Sally Satnav drives me crazy

WHAT'S wrong with a map? That's what I'd like to know.My plain-speaking-photographer-friend Lucy has got a new satellite navigation system - or as I prefer to call it Sally Satnav.

WHAT'S wrong with a map? That's what I'd like to know.

My plain-speaking-photographer-friend Lucy has got a new satellite navigation system - or as I prefer to call it Sally Satnav.

Installed on the dash of Lucy's motor, Sally is a bit of a new toy and the other day as we made progress to Otley College in the rural Ipswich hinterland she was turned on - Sally that is.

The problem was, just as I was telling Lucy a story about my latest self-induced crisis, Sally kept interrupting with things like “Please do a U-turn” and “turn right in 400ft,” which after a while got on my nerves.

It wasn't as if we didn't even know where we were going, Otley being just a few miles away and not too tricky to find thanks to large signposts. It's not even far enough to run out of breadcrumbs.

Anyway, I begged Lucy to turn her off.

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“I don't even know what she looks like,” I said, as we negotiated the Woodbridge Road/St Margaret's Green junction.

“She might be ugly and I like to put a face to a voice.”

“Oh don't be stupid James,” replied the photographer, “She's handy for a long journey.”

“Well sandwiches are handy for a long journey and I know what they look like!” I countered, as Lucy turned right.

“Turn right now,” added Miss Satnav.

Just as I was taking breath, to discuss what I was going to wear during our forthcoming trip ice skating with the boys and girls of the Ipswich exceedingly Operatic and intolerably Dramatic society, Sally satnav piped up again

“At the next roundabout take the second exit,” she purred.

Turned on or not, she was getting on my goat - Sally not Lucy that is.

There's more important things to life, than knowing where you are.

THERE'S nothing worse than a self-serving and self-obsessed celebrity is there?

Every time I tune into Radio 4 as I'm tidying up my comfortable but compact Ipswich kitchen I keep hearing these tapes by former home secretary David Blunkett and can't help thinking I wish he'd shut up banging on about himself.

It's all 'me me me' with these people!

I'd rather listen to my own thoughts, much more interesting and amusing!

REMEMBER, remember the fourth of November, Christchurch Park and me.

As an Ipswich celebutante, I'm often asked out and about and this year I have been asked to help celebrate the failure of the gunpowder plot to kill His Majesty King James I.

So, dear readers and loyal fans, during the evening I shall be at the famous Ipswich park in the Evening Star's fabulous promotional unit, hoping to meet you.

Colleague Chris Upson, a scion of our marketing department, said: “James, my darling, please come along to the Firework Display at Christchurch Park on November 4.

“I have worked so hard with this event and readers will not only be able to meet our exceptional celebrity columnist, you, but will also be able to purchase a goodie bag, with a glowing star and an Evening Star and other goodies from our fabulous promotional unit for just £1.”

It was an offer I couldn't turn down.

Apparently the event has a James Bond theme to coincide with the release of Casino Royale, so if anyone wants to mix me a martini I'll be looking out for you.

IT'S pre-audition rehearsals tonight for the next production by the Ipswich Operatic and Dramatic Society.

No sooner have I hung up my jazz pumps from appearing at the Spa Pavilion - regular readers will know about the ghastly and mortifying underwear incident in which the audience enjoyed a brief glimpse of my boxers - than I am preparing for a role in Titanic.

A chef friend of mine and indeed a couple of other people, rather cruelly I felt, suggested I might try for the demanding and chilling role of the iceberg.

But I have decided to rise about this slight at my acting ability, and stage presence, and audition for my usual role of 'chubby boy at the back with a grin.'

As you can imagine, excitement is mounting in the amateur theatrical circles in which I regularly indulge. However I have the ordeal of the audition still to get through.

Normally this involves a small amount of dancing - step together and step ball change and leap - or some such concoction thought up by the creative mind of David the choreographer, and a spot of singing in front of the baton-wielding musical director Alan.

I have asked to be excused this year on account of my celebrity. But my ploy isn't working.

James the affable director isn't impressed. I fear, dear readers, that in the world of the theatre where everyone's a celeb, fame, even on a small scale such as getting recognised as that large lad that works for the star doesn't cut much ice.

I better get some mittens and a thermal vest.

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