How To Lose a Guy in Five Days

29 01 2008

Now we all know that movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, right? See, because I work in event management I have learned to make far more efficient use of my time. You think you can lose that guy in ten days? I’ll lose that guy in five! It’s kind of the ‘Name that Tune’ of dating and relationships. Anybody want to try to beat that? Nah. Didn’t think so.

However, one must always make sure one exits a situation on a line for which there is no possible comeback. I pride myself on this one. After all, I’ve had practice. But this time I am particularly proud of my third act denouement. As CAMERA zooms in I turn and say:



You are so superficial you make Paris Hilton

look like the Dalai Lama by comparison.


Yes! Now that’s what I’m talking about. I should get Meryl Streep to play me.

Injured parties: 1, Fuckwit exes: 0.

So, let’s do a four-frame fade on that little scenario and CUT TO:



Ext. Evernes – 230 kilometres above the Arctic Circle – Day (sort of):


Dressed in two long sleeved thermal vests, two pairs of long johns, two sweaters, ski pants, a scarf, two pairs of socks, two pair of gloves, a parka and a Russian army hat. Yes, it’s the annual Norwegian Teletubbie convention or else a whale watching expedition.


Again, many people might be forgiven for doubting my sanity as I spend two days plying the fjords in below freezing conditions. Day One: Not a whale in sight.


 Day two and we find them, just five kms from the Swedish border. This may well be the last year these whales are visible in this area. The whales follow the herring and every 24 years or so the herring change their migratory route.



We were told at the start of the tour that nobody so far this season had seen the whales so I consider myself lucky. However, one has to wonder about all the people in this remote but beautiful part of the world who have come to depend on whale watching for their livelihood.



Return to London. Feel I am going down with the flu. After two weeks I decide that as I am getting progressively worse this may not be the flu. I am approached on a London street where I am bent double in pain by a nice lady who asks me if I need her to call me an ambulance. When in between gasping for breathe I manage to wheeze ‘No thanks’ she asks if I need her to carry my shopping home for me. She’s seventy if she’s a day. It’s a big wake-up call. Go to the doctor. Am told I have pleurisy. Spend three and a half weeks in bed feeling sorry for myself and coughing up the United Colors of Benetton. Christmas and New Years are a total wash-out and I don’t get to go to Jude and Sienna’s party where there had to be hosts of fuckwit boyfriend replacements. Can things get any worse?

After having the ‘Pause’ button pressed on my life for almost a month thanks to the combination of Christmas and pleurisy, the time has finally come to go house hunting. At last, something appears to go right as find delightful bijoux Victorian cottage just outside of Newmarket where I am going to work on launching a racing club.


House has three bedrooms and looks across gallops at the back. The village itself looks like it’s been art directed. Duck pond, post office that doubles as a general store, pretty Norman church and a total of four (yes, four!) pubs.



Arrange sofa bed to be delivered the day I move in. Sofa bed man then writes he is too sick to deliver it and it now won’t arrive until January 25th. So what is pleurisy, that is what I want to know? Surely I have won the sickness stakes here?

Contact shipping agents to enquire as to whereabouts of my personal belongings ie: my bed in particular. Shipping agent gleefully informs me that my container sat on the docks in Sydney for a total of five weeks and has only just departed. ETA UK: February 19. And then I have to allow 10-14 days for UK customs to clear it. And another week for the delivery.

I now have a house but no furniture. No bed. No couch. No TV. No table. Go to Argos and purchase inflatable mattress. Steve for whom I am launching the racing club kindly loans me a table and four chairs. At least I have somewhere to sleep other than my coffin. It’s a nice change.

So, here I am in Newmarket which for those of you who do not know, is the racing capital of the entire planet. There are approximately 10-15,000 horses in Newmarket at any one time. And there is serious money. Huge mansions and massive loose box complexes line the wide tree-lined avenues. Some of these horses cost in excess of three million guineas. Some more than that. I talk to a jockey who is taking on a horse whose owner paid eleven million guineas for. Eleven million guineas for a horse? I’d be too scared to take it out. I’d have to keep it wrapped in bubble wrap or have it encased in carbonite or something.

However, I reason considering that Bentleys are practically the little run-about in this town and I spotted no less than four Aston Martin Vanquish on a single tour of the High Street, that this has to be fertile hunting ground to replace fuckwit boyfriend with – RICH fuckwit boyfriend. Ta da!

First hole in this theory comes when I am around at Steve’s and I come across a magazine entitled ‘Owner & Breeder’. Being me I think this is some kind of kinky S&M periodical but no! It’s a magazine for Owners and Breeders of racehorses, natch. ‘Inside Racing’s Oscars!’ trumpets the headline on the cover beneath a photo of two bucolic and overdressed matrons who look like Camilla Parker-Bowles under the ‘Owner & Breeder’ masthead. Something only I find amusing as Steve looks perplexed at my guffawing. The entire magazine features the best-looking horses on the entire planet (none of which cost less than three million guineas) and probably the ugliest looking humans. Think that the ultimate insult from one horse to another is to tell it it looks like a humans backside or tin this case, ‘human face’. Very, very nasty. Tell Steve that if this is an example of the kind of people in the racing industry I am clearly going to be without a shag for a very long time. He says I have to be exaggerating as usual. I told up a spread of photos from ‘Racing’s Oscars’ and he goes very quiet. Finally he says ‘I see what you mean.’

Second hole in the theory is that Newmarket is filled with only two types of men. First, the ugly owner/breeder/trainers. Second, the jockeys. The jockeys are so short that even I could rest a pint on their heads. I suppose if the relationship goes wrong you could always use them as a coffee table or something.

But as usual, I am out there looking into new event and marketing opportunities. The first hits me upon my first peregrination of Newmarket High Street. The fashion shops. They are chronic. They are filled with incredibly expensive and abominably frumpy outfits of the kind only Camilla Parker-Bowles or a blind drag queen, would wear. I suggest to Steve that they all be re-named ‘Camilla’s Frumpy Frocks’ and lament the fact that if I need some serious frock n’ roll I am going to have to either head for Cambridge or probably London.

Then it hits me. Another money-making opportunity. I advertise a shopping and style consultation with Australia’s style doyen – Lee Lin for – all the rich, brainless and badly dressed wives of these racehorse owners/breeders/trainers. We charge them an obscene amount of money for us to trail them around various shops in London and then pocket all the profits and spend it all on Vivian Westwood and Cristal. I am a genius!!!! 

In the interim and more exciting – am being set up for a meeting with this Bollywood director about my Bollywood fusion script. This could be VERY exciting. Stay tuned to this channel for more details.

Please email me on before I disappear forever beneath a mire of chinless upper-class twits and Camilla Parker-Bowles clones.







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