Weddings have been on my mind. Maybe spring is in the air . . . I plan to have my wedding day at Dudley Zoo. I shall arrive on an elephant with a couple of camels in tow, and I would like all my guests to arrive on donkeys.
I’d like 20 page-boys, ten page-girls and five buffalos, all in Jean-Paul Gaultier coned basques. Out of respect for my Pakistani heritage, everyone would then play cricket.
These celebrations will continue for six weeks, after which I would like to transfer my wedding to a village in Timbuktu, as this is one of the few places I have never visited; or, if my husband is from Lapland, I’d like all celebrations to be transferred there, where I’d like to be given away by a reindeer.
In accordance with the traditions of Timbuktu, I would be ceremoniously smeared with lemon and lime by female guests, and then bathed in Tango to wash away all evil. In the morning, my guests, 250 security and catering staff and a police convoy will head off for an alfresco banquet under the stars in the desert. A Bedouin village will be constructed with running water, and 300 tents will be erected. The tents will have chandeliers, bidets and butlers.
My wedding will be covered exclusively by I’m a Shallow Vacuous Narcissist – Who Am I? magazine for 20p. Pictures would include: a) me trying to have a good time on my wedding day but I can’t, really, because the camera’s on me, and b) me pretending to know the people at my wedding. I would like Leo Sayer to sing “You Make Me Feel Like Vomiting”, and my guests will include Dirty Den, Samantha Fox and Ken Dodd. Your goody bag will include a giraffe, a castle and a diamond.
Whatever happened to Marylebone registry office?
I’ve been doing a show in Zurich. Where? That little pond full of money, penknives and six varieties of Toblerone.
On Sunday night I was so bored, I spiked my own drink with Rohypnol. On the plane on the way there, I dreamt that Shirley Bassey would come to my show, love it, and invite me to her house on Lake Geneva for tea, where she’d give me one of her dresses. This dream kept recurring, which
I took as a sign that it would take place. On arriving at the gig, I realised there was more chance of Shirley Williams turning up.
You would think a wealthy place like Zurich would be virtually free of crime and that people would be quite well-behaved.
No. Someone stole my shoes. Can you believe it? Someone walked backstage and stole my £10 Matalan shoes. That they’re from Matalan is not the point. I love those shoes – they have been with me all over the world. When I’ve been tired and hungry those shoes have kept me company and given me comfort. Now someone has stolen them!
I asked the manager if the venue had a lost-property box (I felt like I was at infant school again) and, surprisingly, she said yes. I told her that I needed a pair of shoes to walk back to my hotel, and to wear to the airport for my early-morning flight the next day. She looked at me strangely and said: “You’ve got a choice. You can either have these Jackson slippers [slippers with Michael Jackson’s face on them] or these size 9 men’s green rambling boots.” I wanted Jackson, but I had to put practicality before fashion, so I took the rambling boots.
The next morning I walked through Zurich Airport looking like a homeless person. I was wearing a tight-fitting beige jumper dress and size 9 men’s rambling boots. I am a size 6.
On the plane I sat next to a respectable-looking woman who asked sweetly if I had been out all night. Had I been to a fancy-dress party? It would have been more believable. I didn’t know what to say, and so, hoping to win round the suspicious passengers, I replied loudly: “Oh no. I’m doing this for charity.”