June 10th - June 16th 2002
Sunday Pony up
Saturday Iron in the soul
Friday Palsied walrus
Thursday Blitzkrieg
Wednesday Sandy
Tuesday Ducks of war
Monday Cheers
Sunday 16th June 2002
Despite being attacked for their 'extravagance', they are making what Prince Michael's office calls 'natural cutbacks - if a pony dies, we don't necessarily replace it'.
Saturday 15th June 2002
Found headline of the week: Israeli debtor killed by ironing
Friday 14th June 2002
We went to see Bombay Dreams last night, courtesy of the ever-generous Andy. Review coming soon, I promise.
But do bear in mind that I approached the musical already hating the producer, not least for an incident some years ago when, having pursued something nubile into a jacuzzi only to see him - as ever, even then - promptly leave as I settled myself in, I turned to scan the rest of the pool and found myself staring into the eyes of an elderly naked man who resembled nothing so much as a palsied walrus.
"It is said," he intoned as he looked at me, "that we each have our counterparts in the public prints..."
I thought for a moment, then replied: "Are you saying that I look like someone famous?"
"Yes indeed."
"Who?"
"Oh! Blast! Now I've forgotten his name. English chappie.. very succesful.. married to a singer.. writes musicals.."
Naturally enough, I held his head under the water until he was quite dead.
Thursday 13th June 2002
I swear I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I spent 70 consecutive minutes yesterday afternoon lying on my back with my mouth open and three or four hands in my mouth - the word 'blitzkrieg' always did have a vaguely dental air to it, don't you think?
No offense to my excellent, charming and attractive dentist nor to his glamorous ski-goggled assistant, but I'm now left with a mouth that feels as if someone started to build a rock garden and then walked away for a long tea-break.
The first words addressed to me were "I want you to come in tomorrow and have that tooth out; there's a surgeon who comes in once a month to do extractions and she's excellent." The last words addressed to me were "I'll let you off tomorrow." (In between, I swear I heard "Tsk, why does nothing go right?" but I prefer not to dwell on that.)
Wednesday 12th June 2002
Speaking as someone who all too often finds themselves representing the senior generation amongst gatherings of my peers, I could occasionally identify with Sandy and his seething impatience at finding himself stuck with a group of brain-dead post-teens whose sole topic of conversation appears to focus on who fancies whom.
Unlike Sandy, though, I've never had to climb up the trellis and over the wall to get away. (Nor have I - yet - had the guts to go up to someone before I leave, look them in the eye, and say, "Let's be honest: I never liked you.")
Shame he got caught at the first fence, though. Surely his secret plan was to leave the house, get on a plane and just - disappear.
Imagine the tabloid furore.
Tuesday 13th June 2002
One of the reasons I was fascinated by the account of Hugh Trevor-Roper's experience with Charles Bonnet Syndrome was the idea that the brain, when deprived of its usual input, starts making up stuff to fill in the gaps.
As my eyesight deteriorates, I find a similar phenomenon at work, on a much smaller scale. (Sadly, I guess, since I think it would be pretty cool to stumble across some architectural fantasy as I stumble back from The Swan.).
In my case, it happens when I'm reading. I miss a letter - and my inner perve rushes to substitute a vowel or a consonant that makes the whole experience much more interesting. Hence:
Police accuse Blunkett of obsession with spit
...the easy manner that came from years of panties in Hyannisport and Martha's Vineyard
Morley welcomes return of rough chicks to Cornwall
Cry havoc, and unleash the ducks of war.
...as blank as a window with amnesia.
Monday 10th June 2002
Reasons to be cheerful:
1:0 As a full paid-up homosexual, I was of course exempted from having to actually watch the match. That doesn't stop me from joining the general delight at the dissing of the dagoes, however.
Mike Tyson bully, rapist and all-round fuck-up, defeated by Lennox Lewis (not that I'm a fan of Lewis either, it must be said).
Fat girl with over-inflated sense of her own charms summarily ejected from Big Brother house. Pretty boy survives.
Jubilee nonsense draws to a close; Mrs Queen last seen being given a tour of a bus.
My wounds are healed.
Six Feet Under begins on Channel Four at 2310 tonight. Do not miss.
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