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2004-09-16 - 4:58 p.m.

One of the most notable things here is how many celebrities run businesses. Robin Cook (for non-Brits: rutting ginger politico) for instance, runs a hydroponic tomato plant on the south coast of New South Wales. Melvyn Bragg (hugely-coiffed nasally arts broadcaster) meanwhile seems happy rattling around his oyster shed, whilst James Spader is running a moderately successful speedboat tour company (I put a word in for you Todd).

Said speedboat tour was not, I have to say, the number one all-time ideal way to address my delicate hungover state this morning. It�s all very well brushing away the cobwebs, but having them nuked with all the subtlety of a water cannon was a little, um, over the top. It was an all-screaming, all-wave crashing, all-rockface narrowly missing orgy of marine carnage (note to self: can you have an orgy of carnage? Must find out.)

What my digestive tract needed was some kind of antacid stomach medicine, or a healthy dose of detoxing juice. What it got instead was endless mouthfuls of foaming brine, so much that I was wishing I had a blowhole. A mouth hasn�t been that salty since Father Patrick took the choirboys on a camping trip and announced he had a special way to help them get to sleep.

Tonight I have (Ow! Let go of my arm!) to go on a bar crawl, followed by a trip tomorrow in a small plane, so they�d better have their paper bags ready, that�s all I can say.

Overheard on the ferry this morning, from a female secretary type: �No, he said he definitely isn�t straight. He told me that he�s, let me get this right, a gay man who just sometimes uses a vagina to masturbate��

Da da da da daah�I�m lovin� it.

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