a band saying they were the Pussycat Dolls. Who knows?

I declared my undying love to Mike Matusow (the guy who got a 40-minute ban for swearing last year) and he returned it (while looking over my shoulder to see if there was someone younger/sexier he could pull). Actually what I said to him was: "Mike, I worship the ground you walk on. You are an animal. You are Neanderthal. Totally unreconstructed. I loved it when you said women can't play poker." He seemed pleased.

Talking of animals, a chimp has been entered into the tournament. It knows how to fold, check and raise but apparently gets bored after a couple of hands and starts throwing its chips around and demanding bananas. I am not kidding.

Vegas I

Everything has already kicked off in amazing vegas fashion. Managed to gate-crash last night's "hot" party - hosted by bodog.com. Very very extravagant. Like the stuff you read about re parties for the Oscars or Cannes or something - uber-cool disco with loads of weird stuff sort of going on randomly all round us - contortionists, dancers, strippers, midgets (might have been catalans), geishas, naked women in baths etc. very surreal. Am already completely exhausted. Vegas absolutely arctic or wiltingly hot depending on whether you are inside or out. Need to buy a jumper to cope with sub-zero temperatures inside the casinos and a much smaller bikini for sub-tropical environment outdoors. Treasure Island is deeply manky hotel compared to the Mirage but am coping with the ghastliness of ubiquitous beige, beige, beige and odd touch of maroon by getting drunk.

Am entered in tomorrow's celebrity/media tournament. Wish me luck!