The world needs more of this.

 

I don’t get out much. Which is remarkable given my so called scintillating career. It’s just not me. Since Rachael taught me to enter “liquor, liquor” as first and last name for the nearest wine store, the advent of Seamless Web and filtered water on tap, I just think in is the new out (kind of like belly buttons where in will never go out of fashion).

So to be invited to a dinner party of 10 people at Cindy Gallop’s simply stunning living space was both exciting and terrifying.

Naturally having spent the day on the couch with stomach cramps (LONG story) I pulled it together at 6 and started the prep. The one thing the late and great Peter Estall taught me (he’s the man responsible for the very best light entertainment at the BBC in the 80’s and beyond – and a mentor to me) was to never cancel on a woman, and least of all on a meal. So  having reassured Cindy that come hell or heart-attack I’d be there, I dipped into yet another bath and prepped.

Look, let’s face it, I’m shit on my own. I can’t choose a THING to wear, I need back-up. I nearly called Ratchat, Ben, Mom even Tim Gunn, but I couldn’t be seen to fail; so I literally spent 40 minutes trying on a variety of pants, shirts, ties and even Henley style shorts (what WAS I thinking) and finally ended up looking just the wrong side of interesting.

Maybe like a graduate entertainment lawyer. Although someone did as me if I was a writer at dinner (NOT the look, but impressive none the less).

The journey was quite something. Straight to the local liquor store to buy the biggest bottle of Grey Goose (made with real geese) and into a taxi, via a pot hole in the road the depth of Wookey Hole. My pants (that’s trousers) were soaked, well just on the one leg. What can you do? You do British, and ignore it.

To Cindy’s to the loo to freshen up and work out how to dry my leg and then to the seating area.

I’m not going to go on about her place – Google it or go to www.cindygallop.com – anyway it was designed by Bacchus and the god of Soft-Porn. It’s a total entertainment, living and loving space. She is also, truly, the ultimate Martini maker – delivered in some almost witch-craft looking flask to crisp Gucci glasses. The conversation is warm enough to dry my leg and soon we take to dinner.

William, as ever (well it’s the second time I’ve seen it but I’m assured he does this far too often) has mostly catered, and as we sup from a wine called ‘Bitch’ the stories unfold over a memorable Cottage/Shepherds pie (I always confuse the two).

What made tonight captivating to me was there was none of that ‘where do you work, what do you do  and long chats about the vagueries of marketing. Instead we talked about people, fun, love and past-times and the whole thing was totally cathartic.

Long may it reign – and I hope I’ve done enough to make some new friends as every single one around the table was nothing other than impressive, passionate and captivating.

Found: the perfect Balinese martini.

It’s been somewhat of an adventure in taste; Cindy Gallop’s desperate attempts to locate a martini just dry enough, with just the right twist, at the right temperature and served promptly.

 

At the Damai we had martinis the same size as an Optrex eyebath with olives. Not good.

At Ku De Ta we had martinis that were initially served with lime, and then remade with lemon. Good size. Too wet.

At the lobby at the Bali Hyatt we had martinis served with olives when we asked for lemon. Too warm, not right.

And last night, at the Salsa bar – overlooking the ocean and resort – a bar SO exclusive that we had failed to find it – and clearly as had the rest of the hotel given it’s rattling emptiness.

However, even though when I said twist of lemon they said lime, I said lemon, they said lime – when they arrived they were, as oat expert Goldilocks would say ‘just right’.

I never thought a part of the upside of the iMedia Asia conference would be to become a martini afficionado – but QED.

A landmark moment.

I have been waiting for this moment for some time. Following the morning of the conference (in which Brad Jakeman presented a simply brilliant keynote) I decided to hit the gym and work out. So, 15 mins of running on incline, 6 machines, 3 sets each on arms, chest, shoulders, legs etc. and 10 lengths in the pool. Nice work.

 

Following that a shower (after working out I always shower like a victim – you know, from the Gentle Touch or Juliet Bravo – scrubbing myself and wincing with pain as my arms freeze) and over to the scales.

 

Well blow me if I haven’t dropped below 190 pounds. My goal is 180 – but I’ve been stuck at 192/5 for a couple of weeks. I’ll be checking tomorrow to make sure it’s not a dodgy set of scales – but this is a special moment for me – down from nearly 230 pounds just 6 months ago!

Enough trumpet blowing. But I wanted to note the moment.

Lamp. Repositioned.

Lamp. Repositioned., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

This is not the title of some Dreamworks SKG kack short film featuring
birds on a telegraph wire (you know who you are).

It is the delightfully stylish standard lamp that I have had to patriate to
my bedroom. Seeing as it has no artificial light source at all.

If this is a standard lamp, does that mean there is a sub-standard lamp?
Would that be a shorter desk lamp? Or just contain more Chinese melamine?

Cindy and I arrived home to our seperate quarters to discover 2 huge
triffid size plants in our bedrooms. Bath towell all over the floor and
dirty plates left here – but its ok, as we know have 2 plants that will
rape us in our sleep and we’ll only notice when all leaves fall out in
Autumn.

Today I finished my first book and truly loved and relished having my
fingers on pages. Even after I’d swam 50 lengths to see a rivulet of water
traverse my page post departing from my hot brow was captivating.

But not as much as my new diet.

We will call it the Cindy. It goes like this:

Breakfast- eggs boiled, 2 of. 1 grilled tomato. A fresh fruit plate,
coffee. 30 minutes of horizon staring.

Lunch – nada, nothing,niet. Apart from the oh so subtle bubbling of my
flesh as it bonds with the sun lounger.

Dinner – a 3 course meal, which here is verging on microscopic which we
both agree is a GOOD THING.

Starter: more of an amuse bouche (do you think ‘water-boarding’ would sound
nicer if it was in French? Or ‘bail out package’ I always thought that
was a gay man’s first action in the sauna)… Tuna, raw, rolled in
peppercorns with wasabi.

Main course: fish or lamb. No carbs. This was the My Little Pony of lambs
tonight.

Dessert: always persuaded by Cindy and never let down. Although I’m not
quite down with so much sauce art on the plate (you know those squeezies
that make great food look like an epileptic lose of bowel rodent has been
trapped under the cloche.).

Coffee. Pondering. Laughter and a bit, just a teensy eensy bit of ‘look at
this powerpoint’….

No fucking sign of Richard on the email for a gad about now; so sleep
beckons. The plan for tomorrow – same as… The storm of iMedia fast
approaching!

Tomorrow: what Sarah Palin did for me yesterday (and its a little racy)…

Schlafen sie gut in das bed (love ya Seany!)

Relight my fire.

Relight my fire., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

When you walk to the restaurant at The Damai you pass beautiful
terraces planted with a cornucopia of spices,, herbs and other
epicurian delights. It’s so pretty.

But the food is prettier, as was my dining partner. Cindy and I had
spent a lazy day poolside and in pool reading and enjoying long
silences that are so rare these days. The sense of relaxation was
absolute.

I Speedo’d it today as I’ve decided I want 70’s porn star tan-lines; I
know I’ve hit the mother lode as my legs appear now to be the colour
of Tabasco. Which I’m cool with as I have always had to push through
red to get to brown. I know that sounds like a perverted sex act.

Dinner conversation was engaging, motivating and at some times
inspiring. There are few people so smart, pleasant with it and who
genuinely believe in people. I was really forced to think quite deeply
about me. I’m sure that wasn’t some sub conscious therapy; more the
laid back dialectic triggering questions about the inner me.

… So that, along with the organic no-bad-carbs supper meant the
whole thing was a bloody healthy experience.

Back to the villa and the dawning realization that for the first time
in a long time I’m in control of my destiny, and with help from
Rachael, kitten the cleaner and friends and fam I think I’m changing.

It’s a new exciting liberating feeling and one which I intend to
celebrate (and control!) for a bit longer.

And here’s a picture if the firepit that was lit right infront us as
we watched the sun set.

Marvellous — what with the weather being four times hotter than the
temperature of the sun.

Luddites Unite.

Luddites Unite., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

Naturally, being in the middle of nowhere (the very north of Bali) we are
pretty much sans technology here.

We are in the most stunning of ‘Presidential Villas’ that I have ever
stayed in — and having travelled the world with Jerry Hall, I’ve
experienced quite a few (including the one she demanded to leave when she
saw a sound engineer leave her room exclaiming to me ‘he could have been
sniffing my underwear’)…

Its a Virgin Villa (how contrary given its occupants) and has never been
slept in before, nor the pool dipped in nor minibar tampered with: I didn’t
mean it was owned by that bearded pillock that manages 30 planes whilst
damming BA for their intended merger as only a real global airline could
do. VS is their flight code = Very Small.

I digress, there is no wifi, limited cell phone activity and it takes a
good half an hour to get a chilli martini (an oxymoron should by chilli I
meant chilly – they have turned up warm so far).

It got to a point where Cindy and I, having travelled in a minivan for what
felt like 60 days, then sank into the infinity pool, lounged in the bale in
the sun, ate a fresh fruit platter and sipped fresh cocktails whilst firmly
esconced in brand new waffle cotton robes exclaimed our absolute contempt
for the lack of connectivity.

We both instinctively took a glance at each other and a big step back;
this, we reckon, is bliss.

Apologies for the bad pic. Its blackberry all the way. I also can’t keep
the camera still as there is either a bird that sounds like a man farting
in the tree opposite, or there’s a man farting in the tree opposite.