The road to bliss

I'm just back from the remote Cairngorms retreat of the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss. As you know, I go there periodically for spiritual refreshment and to cleanse my mind of worldly impurities.

The Head of the Sacred Order is the illustrious Swami Korianda Arjibarji Kolostomi Roshi, whose seven million devotees regard him as the earthly incarnation of Zu, the supreme cosmic life-force.

He is known for the astonishingly gruelling regime he imposes, designed to break through the accumulations of bad karma that prevent everlasting bliss.

The typical day involves a punishing schedule of chastisement, self-mortification, torture, rock-breaking and ritual humiliations. Light meals of organic gruel and seaweed fritters are included, along with a bed of nails for overnight stays.

Swami Korianda himself, having long ago reached a permanent state of pure, transcendent ecstasy, has no further need of such rigorous discipline and instead spends his days with a bevy of nubile lovelies, quaffing champagne and oysters and cruising the countryside in one of his luxurious fleet of customised Rolls-Royces.

He makes light of the 17 people who have died from the traumatic after-effects of his strenuous curriculum. They are the lucky ones, he says, who have reached the state of nirvana unexpectedly, avoiding years of agonising spiritual struggle.

I have to confess I spent the third night not on a bed of nails but in a five star hotel in Inverness with another devotee, the very appealing Felicity Hopgrass. This also led to an unexpected state of nirvana, which unfortunately came to an end when Felicity had to return home urgently after her pet alsatian ate the neighbour's budgie.

I'm now back home myself, fully revitalised and with renewed admiration for the celebrated Swami whose surly critics are simply jealous of his infinite oriental wisdom.

# A week at the retreat costs £973. Bring your own pliers and first aid kit.

Pic: the venerable Swami Korianda

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

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)