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Oceania » New Zealand » North Island » Auckland
October 15th 2005
Published: November 8th 2005
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Yesterday I got kicked out of the City YHA and moved down the road to the International YHA. I'm not sure whether this is a move up or down, since it doesn't have a quaint little bistro, but I'm content all the same.

The only dorm they had was an 8-bed and when I got in, it was empty except for one guy who was sleeping but woke to address me in the most ridiculous English toff accent I've ever heard! Turns out he's the Right Hon Alexander Du Cevellier or CeBilliers or something. Ooooo - smell her! I had a quick chat and left him to sleep.

Later on, I'm cooking when I hear someone shout 'Manchester!, Hello, I say, Manchester?!' and it's him again! I nodded my head and say a grumpy 'Hello' - not appreciating being called by my city of origin!

Then again, later that day, I'm sat in the TV lounge with a cute American guy and Alexander turns up and gets us all talking, whilst dropping into the conversation the fact that his dad owns some investment bank in England, and he's on the board, etc, etc... We have a nice chat, and he buggers off eventually. Me and this American guy look at each other with a look of amazement, wondering if this guy could be for real. Seconds later he returns with a slab of beers, crisps, chocolate and vodka shots for us!! Well, it would have been rude to decline them, so we tucked in.

Turns out the American, (Maxwell), is a commercial fisherman from Portland, straight, but getting cuter by the beer - I think I'm starting to fall for that awful American accent - aaarrrgggghhh! Alexander, on the other hand, keeps name dropping and tells us that Lady Kate, (the daughter of some Duchess or other), is in town and working downtown in a bar, plus loads more incredulous stuff.

The funny thing was, he asks me if I went out last night and where I went. I mentioned some local gay bars that I thought he wouldn't have heard of, and yet he had, and we started having this coded conversation in front of Maxwell about the local scene and it turns out he's a friend of Dorothy too! A few more beers get sunk, and he starts cracking onto me, and telling me about some multimillionaire guy called Greg something who owns a third of Dreamworks and has a yacht in the harbour, where a party is being held tomorrow night, and would I like to be his guest?!!

Well, what can you say to that? The thought of being some kind of horrendous David-Furnish-imitating bit-on-the-side didn't really appeal, but one should never say never....

This kind of stuff continues, and I start wondering whether I've bumped into the real Talented Mr Ripley or maybe Jeremy Beadle was going to pop out of the TV with a camera crew any min - eeek. Trouble is, it's all woven so tightly I can't see the flaws at the moment.

We decide to go out later that night for drinks and I bail to get some food, but when I return to the dorm, the lights are out and some guy have moved a matress onto the floor in front of my bunk. I can't see his face, just a silouhette, and the conversation goes something like this:


Me: 'What's going on?'
Him: 'Err'
Me: 'Is the bed broke?'
Him: 'No, I just moved the matress down'
Me: 'Ok, but why?'
Him: 'He asked me if I wanted a massage'
Me: 'Who?'
Him: 'That guy'
Me: 'What guy?'
Him: 'The guy out there'
Me: 'Are you telling me some random guy asked you if you wanted a massage and you just said yes?!'

Him: 'Erm, Yep'

Me: 'Maxwell? Is that you?'
Him: 'Yer, er, hi Rick.'



Later on, we meet and go out in town doing the circuit of the scene with Lord Al buying most of the drinks (nice!). Had a lovely night. Seems Al knows everybody. We ended up in SPQR which I remembered was the place that Miranda (mate back home) said she used to work, so I found Andrew the manager and explained that Miranda sent her love; he seems lovely, and was dead chuffed. It turns out he's a TV presenter over here! Which was the icing on the cake to a really, really, weird day

I'll try and get a photo of Lord Al and Max to include. Also need to confirm his surname so that I can track him down and find out once and for good whether he's the worlds best blagger, or one of England's so called upper class!

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10th November 2005

Classy bitch
Darling, you NEVER listen to me, do you? The English Aristocracy have no morals. Is Lord Al easy on the eye? Actually, even if he's got a face like a bucketload of spanners, please pass on my contact details. I've been disinherited and have had to let the cook go.

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