Crystal balls

Just what will my future bring? I really want some clarity here, I don't like being in the dark about the rest of my life. So I decided to consult the renowned Esme Plunge, clairvoyant and palmist, the oracle all the celebs swear by. Well, Harry Potter anyway.

I sidled warily into her gawdy consulting room, with its oriental knicknacks, flocked wallpaper and red-tinted lighting. Why do psychics always go in for such aesthetic vulgarity?

Her androgynous appearance, consisting of a heavy, muscular physique in a frilly blouse, a long floral skirt and three inch heels, made me wonder if she was a transvestite or a trainee transexual. I tried to concentrate on the matter in hand.

She peered intently into her crystal ball. "Ah, I see a wonderful future for you, dear. You will win three million pounds in the lottery, marry a famous actress and become a dog-breeder. I'm so pleased for you, darling."

"But I never do the lottery" I said. "I'm already happily married to the world's sexiest woman and I can't stand dogs - boisterous, slobbering, yapping, half-witted creatures. I'm afraid your crystal ball must be out for lunch."

"Oh no, dear, that's where you're wrong. You may think your life is fixed but the next twelve months will bring big changes, very big indeed. Hold on to your clutch bag, you're in for a bumpy ride."

I fixed her with a steely glare. "I've never heard such 24-carat bollocks" I said. "If you're a clairvoyant, I'm a rattlesnake. Be warned, I shall report you to Trading Standards in the morning. Good day."

As I made good my escape, I heard a volley of foul-mouthed expletives from her consulting room. This is going straight onto Facebook, I thought. Oracle to the stars, my arse. More like Tiffany's epiphanies.

Pic: The extraordinary Esme Plunge.

Future perfect

Could I really be afraid of the future? I decided to take the problem to my esteemed therapist Dr Melissa Flinch, at her luxurious consulting rooms in leafy South Belfast.

She offered me a herbal tea and an oatmeal cookie as I reclined in the well-padded armchair among a dense thicket of overgrown pot plants.

Nick: I'm afraid that I'm afraid of the future.

Melissa: Don't be silly. You can't be afraid of something so unbounded, so intangible. It's like being afraid of the weather, or speech, or a blank sheet of paper. You can only be afraid of something specific. Like spiders. Or flying.

Nick: But I'm afraid I'll be overtaken by some awful disaster in five years' time.

Melissa: Then you're just afraid of disaster. That's natural enough. But you're not afraid of some wonderful pleasure in five years' time, are you?

Nick: No, of course not.

Melissa: In fact, you must think pleasure is a lot more likely than catastrophe?

Nick: I suppose so.

Melissa: Well then, you're just a sunny optimist with occasional fits of pessimism. You allow for the very realistic possibility that you can't have pleasure 100 per cent of the time. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes they go very wrong. That's life, baby.

Nick: I guess you're right.

Melissa: Of course really you're just afraid of yourself. You're afraid of your inability to cope with any disaster that comes along. You're afraid of your own inadequacy, your own helplessness, your own confusion.

Nick: I'd never thought of it like that.

Melissa: Well, that's what I'm here for. I've seen a thousand tortured souls like yours. I know what's going on in your murky unconscious. I can unravel the tangled strands, lead you out of the psychic morass, restore clarity of thought.

Nick: What would I do without you?

Melissa: I shudder to think. That'll be £100 plus VAT. Mastercard as usual?

Nick: Cheap at the price.

I skipped happily down the front steps, the heavy burden lifted from my shoulders. All at once a rosy future beckoned.
.................................................................................

A new British survey says almost one person in five has consulted a counsellor or psychotherapist. Some 95% of those polled believe it is a good idea to seek counselling or psychotherapy for a problem before it gets out of hand, while 88% thought people might be happier as a result of doing so. Some 88% believe counselling and psychotherapy should be available to all on the NHS. This is a huge change in attitudes from six years ago.

Veronica's brainpower

Once again my dear friend Veronica, the dazzling supermodel, is keeping me company while Jenny gads off to York and Barcelona on academic business.

And once again she's fuming at the hacks. "The arseholes still think all models are airheads. They make me sick. For f***'s sake, I've got a degree in modern languages, I'm a member of Mensa and I've got a private pilot's licence. What more do they want?"

She was striding up and down the sweltering conservatory in her four inch stilettoes, leaving a trail of crumbs from her blueberry and cinnamon muffin.

"And what am I reading? 'Positionality in the postcolonial African narrative.' I ask you, does that make me an airhead?"

"No, just pretentious, sweetie. Anyway, who cares about these media morons? They wouldn't recognise an original idea if it flew into them. They just love a string of clichés, the longer the better."

But Veronica was miles away. She was consumed with rage, tearing the menu for Pronto Takeaway Pizzas into smaller and smaller pieces. I couldn't take my eyes off her astonishingly tight T shirt.

"And now the politicos are stalking me as well. They all want to be seen with me. They think they'll look cool and trendy if they're hobnobbing with a famous supermodel. Pathetic. As if I'd be seen dead with those lying, egocentric careerists. They don't give a toss about ordinary people, they just want to line their own pockets. But they won't leave me alone. Gordon would love to meet you. David has always admired you. Give me a break."

Her tantalising breasts were heaving seductively under her T shirt. I did my best to concentrate on what she was saying. My head was spinning and my heart was racing.

"Nicky darling, are you listening to me? You look a bit distracted."

"I was just envying your exceptional intelligence, sweetie."

"Of course you were."

Pic: Veronica pretending to be camera-shy

Thursday update: All British flights are cancelled today because of the volcanic ash from Iceland. Jenny has rebooked her return flight from Manchester for tomorrow. Lucky me, another night of fun-filled frolics with Ms Veronica....

Veronica's thin skin

My dear friend Veronica, the ravishing supermodel, is in hot water with the media again. They say she's encouraging teenage girls to become anorexic.

Jenny's strutting her stuff at some alleged conference in London, so V is keeping me company as usual. She managed to get into the house only after telling the paparazzi the Prime Minister had been caught in his Soho love nest.

"For f***'s sake" she fumed as she reclined teasingly on the chaise longue. "All I said was that skinny is the biggest high. So frigging what? I can't help it if thousands of warped schoolgirls take that as a green light to eat two lettuce leaves a day and jog themselves to death. It's a free country. Predatory tabloid bastards. They're just jealous because they're all fat as f*** and their wives puke at the sight of them."

"Just chill, sweetie", I said, casually caressing her left thigh. "They're not worth the aggravation. It'll all blow over in a few days when they find someone else to persecute. Just how skinny are you, anyway? I hope you're eating properly, I know what you models are like. Living on fags and adrenalin. I bet you haven't had a meal for days."

"Of course I'm eating properly, mind your own business, you" she replied, guiding my hand further up her delicious flesh. "And I suppose you expect the usual reward for putting me up in your grubby establishment?"

"That's entirely up to you, my darling" I murmured. "I'm a new man, I have no hidden agenda."

"Like f*** you haven't" she snorted. "I hope the bed linen's clean, you old slob. Are you sure Jenny's still in the dark about us? She really doesn't suspect anything?"

"Not a thing. She's totally convinced I'm deep in meditation and tantric chanting at the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss."

"What a trusting soul. So shall we meditate?"

"Ready when you are."

Pic: Veronica in playful mood. © Trinket Enterprises 2009

Veronica's wrinkles

By a lucky coincidence, as Jenny was flying off to an academic conference in Glasgow, my dear friend Veronica, the dazzling supermodel, was jetting in from an assignment in Dubai.

I had the champagne ready as her limo purred up the road. As soon as she'd dismissed the chauffeur and rushed inside to escape the leering paparazzi, she was giving me the low-down on THAT story.

"That f***ing tabloid said I had wrinkles. What shit-faced bastards they all are" she fumed, sprawling seductively across the Cath Kidston cushions. "I don't have any wrinkles, do I, darling?"

"Of course you don't, sweetie" I lied. "Still as smooth as a baby's bottom. Don't take any notice of those vicious toerags. They're just sick with jealousy. How do you keep those fabulous looks, anyway?"

"It's meditation, Nicky. I've discovered this wonderful place, the Order of the Ninth Beatitude. It's run by this fantastic guy called Swami Kevin. He's sooo sexy, that soft, soothing voice like a mountain stream, it turns me to jelly. Anyway, he has this sensational meditation method, it really really works. Ten minutes and I'm so relaxed I'm practically floating. All the stress just melts away. And all those horrid wrinkles. They're all doing it now. Madonna, Kate, Amy, Lily. He's a miracle worker."

"Funny, I heard you'd had a bit of work done, sweetie. A smidge of botox, a discreet nip and tuck."

Veronica stiffened and ran her razor-sharp fingernails down my cheek. "Wash your mouth out, Nicky, that's a very hurtful thing to say. No way would I hand over my precious, God-given body to one of those hack-and-stitch merchants. I swear on my granny's grave, meditation is all I need. Thirty minutes in the morning, thirty minutes in the evening."

"And the odd thirty minutes in Swami Kevin's bedroom?"

"Nicky, you're so mean. His spiritual perfection excludes all forms of physical and carnal lust. He's in a state of permanent bliss that makes such things meaningless."

"Sure, and I'm a pineapple. Those boobs are as tantalising as ever, by the way."

"And your mind's as filthy as ever. Any chance of some booze?"

Pic of the new-look Veronica courtesy of Trinket Holdings

Veronica loses it

As usual, my dear friend Veronica, the supermodel, has flown in for my birthday*, bringing exotic gifts and scandalous gossip.

Once again her luggage went missing at Heathrow, and she was hopping mad. "My Manolo Blahniks are gone, and my divine Gucci handbag. Not to mention my Rampant Rabbit. They're probably in the hands of some Mumbai slum-dweller."

"But sweetie, you're always saying you want to help the poor. Now you have. I bet your Rampant Rabbit is giving someone enormous pleasure at this very moment."

"Huh" she snorted. "Why don't they just get off their bums and make another blockbuster like Slumdog Millionaire? They should stop wallowing in poverty."

Sometimes V is so politically incorrect, it's excruciating. I thought of showing her the door, but I was simply dying to hear all that celebrity gossip. She goes to the same gym as Madonna, so she knows absolutely everything.

"Well, happy six-two, you old rascal" she said, handing me a huge beribboned package. Inside was a giant carton of Viagra. She kissed me extravagantly and whispered in my ear "That should keep you going all night, lover boy."

"You're too good to me, sweetie I said. "You know just what an old man needs."

"Of course I do. I'll tell you what I need, a new chauffeur. Sam's taking too many liberties. He can't keep his hands on the steering wheel. And he's gabbing to the tabloids."

"Poor you. Just get rid of him."

"I can't. Then he'll tell the tabloids every f***ing thing. Including the business with Amy and Kylie."

"Oh God, that must never come out. How about a tragic accident?"

"Good idea. Talking of tragic accidents, don't you dare get me pregnant again."

"Shush, I'm meant to have heroically fought off your advances umpteen times."

"Of course you have, my darling."

Photo of Veronica Trinket courtesy of Trinket Offshore Investments

* March 20

Veronica lets rip

No sooner was Jenny on the flight to Perth, Australia, than Veronica was on the phone inviting herself round. She wanted to cry on my shoulder.

The limo screeched to a halt and the flawless supermodel rushed inside, ignoring the shouts from the paparazzi.

"God, I hate being a model" she moaned, sprawling on the sofa in her skin-tight crimson minidress. "People see it as glamorous, but it's just f***ing hard work from start to finish. Everyone thinks they own you, you're just a money-spinning product they all want to get their sweaty hands on."

I opened the champagne and poured her a generous glass. She knocked it back and rested her tantalising feet on the Laura Ashley cushions.

"I work 15-hour shifts without a break, I have to be polite to those surly, impersonal photographers, I'm always being pushed for nude shoots, I'm expected to be a permanent size zero, I'm sent halfway round the world without a second to see the sights, I spend hours on end purging every last spot and pubic hair, and then I have to read all the lying gossip in the media. I've had it up to here, I can tell you."

"Give it a rest, sweetie" I said soothingly. "Would you really want to throw away all the fame and fortune and adulation just because it's a teensy bit gruelling?"

"You bet I would. Who needs fame? It's just a pain in the f***ing arse. And so's all the money. Do you know how many begging letters I get every day? So when are we going to bed?"

"V, how many times do I have to say it? I'm a happily married man and I'm also old enough to be your grandfather. Just calm down and have some more bubbly."

"Nicky, you know I'm into older men. My father never wanted me, he totally ignored me from day one. I'm always looking for the doting dad I never had. So come on, daddy, give me a good time."

Now I've locked myself in the study but Veronica's banging her fists on the door and shouting "I'm sad and blue. I'm hurting all over. Give me some loving, daddy-oh." For a moment I think, maybe it wouldn't do any harm....

Note: Jenny is on five weeks' academic business in Perth and Adelaide. I shall be joining her later!

Veronica's photo courtesy of Trinket Enterprises

Shrink rap

It's time for therapy. Time to get professional help to sort out the tangled morass that is Nick's brain before it's too late. If it wasn't too late several years ago....

So here I am in the luxurious Malone* consulting rooms of Dr Melissa F, the doyenne of Belfast shrinks, the saviour of a thousand tortured souls, and the bestselling author of "Freeing the Self".

Dr Melissa: So why are you seeking therapy?

Nick: Well, among other things, I'm accused of being introverted, effeminate, anxious, sex-obsessed, cynical, unadventurous and defensive. Oh, and afraid of the dark. I need to get rid of all these undesirable, anti-social traits and become a mature, generous human being capable of infinite love and compassion.

Dr M: I'm sorry, I can't help you. You're obviously a hopeless case. The rot is too far advanced. You just have to resign yourself to a shrunken and shrivelled existence.

Nick: But I thought you could cure me. I thought you could cleanse my soul. You're the last chance I've got. Don't tell me there's nothing you can do.

Dr M: There's nothing I can do.

Nick: But don't you therapists like a challenge? A totally addled mind you can really get your teeth into? A seething vortex of neuroses, phobias and obsessions?

Dr M: Oh no, I'm all for the easy life. A straightforward nail-biter, a simple shopaholic.

Nick: I could get you some tickets for the Bruce Springsteen gig.

Dr M: On second thoughts, I'm getting interested. Maybe we can crack this thing. Which seats?

Nick: Front row.

Dr M: Fabulous. Same time next week then?

Nick: Absolutely. I'm saved, I'm saved!

Dr M: And I'm a banana.

I skipped down her front steps, happy as a lark. Yes, there's light at the end of the tunnel! Dr Melissa will purge the demons! My psyche will be born anew! Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds! But can I stop waxing my bikini line?

* Malone: the most prestigious and expensive part of Belfast. Home of lawyers, chief executives, more lawyers etc.

PS: My deadpan humour is clearly too convincing. Any resemblance between this post and tangible reality is entirely coincidental.

Resisting Veronica

Well, Jenny's in London for a while, so to mitigate the appalling loneliness (especially now I'm jobless), my dear friend Veronica is hanging out with me and keeping me up to date with all the celeb gossip.

But she's such an awful tease. She will insist on showing me her new enlarged bosom and her pink lacy underwear, and I have to keep telling her it really isn't appropriate, I'm a happily married man and I have to resist temptation.

I'm forced to keep the bedroom permanently locked to prevent her draping herself provocatively on the four-poster bed and eyeing certain parts of my body suggestively. If this goes on, I might be compelled to end a beautiful friendship and show her the door.

The last time Jenny returned from one of her trips, she discovered several intimate items of Veronica's and dreadful scenes ensued. I was confined to the garden shed for a week and allowed only bread and water. She simply didn't believe I was going through one of my transvestite phases. The lipstick just isn't your colour, she said.

So now I really have to watch my step and resist Veronica's delectable body, or there'll be hell to pay. I'll find my bags have been packed and thrown into the front garden.

V and I are sticking to strictly respectable activities, mainly involving lines of white powder and extensive online gambling. Fortunately she's agreed to foot the bill to celebrate her lucrative modelling contract with New U Beauty Salons.

This shameless hedonism will as usual have to be followed up with a week's retreat at the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss to unscramble my delirious brain. Luckily the nuns know just what I need.

Photo: Veronica is suddenly camera-shy.

Nick meets Veronica

On the occasion of his sixty-first birthday*, Nick agreed to a rare interview with the world-renowned supermodel Veronica Trinket. They met in the luxurious surroundings of the Lagan Plaza Hotel, Belfast.

VT: So, Nick, what are your feelings at this momentous time?

Nick: I'm deeply moved and touched by the outpouring of affection from my fans around the world. Several of them are still in my bed as I speak.

VT: Still the same old Nick, eh? Always in the middle of one scandal or another?

Nick: I can't think what you mean. Everyone knows I'm a leading role model for confused and impressionable young people.

VT: But you've just been charged with embezzling £5 million from a certain well-known charity that you left under mysterious circumstances.

Nick: My lawyers are contesting all charges. I'd like to talk about my tireless work for the starving peasants of Bolivia.

VT: You've never set foot in Bolivia. And what about the sex-change operation that was going to turn you into gorgeous, pouting Lavinia Loveheart?

Nick: Totally untrue. I was just wearing a dress for a short time for medical reasons. You haven't mentioned my longstanding commitment to the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss.

VT: Yes, weren't you linked to the mass suicides and extreme sexual fetishes at St Benedict's Monastery?

Nick: Not on my watch. I was climbing Mount Kilimanjaro at the time with an old school friend. And another thing, my passion for environmental protection and fighting global warming is second to none.

VT: I believe you've recycled the odd baked bean tin. And there was your six-month incarceration in the Leafy Glades Psychiatric Unit.

Nick: It was only six days. The shooting spree was entirely due to Emilia's heartless comments on my virility. (Mobile rings) Ah, it's Natalie. She's wondering when I'm coming back to bed. Girls, eh? I'm sorry, I really must be off. It's lovely to see you again, Veronica.

VT: You too, my darling. Happy Birthday!

* On March 20. And these were Nick's thoughts on being 60.

(Photo of Veronica Trinket courtesy of Trinket Management)