Dom Joly

Dom Joly has been a columnist for The Independent on Sunday and The Independent since 2001. Joly shot to fame in 2000 with his anarchic Channel 4 hidden-camera comedy programme Trigger Happy TV. He has since made television series for BBC, Five, and Sky One including, This Is Dom Joly and Dom Joly’s Happy Hour. His current TV show, Fool Britannia, is on ITV1 on Saturday nights. His spoof autobiography, Look At Me, Look At Me was published in 2004, in 2007 he brought out Letters to my Golf Club, featuring his correspondences with golf clubs around the world. In 2009 he wrote his first travel book, The Dark Tourist, in which he holidayed in some of the world’s most unlikely destinations such as Chernobyl and North Korea. His second travel book- Scary Monsters and Super Creeps, published in 2012, saw him cross the globe hunting monsters like the Yeti and Bigfoot. He is currently writing his new travel book.

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When putsch comes to pool, we’ll just wing it

I am planning a big family road trip, from London to Istanbul and back, over the Easter holidays. Every time I mention this to people they look at me in horror and ask: “Why on earth would you do that?”

Why has no one told me about this extra meal?

My house is still flooded. I have still not received a visit from the Prime Minister, Ed Miliband, Nick Clegg or Prince Charles. I turned down the offer from Prince Andrew, the Duke of Golf, and have also said no to Prince Edward's offer to come and perform The Vagina Monologues in the village hall to help raise money for my well-being. It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, it's just that I don't feel anybody would show up, and then I'd have to to turn up, out of guilt, and it would all be really awkward.

Water, water, everywhere and no dignitary in sight

It's my own fault I suppose. I wrote about my personal flooding history in last week's column only to wake up the following day and find that the basement in my new house was under a foot of water and rising.

The day flood waters stole my priceless past

I'm disappointed that, unlike hurricanes or typhoons, nobody seems to have given a name to the series of storms that are currently battering the country. I could suggest "Perpetual Storm Fucknut" or "Operation Sink Somerset", but I'm sure that there are better options out there. I always find it weird when huge Caribbean-island destroying hurricanes are called innocuous things like "Daisy" or "Betty". Far better to call a spade a spade, and name them "Hurricane Run, Run To The Hills, We're All Going To Die". If nothing else then this would certainly get people's attention when the weather forecasters mention the system on their reports.

Just one day in, and a gun shatters my Zen calm

I'm back in the real world – released from my Italian detox prison one-and-a-half stone lighter and more chilled than a relaxed snowman. That lasted about two hours. One evening at home, and normal family service was resumed. The kids were arguing, my wife was shouting at the dogs, I got stressed because everyone was going to be late for a dinner reservation and we were taking our usual three hours to leave the house. It was good to be back.

Home by cheese boat to a brave new waterworld

We landed at Heathrow from Hong Kong at the very anti-social time of 4.30am. I'd been scouring the online news for anywhere in the UK that was still above water. Our best bet was probably to swim to Windsor, and then try to get a boat down through the old land areas of Reading and Swindon then hope to beach somewhere in the mid-Cotswolds. Once there, we would have a chance of finding a friendly local tribe to give us safe passage back to our valley. But who might be running the valley now? While we'd been away in Asia the great waters had come, and old social orders had been reversed.

Hey, man, I'm chillin' like Mike Tyson's tiger

We left smoggy Hong Kong bound for Koh Samui – another destination that I did my best to avoid in my gap year. Back then, every public-school hippy that I knew spent a year there, growing their hair, smoking their body weight in hash, and really learning about poverty first hand, "man".

New Year with the last of our filthy rich friends

I have escaped to Hong Kong for the post-Christmas come down. I, like many people, get overly stressed by Christmas. I think I suffer from a loathing of anything that expects me to have a good time. History has shown, however, that the empty two weeks after the holiday, when nobody is back to work, can be even worse. So, we have taken the initiative and decided to ponce off our last remaining rich friends. Most people I knew in the City have been fired, and rightly so. Our hosts in Hong Kong were always slightly more deserving of their ridiculous wealth, but even they were finally faced with a choice – redundancy or move to Asia and sack everyone out there. I've always assumed that, once everybody has been sacked, our host will find himself in a room where he somehow has to sack himself. This, however, is an unspoken truth and still a couple of years away, so we decided to strike while the golden calf is still plated.

Batten down the hatches – its Defcon Crimbo

Here comes the Christmas juggernaut. Batten down the hatches. Raise the mistletoe. Double the electricity bill on exterior festive lighting. I'm very bah humbug regarding Christmas whereas Stacey is full steam ahead – Defcon Crimbo.

Church holds no horror for me now

My church aversion probably started as a kid in Lebanon

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