Greetings from Bali

I am vacationing on the glorious island of Bali. I am currently sitting poolside under the swaying fronds of a palm tree having my luxurious orange hair braided into cornrows à la Bo Derek, with a Blackberry in one hand and a wild-looking alcoholic concoction in a halved coconut shell in the other.

Then I’ll venture out to barter millions of rupiah on fake Chanel handbags and jostle among hordes of bogan Aussie tourists who shouldn’t be allowed to leave Frankston. Ah, this is the life.

Do not fear, dear readers. I have my flying monkeys worded up to feed me the most delicious goss from dear old Melbourne town so I can keep you well informed.

I’ll be back faster than you can say “club sandwich, please” to torture you on stage with my own particular brand of madness.

I am taking a course in traditional Balinese dance while here — lots of eye and hand action.

I believe I have found Monte Dee’s doppelganger. There is a woman on the beach near our hotel. Her name is Sun Wendy. She is a portly local lass with long raven-black hair swept up under a sun hat.

She sells things — shells, hats, strange anklets that look like they are made of discarded beads and woven from pubic hair. I think she likes a Bintang or two. I swear — put her in four-inch clear plastic Fredericks and hand her a sambuca and you have our Ms D.

That’s all from sunny Bali kids. In the meantime, pass the reef oil, will you?

Here’s some goss to keep you going.

Big Chief Not a Loon like um pink bits.

Big chiefy chieftain finally succumbed to the loon label and let a fellow sister who’s simply pink blow him. Oooh, was there a chocolate martini involved? Jealous much. Hot boy, that one.

A showgirl who was out in boy mode which was uniquely out of fashion for her was chatting up a hunky loon explaining she had started hormones (a pick-up line of course).

When asked what her BF felt about that she gave the questioner a filthy look. Something not right there, or else the BF likes hormone buddy chocolate royale titties.