It wasn't me ...

I would not like to be Sarah, Duchess of York right now. Of all the stupid-ass things to do: this takes the whole packet of biscuits. Plus it's undoubtedly not the first time. If the News of The World (the ULTIMATE oxymoron) went to all the trouble to arrange an elaborate sting - they have to have known that she's done it before.

Now, if she was a Shaggy, she would simply shrug and say "it wasn't me .."

But that defense doesn't fly here. We live in a digital age and there she is, on film. Talking in that clipped, hyper-clear vocal style, that some people use when addressing someone "foreign". And we know, our hearts sinking, that Sarah thinks she's dealing with a real mover and "Sheik-er".

Then there's her body language ... she sits at the table, the $40 000 deposit in front of her, rubbing her tired, drunken eyes and rocking a little. She knows, she knows, she knows ...

She sees the little "Sold" sign pegged into her soul. Only she's in this horrendous, unfathomable debt - the kind that makes you look away from your pride, your common sense, your gut. So, she makes a low rent, mundane, cheap-hotel-suite kind of plan.

And she gets caught. The 11th Commandment: "you lie down with dogs, you get fleas."

I really don't know how a person comes back from this shame: so public, so global. But I am hoping she does. It could be the making of her, the ultimate reinvention. Now there's no pretense, the layers of the aristocrat have been peeled back to reveal a lost, impoverished, undefined woman in her early 50s who made a really shit decision. I don't know who her friends are. But, if she gets some decent, skin-flaying, pragmatic and brutally honest advice. That she elects to heed: the world could be hers. She could come out swinging.

I would like to see that.

Before I go, a word to the News Of the World reporter - Mazher Mahmood. Do not be proud of yourself. Do NOT be proud of yourself. You entrapped a needy woman in order to further your career. If the definition of the word whore is someone who fucks other people for money, tua culpa my brother, tua maxima culpa.

Out with the Old, In with the Old.

It was my friend Rudi's birthday on Friday. We all clubbed together to buy him a dishwasher (seems to be the new trend - I'm hoping for a first class round-the-world-airline ticket, with vouchers to all the Park Hyatt hotels. Just thought I would put that out there). And we all went to see the St Petersburg Male Ballet Company dance Swan Lake. Or so I thought. What we actually saw was a ballerino long past his primo, and his oddly shaped troupe (one of whom seemed to have a whole turkey breast down the front of his tights), interpreting arbitrarily-chosen bits of music.

The tiny dancer was well into his 50s, but he was no Baryshnikov. In fact, he rather reminded me of Liza Minnelli. I saw Liza in concert at the Royal Albert Hall, years ago, with Sammy Davis jnr and Frank Sinatra. As she highkicked her way merrily, and somewhat drunkenly, across the stage, a good few people averted their eyes. (One of them being Barbara Sinatra - to whom Frank would later sing: "where there is laughter there is Barbara, always Barbara warm and gay...". So, she shouldn't have been smiling quite so broadly. And, frankly (ha!) Barbs didn't have much of a leg of her own to stand on - she was wearing a tiara, and she acknowledged her hubby's dedication by standing to wave at the audience with that peculiar inward wave the Queen Liz favours. Cue more eye aversion.)

At one point Friday's dancing queen tossed carnations into the audience. He'd been miming frantically to an Italian love song and was either approaching climax or had thrown his back out - hard to tell. It was all a bit too much for me. Like watching your mum have a few gins too many at a cocktail party and getting her groove on. Mortifying. I wanted desperately to go home.

There are signs up around Cape Town at the moment advertising "Deep Purple, supported by Uriah Heep and Wishbone Ash" at the Grand West Arena. I mean what the **** - who on earth would want to see them? Fleetwood Mac are on the road without Christine McVie, Spandau Ballet are touring Europe and Bon Jovi are out there in their new hair pieces - re-living on a prayer.

Are we all taking this 'fifty is the new forty" thing too far? Should we be starting to retire gracefully? Frankie could hardly remember the words to 'New York New York', that night in London. From my seat I could see the teleprompters: "da da da dada da, da da da, start spreading the news". Like Friday's ballet - all it did was make me sad.

Maurits sent me an article from The Times in which the journalist described how much happier we all are once we hit fifty. In fact - we are so happy, we are are apparently taking on "new hedonist ways". I'm not entirely sure what this means, but suspect it has something to do with getting our old bits out, and putting them up there on public view. And if that's what Friday's ballet was all about - count me out. It's said that the art of going to a party is knowing when to leave, and I am a 10pm Cinderella.