Hello Dearies, yes I'm back after a little rest in Tel Aviv. The charming security people at Ben Gurion airport were most troubled that a lone travelling clairvoyante should fly to Israel for something as decadent as a holiday. "It's not an obvious tourist destination is it?" said one of the cute uniforms, his scrotal sac straining against fabric. "Really?" I replied drily. "Is that why the Israeli Tourist Board is advertising Tel Aviv as a cool place to visit on the London Tube?" For this impertinence six security officers, some post-pubertal, went through my cases (doubtless looking for a stash of gianluca, or charlie if you're Jodie Marsh) and after 40 minutes decided that my Oral B power charger should be detained for further examination. Goodness knows how much sextex can be stuffed into an Oral B power charger, but rest assured, that's one challenge I'll pass on. The Oral B power charger was flown back to my seaside residence two days later in a big box, should you want to know.
This little tale has nothing to do with the media, and quite frankly, I'm not much interested in just writing about ghastly boring journalists. But from time to time I shall mix personal anecdote with some embarrassing information about a writerly drudge or disturbed editor - I shall measure my success by the number of angina attacks I precipitate. Which leads me to ....
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