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'Twas with sweaty palms and a nervous grin I dialled the fateful numbers. Soon enough, out of the bowels of a city office tower, came he who must be obeyed. Strangely his halo was missing. So were the adoring fans. And there was no flowing grey beard. Nor trumpeting music. Odd, I thought, very odd. We wondered down to sunny Sydney's Circular Quay. That was us at the table next to the very drunken mob throwing plastic spiders at each other. The ones with the pineapple fried rice (it actually came in the pineapple), the duck, the lamb. Soft drinks were ordered...just to recover from the long walk in 32 degrees. Centigrade, people, centigrade. Then a refreshing white wine. The conversation was wide-ranging and free-flowing. Dining with a man with an IQ of 205, such a strong build, a manly physique, and just a hint of his alter ego caused many passers-by to stare and point. Either that or the rice stuck in my teeth. I'm sure it was the former.

Other than that I can't say anything else. Pixy swore me to a solemn blog oath to never reveal the secrets he divulged today. Unless you too are prepared to make the journey to Sydney, Australia. Home of Munu. Sort of.

That said I may kiss and tell. Ladies get priority. Lots of priority. Or book publishers with outrageous advances. Everyone else has to wait.