SUNDAY, 16 JULY, 2000, PHILADELPHIA BASTILLE DAY

IIF’s of the world unite! The Marquis is soon to make a fascinating jaunt about Europe. Have you enjoyed reading someone else’s diary for free for ten straight months, you sick little monkey? Have you? HUH? Gawd, you make me sick! But like any non-profit broadcasting corporation, such unrivaled quality of entertainment does not come without its price. It’s viewers like you that keep the Marquis in business. Right about now you’re probably asking yourself, “Self? What can I do for the Marquis?” (If that’s not what you’re asking yourself, please don’t burst my bubble.) Well I’m glad y'asked! There are just two things you can do for your very own Marquis, both of which should be quite fun for you, so quitcher bitchin’ and get on with it. You only need to… Live in Europe or Britain or North Africa or Asia Minor. Invite your own prolific Marquis to stay for a few days. You see, little pussies, I have given my notice at my Place of Employment™ with quite a dollop of regret (regret, despite the fact that the work has been driving me crazy for many moons now). Shortly after my terminal day thereat, I shall skittle off to the UK to ask after Mlle. Badjuju’s health for a while, a most charming IIF if there ever was one. After that, you can find me on the streets wearing a sandwich board that says, “Marquis 4 Hire — Will Banter Cleverly Over Dinner for Lodging.” I am pleased to have a charming “fervente lectrice” in Paris who has most graciously offered a small moudly cot in her flat, and so I shall put a pin in Paris on my summer travel map. See? Wasn’t that easy? Would you help me with more pins, darling reader? All you need to do is live somewhere lovely on or off the continent (lovely meaning in a lovely country — not any reflection of your decorating tastes — each to their own, I always say) and not object to a self-titled pompous ass catching a few z’s on your carpet for a day or two. The wardrobe will be heavily recycled by that time, but the eyes should still have some sparkle left to them, and for the first ten offers I receive, I hereby promise to bring Tastykakes from Philly. Extra cakes for the lucky reader with a flat in Roma, Venice, Milano or Fiorenze because I’ve never been there. Umm, wait, scratch that. I can just picture it, after being jostled about on trains, camels and rickshaws for a month, pell-mell and willy-nilly, luggage receiving constant ignoble treatment, how very upset the last of my hosts might feel when I arrive in, say, Prague (hint-hint), with a two-dimensional Butterscotch Krimpet™ oozing out of a punctured cellophane wrapper. “Here,” says a road-weary Marquis on your doorstep, proffering this sad snackfood item on outstretched palm. “It’s a ‘Tastykake’. It may have gotten a bit bruised en route. Please don’t turn me away thank you. Can I use your toilet now please?”