Just when you thought 2016 had had its fill of taking our beloved stars away from us, with just 3 days left its shown us once again that ‘where there’s life there’s hope’. Or, in this case, where there’s life there’s death. Since the weekend we’d already lost Ray Parfitt, the famously blond Status Quo guitarist whose head will bang no longer. Then, just days later, it was George Michael, and now, horror of horrors, Princess Leia has been taken from us.

I know that she was a fictional character and they die all the time, but Carrie Fisher really did ‘die’ as Princess Leia, never since achieving anything noteworthy careerwise. But Luke’s sister! That bikini-thing!!!! How I loved her. She wasn’t killed by Darth Vader, nor by the Klingons, Mysterons or even ISIS. She died really as the victim of celebrity-child syndrome, which claims so many. And the years of drugs and alcohol took their toll on that poor body. Even when it grew to try and accommodate the excesses. 60 years old. THAT IS SO FUCKING YOUNG!!!!!

‘Would you like an upgrade sir?’ said the gorgeous girl (they are all gorgeous here) on the check in for our early morning flight from Jaipur to Udaipur. ‘Premium Economy’, just 500 Rupees each. That’s 6 quid to you. Six pounds??? We’ll take two, kind lady.

Then we saw the plane. But heh, we get ‘extra leg room’ and ‘speedy boarding’ (there were 40 people on board, how slow can it ever be?) and preferential bag claim. Wow. Lot a benefits. I make that 2 pound a benefit. Bargain.

Flight good, in that loud way that turbo-props have and we’d all forgotten, extra leg-room but only after being trained as the ‘exit monitor’, fine, and 50 minutes after take-off, we arrived. And by the time we’d walked to the baggage claim (about 50 yards from the plane: this ain’t Heathrow), our bags were proudly on the carousel, all by themselves. As advertised. Brilliant.

Then came the trouble. Which I really have neither the time nor the patience to get into, but it was just sooooo fucking stupid/annoying/daft and Indian that to even think about makes me mad again. I shouted a lot. I’m never really a shouter. Only at football, when its my job. The manager came, all the staff, all morons, obviously, anyone who disagrees with me is, by definition, a moron. But when the manager resorts to: ‘you are right, we were wrong and will give you all your money back, BUT it will come out of the staff’s wages’, you simply can’t fight that. Stab me, punch me, but don’t use guilt, ya motherfucker. That’s dirty.

When I finally made it outside, I was greeted by an ad hoc fan club. Happens to me everywhere,(once). “Oy, you the bloke with the blog?” because my name was on the driver’s board. Oh God, who have I offended now? Would Chelsea fans come all the way to Udaipur just for some minor (if consistent) abuse? No, they were readers. Fans. I felt like a star. Not a dead one, fortunately. So thank you, MY FANS, for your words of… anything.

Happy (this’ll annoy you) really hot, cloudless, blue-skyed Wednesday

A xxxx