[caption id="attachment_80143" align="aligncenter" width="607"] Rihanna in Berlin, probably summoning us to get back on the plane. (Photo credit Johnny Bananza)[/caption]

I couldn't be any more punch-drunk. As I write this, I haven't slept in 36 hours. I feel like I'm on an ether high with a side of acid. It would seem that everyone's spirits are declining. I often look at #CardboardRuPaul to summon my charisma, uniqueness, nerve and talent.

In Berlin, you could feel the tension rising, especially as someone on the tour referred to us as "Rihanna's prisoners." It pretty much nailed the sentiment we’ve been feeling. We're at her beck and call going from venue to venue, waiting hours upon hours on buses and tarmacs with absolutely no access to her for sound bites – we haven’t even had a morsel of one on one time with the grand dame since day one. The natives were getting restless.

Once we entered the plane for London, something snapped in the minds of all the journalists. We all started chanting, random words. It was first started with Fuse in the front (according to our friends at MTV Style) and then my section in the back joined in saying "Shot, Shot, Shot, Shot, Shot." Then, it happened. Running through the plane, naked and flapping, an Aussie radio DJ streaked.

[caption id="attachment_80108" align="aligncenter" width="607"] If Foster's is Australian for beer; Streaking is Australian for fun.[/caption]

With live nudity burned into our sleepy eyes, and spirits lifted, we head to London.

But, can we really complain... I mean we're going to 7 countries with Rihanna. #BraggingRights.

Two more concerts to go – cheerio for now!

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