Brixley again, and again. Just a little side note to my last postlog. The party has been partying deep in the forest for an incalculable number of hours since I lost my Rolex to the Prince of Switzerland in a game of Jungle Poker. The Belarussian Ambassador was last seen riding his zebra (used in our Polo match) westwards (I say riding but it was more holding on for dear life). We also attempted a reinactmentcital of the animal football match from ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ however it failed when Lord Paddington shot the lion who in turn scored an own-goal. Besides we didn’t have a kangaroo (why there was a kangaroo in Africa only Disney will ever know).
One more thing. I dropped my martini shaker in the Zambezi so if anyone downstream could have a look for it, it would be much appreciated.
Brixley hear. Well. This week readers, I have been in the deepest, darkest parts of Africa on a Safari. Why you say? In celebratorium of the 3rd anniversation of the British Ambassadors famed Safari Party. Therefore how should we celebrate? By going on a Safari. Logication at it’s best.
Most of the foreign diplomats are here along with a couple of the usual Monarchs. However horrorium struck on the third night when we ran out of cocktail olives. Luckily I came through with my diverse knowledge and undergraduate degree of African berries and soon we were having tropical cocktails aplenty.
During the fourth day on elephant-back the Korean Ambassador had his toupee stolen by a baboon and all four hundred of us had to scour the surrounding scrub for it. We never found it but I did take a pictograph of a particularly hirsute Baboon.
Tonight we have reached our destination and will set up camp for of this seasons most anticipated shindigs.
In the mean time, remember the golden rule: women first.
Brixley here, that’s write, I’m back writing. I has been some months since my last weblog but I’m finale back at the computypewriter and with a new menu of delicious stories about my galavantravels abroad. Firstly one should knote that it is a new year. So happy etc. Secondous to that is the fact that Oxford and Webster have both brought out new volumes of their infamous dictionaries. Luckily for me I stole all Oxford’s nude portraits of Queen Victoria and now have some leverage to bargain with. No more shall my wordsmithing be in vain. Webster on the secondhand may be harder to sway. Something has come to my attention also, and that is the increasing decrease of manners in the public arena. I shall be addressing this problem in subsequent postages.
Tip of the day: If you can’t find any single malt scotch at a party, scold your mouth on a particularly hot appetiser and drink a blend.
Make sure your Scotch is labelled.