Archives for posts with tag: Amanda Eliasch

Forgive me for rambling….

Rather lovely day yesterday.

Had lunch with Daniel Darling and his adorable girlfriend (?) in Cross Creek.

We were joined by Toby Mott and his friend Elizabeth.  Daniel went surfing and we drove to Malibou Lake where we sailed and then had a wonderful dinner at The Old Place on Mulholland.

Excellent food and service.  Charming!

A bird just hopped into the house and is now flying around.  We have just been for a five-mile walk so the dogs are strangely disinterested.

Willie is here visiting and we are all getting on like a house on fire.

I am going back to NYC next week.  I have people to see.  I think my Navy Seal may visit soon.

It has been fun having Toby visiting.  I sort of fall in love with my house all over again when he is here.  I am proud of the mountains, the house and the garden.

I see that my nemesis Amanda Eliasch and her truly talented friend Lyall Watson (whoring himself out to artifice) have written and performed in a ‘play’ called As I Like It.

Apparently it is rather ‘whiney’.  Apparently Amanda’s son Charles serves the actress who plays his mother as a weird, incestuous acolyte.  He has a huge head.  Apparently there is an opera singer with real talent who barely gets to sing.  Apparently the writer refers to ‘hairy legged lesbians’.  As we know, at her core, she is a homophobe.

Apparently this ‘play’ is crap.

It really isn’t any wonder, Amanda can scarcely string a sentence together.   It’s worth quoting the theatre programme notes:

This is a play what I wrote for my Father several years ago which he asked me to do after he had died. I turned it into a play with the help of Lyall Watson who had taught me at RADA in 1989. There are only a few plays for women and I wanted to contribute and increase the material available. It is a modern restoration comedy.

Yes.  You are going to do wonders for women with this pile of  tripe.  Wonders.

I once played Mr Puff at The Edinburgh Festival in Sheridan’s The Critic.   Have you seen that play?  A comedy of manners.  A real one.

Like Mrs Eliasch Mr Puff, the author of a terrible play, invites critics Sneer and Dangle to a dress rehearsal.

Puff explains to Sneer that he is ‘‘a Professor of the Art of Puffing’’: an author who has taught newspaper men and advertisers how to inflate their diction so they may ‘‘enlay their phraseology with variegated chips of exotic metaphor’’ and ‘‘crowd their advertisements with panegyrical superlatives.’’

Break a leg Amanda.  Read the review here.

By the way.  I was a terrible actor.  Terrible.

OK.  Next!!

What’s going on?  What’s really going on in the UK?

This ousting of the Murdoch family is well over due, applauded by the regime, the chattering classes, the aristocracy.

The public are baying for blood, hollering at the beastly Murdochs, “Get back on the boat like your criminal Australian ancestors.  Good riddance to bad rubbish.  Take your newspaper with you”

Hold on.

The British relish tittle-tattle.  We love it!  We love gossip!  The steamier the better.  Surely we didn’t lose our appetite for rooting through other people’s dirty washing?

Now The New of The World has gone…and the other news media get more cautious…

What, in heaven’s name, will replace it?

Are we witnessing the changing of the guard?  Has the internet (Google, Facebook etc.) and on-line news outlets like the Huffington Post trumped traditional media?

Apparently people don’t read The Huffington Post for the news..they read it for the gossip.

Was Murdoch simply too old, too complacent, too rich to have a grasp on our changing world?

Is this coup de grace being played out in the British press a pantomime we will see in the not too distant future in the USA?

One of the most telling quotes of the entire debacle:

The BBC’s business editor Robert Peston points out, the News of The World phone hacking scandal has hurt the entire UK newspaper industry, making News International less attractive to potential buyers if, as is now being posited, the British arm of News Corp is amputated and sold.

Does real, forward thinking money sees a future for print media?

Controlling the British has always been a huge problem for any invader and Murdoch will end up like all the rest.  Chucked out on his ear.  Romans, Saxons (initially invited), Norsemen, Murdoch.

The British public don’t a give a fuck about Jude Law having his phone hacked, that was just par for the course.  He deserved it.  They only started giving a damn when they realised that the police (who they loathe) were benefiting financially.

They only started caring when ordinary people just like them were proved to be abused, their ordinary stories sold, their phone messages ransacked.

Until Milly Dowler they didn’t give a flying fuck.  Then, rather amazingly, for an usually inert general public…they did.  And when the public speaks (remember Diana’s death) the establishment listens.

Remember the Queen of England reading/performing that excruciating statement televised by the palace at the behest of Tony Blair before Diana’s funeral?

The British let their leaders get away with much until they take too much.  A prudent leader will know when to stop.  Murdoch, his son and cohorts became too..how shall I say this without provoking your ire…they became too American.

It is obvious that American politicians are bought and sold by The Corporation.   They live huge lives with fantastic wealth and are applauded for doing so.

What baffles me is why a regular British MP with nothing much to gain should ideologically side with those who seek to do us, their constituents, harm?

During this entire scandal as heads began to roll I wondered again and again how British politicians benefitted financially from New Corp.  Unlike the paid for politician here in the USA it is unlikely that anyone in Parliament could benefit financially from anything…ever.

There are simply too many prying eyes.  Unless I am being absurdly naive.  Am I?

Is it simply the acquisition of power that our MP’s crave?

Amanda Eliasch is very, very rich. The ex-wife of Johann Eliasch, owner of tennis racket and sports wear company Head.

Currently Amanda is trying to get me to remove a blog reference made last week after she posted some nastiness about me on Facebook. Sadly, as Jake found to his dismay, even if I removed any or all evidence…the blog will remain in the virtual ether forever and ever. FOREVER.

Then, she persuaded some weird friend of hers to say that I only have 3 readers a day…that’s like telling a man he has a very small penis.

Let me remind you how I know this woman Amanda Eliasch…she was/is going out/hooking up/in confused hyper emotional ‘relationship’ with my old friend the genuine article…writer Tim Willis.

Poor Tim, the first time I was summoned to her house he was a quaking, smoking and drinking wreck. Exiled to the tennis court at her architecturally significant, now recently sold Beverly Hills house. His already weakened body covered in welts from Amada’s sharp little tongue.

The 1st and least problematic problem with Amanda: she is a bully.

In some lame attempt to stop me from posting anything about her on my blog she reminded me that she had let me visit her home. OK. So? I reminded her (pompous hag) that I let her visit mine. The next barrage of emails, no doubt, will include reminders that she paid for a couple of lunches.

The emails after that will include homophobic slurs.

Well known to architects, and interior decorators as a person who loathes paying her bills. (I know two personally) She is currently working with ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard who told me that he went to Eton..does anyone know if that is true? I met ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard with Chris Cortazzo the “The King” realtor.

Why will ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard definitely get paid for renovating Amanda’s new home in LA? The simple fact is: ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard is far too well-connected not to get paid.

As well as converting Amanda’s new Wimpy home (ex Janet Leigh) into a white clad Wimpy home ‘interior designer to the stars’ Martyn Lawrence-Bullard is also converting a small apartment in Sierra Towers Los Angeles as something ‘nice’ for Elton’s Nanny and child.

I really did not want to start the year slagging an old slag but hey, at least I’m not writing about Jake eh?

The most perplexing problem with Amanda: she is totally bonkers…and not in a good way. She has no style, no friends and leaves a nasty taste in ones mouth whenever one may chance upon her.

Her conversation is limited and punctuated with barking noises…is this some sort of tick? I have never once been able to get a reasonable opinion or for that matter ANY opinion out of the woman that hadn’t been cribbed from some Daily Mail commentator/op ed…consequently her politics are slightly right of Hitler’s.

Amanda once complained to me, like many of her ilk, that there wasn’t a decent right-wing newspaper in Britain.

Now, I know that she will take issue with the ‘no friends’ claim but after her $500k fiasco of a birthday party last year where half her Facebook friends didn’t turn up..and, like an eastern European traveler, she tangoed for her startled guests then..to their growing horror played a sycophantic film ‘produced’ by her friends waxing bout how wonderful Amanda is. I wonder how she manages to keep the friends she has!

Good God! You can’t make this stuff up!

Amanda is surrounded by a certain type of woman, the ball breaking Aliai Lady Forte, the ball breaking Tracy Emin and the drunk most of the time but harmless..unless sober when she too becomes a bone fide ball breaker…Kay Saatchi.

Throw a few insignificant men into the black lacquered pot and bob’s your uncle: Amanda’s World.

The unforgivably huge problem with Amanda (and British social-climbing women like her) she is ever so slightly homophobic. She likes to remind gays that in Amanda’s World they have no right to demand rights or equality ‘what ever that is?’…that we have no place in the army or in sport…she questions our integrity in the school room and she tells us that we are of ‘no use’ to her…unless we are ‘decorating’ or ‘making things look pretty’.

Amanda, like her ball breaking friends, is also a low-grade racist and treats her black chef with imperial disdain.

Amusingly she has a desire to be close to film stars and celebrities but they are not eager to be seen with her.  Her life interminably chasing yet another film festival, film opening, red carpet event…film star etc. is pathetic at best…tragic at worst.

Amanda, if she doesn’t mend her ways, will end up like Wallis Simpson who, though remarkably chic, died isolated and miserable. At Wallis’s funeral the bulk of the wreaths came from vendors all over Paris who, without doubt, missed her very generous patronage.

I was informed you were dangerous and to only speak to you when chaperoned.
AMANDA ELIASCH

You know who coined the phrase Mad, Bad etc?  Lady Caroline Lamb of course… about Byron!  Although my fun friend…  sadly departed Matilda, Duchess of Argyll thought the same of her predecessor,  the even more glorious Margaret, Duchess of Argyll whose husband found Polaroids of her sucking a huge cock… naked but for a string of pearls.  Frankly my dear… I would rather have been Margaret than Matilda.

She said once. “If you have to be a Duchess you may as well be the Duchess of Argyll.”

I loved my Duchess adventures in Edinburgh and The Highlands playing back gammon and drinking whiskey…  even though she hated paying her gambling debts.

Tell me how brilliant that is?  That Amanda was warned off of me?  Most people are in no uncertain terms.  It certainly separates the chaf from the corn.  (The Chav from the Thorn)

The people who remain in my life are up for the adventure of knowing me.   My new friend Ed, for instance, who I am spending tomorrow evening with…  what a sweetheart.  Of course there’s a long list of oafs who cannot bear the heat in the kitchen…  more fool them.

When I left Joe he told the friends who remained my friends that they were ‘spineless’.  I am PERFECTLY sure that I would do EXACTLY the same.

I am excited by my own life all over again.  What adventure will I have next?

Amanda and Tim are once again breaking up…  but the truth of the matter is that Amanda… poor old bird… can’t bear to be separated from Tim.  I know THAT feeling.  I hate to be separated from the man I love.  I want to punish the fuck out of him… so now she’s upon FB slagging him off like an old fish wife.

I was never so lonely as the moment I left him.

Tim’s being very discreet but really!!  These two star crossed lovers must decide what they want to do!  I can’t be the sacrificial lamb every time they fetch out their AK 47‘s.

Amanda’s beef?  Tim bought her a voucher for a ‘Garden Center‘ turns out that the ‘voucher’ is for her to buy something from the glorious Chelsea Physic Gardens a stone’s throw from her Cheyne Walk home.   Now, I would love that as a gift.  I don’t really care if Tim berates me behind my back.  It’s his prerogative but the simple fact is… I don’t care!   He’s in excellent company.

What’s been going on in FREEZING COLD Whitstable?  Had breakfast at Windy Corner Stores.   Wandered home along the  beach.  In the very short time it took me to get home something of a miracle  happened…I began to inhabit my own skin once again.  Every time I pray for something it is swiftly delivered.  The only problem is… I don’t pray enough… because I’m frightened that the magic won’t work!

Typical Boxing Day… cold meats, TV, pickles, a trip to the pub.

Whitstable, my darling home town grounded me.  Everything is going to be OK.  This is where I have lived and I will die.  The people who know me..know me.   I am so happy here..even though it is not my current home there is always, and will always be room for me.

PS You’ll need more than a chaperone to keep safe around me.

Boxing Day 2010

You know what I’m doing?  I’m going out!  Started the evening feeling sorry myself.  Fuck that.

I sent an SOS to Amanda that I may or may not need.  But most of all, I am not going to be beaten by 5mm of something black on my balls.  It’s not a death sentence.  It’s black on the scan.  I wonder what color it is in real life?

I’m listening to very loud music.

Old fashioned shit.  I know.  But I’m allowed to.  I don’t have to answer to anybody.

I bought Jasper Conran‘s beautiful book Country.   Packed with so many beautiful images.  Try looking at THAT on a fucking kindle.

I cleaned the apartment.  I sorted my papers.  I totally forgot that I had to call the police station in London to deal with the iPod incident.  Never mind.  I would rather be in a cell than have this maggot growing inside me.  It’s all relative.  I read Michael’s brilliant script.  After I finish writing this I will take the little dog to see the cats on Cherokee so he can squeal like a pig with excitement.   Cat!  Cat!

I have to submit my HLN idea.  I received a lovely text message from an old lover in NYC who is eager to get together..balls or no balls.

Meeting Seb at SHLA at 11pm.  Fuck this sitting around shit.  I need solution!  have I LEARNED nothing from all those years sitting in church halls and masonic lodges reading the recipe of the 12 steps?

Take action my friends!  Get out of that shit relationship.  Don’t be bowed by illness!  Eat!  If you feel lonely get out onto the streets!   Don’t give in to the furies.  TAKE ACTION.

December 21st, 2009-August 12th, 2010

Jake has been in my life..for months…for most of it was an acting out dream come true.

Oh I WILLINGLY gave up my sexual sober time.

We talked almost every day.  Why trash those precious few months?  For the time being I will celebrate the time we spent together.  Although, sooner or later it will just feel…embarrassing.

In the long run it will mean far more to him than it will to me,  Try as he might he will never be able to unstitch me from his story.  I am, after all, the one who tore him out of the closet and in so doing rescued that poor girl from just one more day of deceit and lies.

I said to him on February 9th:

All I know is as the years pass this will weigh heavier on your mind and every time you look at J your girlfriend/wife/mother of your child you will know that there is a fundamental deceit.

If it is not me or the Hungarian it will be another man..and another and the outcome will always be the same.

One day you will meet a perfect man and then you will resent her, begin to hate her because it is not him…

I am the FUCKING HERO.  Beautifully written…don’t you think?

And for all you guys and gals who have been shat on..here is a shitty, campy song for you to remind yourself that we can all laugh at how stupid we have been:

Alison Schulnik presently showing at Mark Moore Gallery

Whilst cooking lunch yesterday I bent over and herniated one of my disks.  My spine gave out and I am now laying supine in a cloud of white linen and little dog waiting for the pain to subside.  Symptoms include: Shooting electric spasms in my legs.  Laboured breathing.  My balls ache.  It is Impossible to make the most simple move without the most excruciating pain.  So, this is what getting old is all about?   I went into a terrible shame spiral as I was forced to ask Cooper to help me perform the most simple task.

Instantaneously crippled by SHAME and spine failure.

Shame, Resentment and Fear.  The three ugly sisters who regularly cripple this particular Cinderella.

It’s interesting how a deeper understanding of toxic shame has given me a greater insight into all things-especially writing fiction.

Watching my adaptation of Dorian Gray again last night with Cooper  (I was in bed sweating from the flu and squirming in pain from my herniated disk)  I realized how much more evolved it could have been.

My contemporary adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s only novel Dorian Gray is a deeply flawed movie.

If I had had the understanding that I now have..understood Dorian Gray’s shame and Lord Henry Wooten’s subtle manipulation of it.   If I had comprehended why Dorian, in turn, heaps shame upon Basil Hallward.

We collectively determine what is shameful and who we think ought to feel shame .  Shame is subjective.

Sanctimonious people, self-righteous people, religious people, are all very eager to heap shame on whomever takes their fancy.

My mother’s shame began as a young 16-year-old girl when she had me-out of wedlock.  To make matters worse my father was a Persian!  My mother was hustled out of dodge by my vitriolic Grandmother to a Catholic mother and baby home where she was forced everyday, by nuns, to perform menial acts of attrition and atone for her sins.

I was born into shame.  I have perpetuated it at my leisure.  I was oblivious to how shame had shaped my life until I started dealing with my sex issues.

For what should we legitimately feel shame?  Should I feel shame for being gay?  Should Natalie Octomum Suliman (Natalie is her birth name) feel shame for having all those babies?  Judging by what is written on my comments page the answer would be a resounding YES.

There is a disturbing connection, for me, between Natalie Octomum and my mother who, 50 years ago, was shamed for the same thing..for giving birth.  They were both called selfish, irresponsible, their actions cast as shameful and both punished by society.

My mother’s character would not have withstood a barrage of outraged press attention when I was born.  She may have come off as surly or defensive when in fact she was just scared and confused.   After refusing to give me up for adoption (for which she was branded selfish and irresponsible) she had the audacity to ‘sponge’ off of her parents and the state before she got a job.

The mother and baby homes run by nuns have all been closed down.  We would be outraged, in the UK, if we heard that heavily pregnant young girls were scrubbing floors by way of Christian punishment.  My Mother was considered by her shamed parents as both criminal and wrong-just like Natalie Suliman.  However, times change and wounds heal.

The morally acerbic press keep Natalie in a holding pattern of shame.  The babies are born!  By punishing Natalie we merely punish every one of those children, creating a stinking cloud of toxic shame that will linger for the rest of their lives.

This is OUR part in the shame game, we perpetuate shame as and when we feel like it.

My mother’s actions in the early 1960′s are scarcely shame worthy in contemporary Great Britain.   In fact most British people would not think Natalie Octomum should have shame heaped upon her for her actions.  She is perceived as a macabre American sideshow where ‘freedom’ breeds freaks like Natalie and people like me who end up on Dr Drew’s Sex Rehab.

Natalie, in my eyes, is neither criminal, wrong, selfish, irresponsible or cruel.  Unless her children are not being loved or cared for…and one assumes with so many prying eyes on Natalie Suliman an unwashed kitchen surface would be enough for child protection agencies to be summoned..then she should be allowed to get on with her very own brand of American ‘freedom’.

Hey, America, I don’t give a damn that Natalie accepts public handouts.  Sounds like some of you want her to feel shame for accepting welfare.  It stinks when I read that some of you don’t think that she is capable of rearing those children when really none of you have any evidence to the contrary.  None of you know how capable she is of limitless love.  None of you.

As my therapist friend Sean M is want to say:  There’s No Shame in My Game.

Finally an artist who inspires:  Allison Schulnik who is presently showing at the Mark Moore Gallery in Santa Monica‘s Bergamot Station.  I am persuading all of my friends to buy her work.  It is amazing.  A real figurative painter who uses great gobs of paint with such dexterity and precision, so sculpturally and with such poise that I stood before the work salivating, hankering after Frank Auerbach, De Kooning and oddly Corot.   I immediately called Kay and Amanda and insisted that they buy something whilst Allison’s work remains affordable.

I met Tim Willis on Sloane Street, London 25 years ago.  He was with his then girlfriend Isabella Delves-Broughton.  I don’t remember meeting him that day.

He does.

I remember the first conversation Tim and I had was at Celia and Andrew Lyttleton’s frescoed apartment in Ladbroke Grove.

I remember showing him the invitations I had just had printed for my play The Host starring Lady Georgia Byng who would later become Mrs. Danny Chadwick and after that Mrs. Marc Quinn.  She is now probably best known for writing the Molly Moon children books.

Tim was unimpressed with the invitations.

I was prolific in those days, writing, making plays, living my life between London and Whitstable.

Tim was strangely nonjudgmental for one of the new elite who were making names for themselves during that time in London.

Remember, I was only a couple of years out of prison for a huge, unpaid credit card debt.

The story behind that debt had, the day I was sentenced, appeared in every British newspaper.  Christened: Lord of The Lies by the News of The World Sunday tabloid that title, unlike the one I had assumed, tended to stick.

Pretending to be Lord Anthony Rendlesham was the defining moment in my young life.   It set me on an unintended course the night I told that 4-word lie to the man I told it.  I wonder what happened to him?  Dermot Verchoyle-Campbell.

By the time I met Tim I was just ordinary (as the press loved to call me) Duncan Roy but he didn’t seem to mind how ordinary I was.   We were both social misfits.  The others came from good pedigrees and were gearing up to take their places in the British social stratosphere.   Their roles already defined.

Unusual for a heterosexual he was socially mobile.  Flexible.  The girl he was with that day on Sloane St went on to become Mrs. Detmar Blow and invigorate the world of British fashion.  Today her legacy, after a tragic suicide, is still evident as Alexander McQueen, John Galliano, Stephen Jones and Phillip Treacy are testament.

Although homosexuality offers the same kind of social flexibility (as I found when I told my big lie), I was wholly disinterested in the ‘gay lifestyle’ on offer at that time in London.

I knew a few other ubergays but we were frosty with each other as all of us wanted to be the only gay pet around.  Mario Testino, Patrick Kinmonth, Johnny Shand-Kydd were three other ‘about town’ gays but, as I said, they were all pretty disinterested in me.

I had had a brief affair with Patrick when I was Lord Rendlesham.

I discovered Peter Doig’s degree show at St Martin’s Art School and bought one of Doig’s paintings that Peter then stole from my house whilst I was in prison.

Craigie Aitcheson the minimalist painter of crucifixes and Bedlinton Terriers accused Patrick of handing me over to the police when they were looking for me.  He squealed, “Look, there’s the man who handed his gay lover over to the police.”

I had, of course, explored everything gay in London but it simply never inspired me enough to keep me going back.

Tim was really the first person I met whom I could share my wonderment with.  One was encouraged, when in a huge and ancient houses, to take everything for granted but with Tim I could behave like a tourist.  Ooing and arring about what we discovered there.

A few years later after Jay Jopling discovered Damien and the new British artists all of our lives would change irrevocably.  We would no longer be living in someone else’s shoes, delighted by other older peoples choices, and would ride the British New Wave.

Meeting Kay Saatchi the other day at Amanda’s I now have a far more complete picture of what was going on when I knew Jay Jopling.  I certainly remember Jay telling me about meeting Charles Saatchi.  That Charles had discussed the possibility of running the Saatchi gallery on Boundary Road and how Jay had scoffed (to us) at that idea.

At the moment that Charles was offering Jay a job, Jay had other plans, he knew, and said as much, that Charles would ultimately work for HIM.    I am, and have always been, in awe of Jay’s balls.  Who wouldn’t have accepted to work for Charles?  Only a man with massive ambition knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it.

It was at this time that Jay would bring a harem of girlfriends to my tiny cottage on Island Wall in Whitstable.  But that was all to end the day he met Maia Norman with whom he would fall deeply in love.

Visits to Whitstable became rare as they ensconced themselves in his house on Shakespeare Road in Brixton.   The last memorable Jay visit was with Danny Moynihan, Louise Jackson and Maia.  We would take ecstasy, drive to a ghastly local gay bar and dance to Pink Cadillac.

I think we may very well have had a rather wonderful orgy that night but Maia and Jay ended up alone as he was loathed to share her.  The events of the next few years proved deeply unsettling.  Maia would leave Jay for Damien and break his heart.

Jay submerged himself in the international art world, making huge amounts of money, marrying a girl he did not love and ending up in locations he loathed.

The last time I sat alone with him he told me how incredibly bored he was seeing the same faces day after day, the same gossip, same conversation and hankered after a the life he had at the edge of the world.

I will never, ever not love Jay.  He was the one who looked out for me when I had my stint in hospital and collected me when I was discharged.  He, for the longest time, was an occasional lover if no other pretty blond girl was available.  He was an inspiration to a legion of young artists and remains so, something they all aspire to: a show at one of his many galleries.

I watched from the sidelines as he and Lily Allen publicly shattered the vestiges of his marriage.

The truth is, I couldn’t bear Sam Taylor Wood because she wasn’t Maia.  It wasn’t her fault; she’s a perfectly nice girl.  Not a very good artist.

So goodbye Tim, have a safe flight back to London.  You make me remember the life we shared with this extraordinary cast of characters.  I miss you when you are gone.  You are a good friend.

Amanda in Malibu

Miserable day in LA.  Misty British rain rather than the fat tropical raindrops we usually have.

After breakfast with John and the lads I drove to Malibu and built a HUGE fire.  It was raining so hard I had no view what so ever.   A huge cloud had gobbled the entire house.  Luna went on a garden adventure in the rain and came home covered in mud.  I had to turn a hose on her, which caused her some consternation, then, being the Luna dog, she began to LOVE.

Now, when it rains, rather than looking downcast, worrying about how many weeds I’ll have to clear in the spring so my house doesn’t instantaneously combust when the fires come-my eyes sparkle.  The property is now one big goat buffet.   I cannot wait for them to arrive!

One of my readers suggested that I contact a goat rescue if one indeed exists.  And, blow me down; one really does exist in California.   I’ll call them tomorrow.

The general contractor arrived to discuss the changes I need to make to the roof to accommodate the solar cells required for me to get off the grid.   I also discussed how we would pump the spring water that bubbles up at the bottom of the property into where the vegetable garden will be.

Anna as Garbo

Last night Anna invited me to a party at her and Mel’s house in East LA.  I was the only man.  It was such a groovy party.  We wrote down on pages of Anna’s old script what we wanted to forget about last year and what we wanted for 2010.  I wanted to forget rather a lot.  My aims for this year are simple and sure.   I stayed a couple of hours, chatted with Jamie Babbitt and some girl who is going to be in the reality version of the L word.

Since writing yesterday how much I had forsaken during the past three decades in pusuit of hedonism I began today to formally grieve.  In pursuit of selfish ends I have destroyed a potentially wonderful career, the chance of a lasting intimate relationship and an enduring happiness.

This is no time for self-pity, however.

Misty View December 2009

My father died when he was only 53 and I like to remember that on his deathbed he would turn, at last, to God.

I’m so glad that I have a God in my life who I trust will show me the way, regardless of whether the route is treacherous or not.  To put ones life in God’s hands is not for the fainthearted.

Tim and Amanda drove from Beverly Hills to sit by the fire with me then we hacked back down the mountain and ate lunch at a raggedy hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant on the Pacific Coast Highway.  It was perfectly delicious.

As we were leaving we complimented the chef who was also lunching but on a plate of boiled hen heads.

Amanda under a portrait of Amanda

Christmas Eve with Amanda Eliasch, Tim Willis and Kay Saatchi in Beverly Hills.

I wore a tweed waistcoat.

I chattered with everyone.

It was a great night.

I was the last to leave.

Tim

Amanda cooked dinner for twenty.

We ate turkey, beef, brussel sprouts, assorted roasted root vegetables.

Every scrap was eaten.

The dogs ate beef bones.

I told other guests about my self sufficiency plan.

They were delighted.

Also discussed Health Care debate and-unsurprisingly-reality TV.

Luna and The Little Dog

Kay Saatchi wore a red silk Marni dress and took many pictures.  Tomorrow she is going to Arizona.

Luna was the belle of the ball.  Everybody loved her.

The Little Dog found a boy to trust.

They both ate tons of beef and turkey.

Earlier in the day Kay, Jerome (French cultural attache) and I took Kay’s Mustang onto Rodeo and drank hot chocolate bumping into Sharon along the way.

We were way laid by the 50% off Prada sale and Ralphs to buy Cranberry juice.

That morning I fretted for an hour about what to wear.  Finally opting for

Amanda

tweed waistcoat and cordroy trousers.

No jacket-just a shawl.

Once I arrived, formally, that night I wore birds in my hair.  Pulled two stuffed birds off the Christmas Tree and made the hat.

As I said, I was the last to leave.  No traffic at all on the way home.

Christmas morning 2009 Kay made eggs, bacon and roasted tomatoes.  We set the table in the garden and ate breakfast in the Californian sun.

By the way, my presents included these fab highlights:  1. A cashmere covered hot water bottle-I opened it and it smelt just like they used to when I was a boy.  Rubbery.

2.  A pair of scull socks from New and Lingwood.

3.  Several scented candles.

For a short while they roosted here..

4.  A promise of sobriety.

I spent most of Christmas Eve with Tim.  We have a great deal to remember together.  Trips to Greece, Scotland, Yorkshire a particularly drunken toga party on Patmos when we both fell through a plate glass coffee table.

We remembered Issie Blow who he was with for two years.

I love how Tim gets on so well with Jack and Charles-Amanda’s two grown boys.  Jack showing his love for Tim by customizing a pair of kicks for Tim’s Christmas present.

Tim’s delicious present from Amanda:  a frock coat by Paul Smith.  He looked divine.  By Christmas

Mid-Day Tim had been totally made over by Ms Eliasch.  Again.

Oh, I am all over the place.  My chronology is ruined.

Tim and I love giggling about how RUDE we had been.

I love Tim.

By the time we got home the dogs were exhausted!  They went straight to bed and we all slept like logs until the alarm went off on Christmas Morning.   I went to a 7.30am AA meeting which was TERRIBLE.

Amanda and Kay

After Kay cooked breakfast I met Jake and  his wife for Finnish rice pudding and licorice.

DON’T!  I know.

I must have received well over 200 Christmas text messages and emails and tweets, calls and Facebook messages..

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!

Fanny Cradock/Justin BondChristmas Eve in Beverly Hills last year was a mass of heaving bags, frantic women and dissolute men.   This year there was scarcely a soul on Rodeo Drive.  ‘Deck the Hills’ Beverly Hills tacky shopping slogan-hadn’t worked.  Tim, Amanda and I walked briskly from shop to shop nere another shopping bag to be seen.

In the spirit of Christmas Past I was wearing a pair of black cashmere pantaloons with pink socks and buckled shoes.  I had both the dogs with me.  All eyes on Duncan.  It is possible to be a chic farmer-as Martha Sitwell proves.  I am so sick of dressing DOWN.   Bland, dreary jeans, meaningless sweats: how can a man of any sexuality express himself sartorially?

Women, for that matter, don’t seem to have it any better.  Note the tribes of identically dressed club girls waiting in line on Ivar.  Shivering, tiny, rectangular micro-mini dresses and boucle crop tops, emaciated spikes of pink/brown flesh once born as arms and legs.

Since my rehab experience I am having a cris de coeur.  A real one.  A bone fide cris de coeur.  Well, not so much a crisis of the heart but of the cock.  A cris de pallique!

I am having an unplanned, unwanted, unloved revelation about my sexuality.  I really don’t know if I am gay anymore.  I think I might not be.  Genuinely.  I am having a MOMENT about my gayness.  Somebody wrote on some board somewhere, “If Duncan Roy doesn’t like gay sex-he isn’t gay.”  Well, as it happens, that might be true.

Lets face it; my sexual relations with man are based on recreating earlier abuses.  I seldom get excited-if ever.   I don’t get no-satisfaction. Perhaps if I trained myself to be present during sex with men but…even…even that seems like nonsense.   I just don’t enjoy men.  I lay there wondering, unengaged, what the hell am I doing here?  Out of body.  Thinking about Delia’s thick bean and bacon soup.

Wearing pantaloons does not make you a gay.  Nor do pink socks.

Justin Bond

There’s something about dressing up, wearing wonderfully exotic clothing that makes me feel complete.  Frankly, at my age, I can wear what ever I damn well please.  I could wear make up if I wanted-and have been considering it.

I don’t want to be a star cross dresser rather a star-crossed lover of beautiful things.  After all, there’s a tranny deep inside of me-who’d like to be deep inside of you.

Somewhere along the way I became confused, disillusioned or just plain bored of GAY.   It used to be fabulous; it kept me coming back, the mere spectacle of GAY..but now look..it’s crazily banal.  The bars, clubs, private parties are all the same.  The same ghastly narrative, the same Benny Hill type chases, the same miserable, vacuous queens.   I didn’t sign up for that.  I signed up for glamour and individuality.

Would any of you mind if I just stopped the gay bus and got off?

Yesterday, I found myself in conversation with a woman whose life I had been at the periphery for many, many years.   We met at lunch with Amanda and Tim and, as so often happens, we had both been caught in the same social cobweb.  But, whereas the spider had already sucked me dry-my friend is in the process of being eaten alive.

I am incredibly attracted to a certain kind of woman as I am attracted to a certain kind of man.  However, a man’s intellect does nothing for me.  I don’t wake up thinking about his brain-I wake up thinking about his cock.  His story is a means to an end.  A woman’s story can, and often does, lead to intimacy.

Okay, more of that later.  Some other day.  More will be revealed etc. etc.

I voted round one for the Academy Awards.  My personal shortlist (films I had seen) was three times longer than 2008.  The Academy will be thrilled to hear that I took my voting duties very seriously this year.

The best actor category was the hardest vote to cast.  Gordon Levitt from 500 Days of Summer left a lasting impression-but really, that was IT.  So much easier to vote for the women!   There seemed to be real choice.  The role as written for women hasn’t gotten any better but women seem to have fun with their performances.  Whilst the men seem imprisoned by introspection the women are having a fucking blast…think Up In The Air.Fanny Cradock/Elizabeth Bowes Lyons/Justin Bond

Finally for Christmas!  My Christmas cheer:

If you have the chance, time or inclination do please check out Fanny Cradock.  Fanny, a 1970’s TV chef of the British snob variety became a ‘camp ’ legend, rude, funny and disparaging she predates Simon Cowell by thirty years.  Fanny had all his savvy but in those genteel days was fired for being a bitch whereas nowadays she would be given a pay rise.

My Grandmother couldn’t stand Fanny because she’d wear long sleeves whilst say, stuffing a goose.

I always wanted to create a mid-century modern TV bitch type character based on Fanny Cradock but Justin Bond got there first with his Kiki in the award winning show Kiki and Herb.

Johnny Cradock after eating a freshly made doughnut once said, “Mmmm, delicious.  I hope all your doughnuts taste like Fanny’s”

Tim Willis Duncan Roy Ryan Fox

Today, Luna chewed three huge holes in the passenger seat of my truck.   So, by 9am I was a little glum even though I am wearing a cheerful pink shirt and rather attractive cardigan.  It’s really hard to train a Pit pup though I think I am doing OK in the circumstances.

My Jasper Morrison sofa is a wreck and needs recovered.  Saw some gorgeous blood orange velvet on Labrea below 1st street but irritatingly had just missed the 70% off sale.  This sofa is a fucking mess.  The leg keeps falling off too.  This is exactly what happens to nice furniture when you share your house with a 70lb Pit.

Frankly I don’t care about the truck.  I bought it exactly for this reason: so I didn’t have to worry about odd bumps and scratches.  The holes are in the passenger seat-not my problem.  If the dog had eaten the Porsche however…

I’ve really enjoyed the past few days after the GHASTLY gay/lesbian/cuckold dinner party debacle.  Did I mention..and I’m sure I did..that Brett Easton Ellis watches SEX REHAB.  Worth mentioning twice as there are few people I am totally awe-struck by but he is deffo one of them.

Saturday was no less interesting.  Lunch with Dom at American Rag.  Still, I find it hard to trust him as he is prone to reveal that he takes a little bit too much interest in my life-in a rather creepy way.  The fact is, the fun part of our friendship is over.

Had early evening nap then Justin and I took a cab to the 30 years of MOCA event.  Drank cans and cans of diet coke at the 30 years of MOCA after party at my friend Jerrod’s gallery on Sunset.  Chloe Sevigny, Todd Eberle, some ‘a’ gays, Dom’s snobby up her own ass arts publicist friend Bettina Korek.  An enthusiastic Sex Rehab viewer woman approached me and told me how much she loved the show.   The Asian man in the HSBC bank also ‘loves’ the show.  Until last night I ‘loved’ the show.  Last night’s show was less lovable.

Anyway, Justin woke up with a magnificent hangover on Sunday morning.   I drove to Malibu and let the dogs run around the garden that has been transformed by the new gardener.   It is so incredibly beautiful there.  Paths, vistas, secret gardens, Bananas, figs and strange green pears still on the trees.

Justin and I napped on the hammock overlooking the sea then drove to Amanda Eliash’s brunch in Beverly Hills.  Saw Sharon S with Hamish McAlpine.  Love Sharon.  I warmly congratulated Hamish for his recent wedding.  I didn’t know he was a Kent boy,  I said cheerfully, ‘I’m from Whitstable’.  He turned his fat face toward me like a crude papier-mache doll and with a vicious sneer said:  ‘I hear that people smashed your windows.’

I was tempted to deny it.  I didn’t want to remember what had happened nearly 20 years ago but it was true-there was a time in Whitstable when my windows were being smashed and anti gay graffiti was being daubed on my walls.  AIDS AVAILABLE HERE.  As I have written before, growing up gay in a small town anywhere in the world has its drawbacks.  It was a very dark time.  I was scared, vulnerable and had nowhere to run.  To have this nasty, badly dressed, rich boy reminding me, mocking me-it was too much to bear.    I wanted to rip his over sized head off his flabby shoulders.  Frankly he couldn’t have done much about it.  He looks about 65 even though we are prob the same age.

I was in no mood to let this creep diminish me so I let him have both barrels and felt a great deal better when he finally slunk away.  Reptilian, homophobic Hamish McAlpine you are a very nasty little men.

We stayed at Tim and Amanda’s for a few more hours enjoying the cast of odd characters running around the house.  Ryan Fox very sweet young director, Finley Quaye’s girl friend screaming at him on the phone for the better part of an hour.   Justin looked happy.  I don’t think that he has ever lived like this.  I am going to dress him when we go to swankier events.

Jay Rayner, Clair Rayner’s son also there.  A jolly, piano playing food writer, long hair and full belly.  A little resentful of others making more money than he does but hey, most people are.   Jay lives in Shakespeare Road, Brixton in the house directly next door to where Jay Jopling used to live-where Jay and I would have the occasional tryst.  Rayner was also well acquainted with Whitstable.  Missed out on buying there when it was cheap. Apparently a great friend of the chef Steve Harris and family.  Jay Rayner, another acerbic Brit on US reality TV.  We talked about his mother and he made me quite teary-reminding me of Clair Rayner’s reassuring a whole generation that everything was going to be okay..she was the British Dr Drew Pinsky!

Amanda invited me back for Christmas day.  I accepted.

I loved seeing Tim.  I always do.

Saw SEX REHAB show. Like most people I am irritated by glut of Kari Ann material.  It’s a pity that VH1 made her the spine of show.  Poor meth head.  However, I won’t hear a word said against her, as she is very, very sick little girl.

In bed by 10.30pm.  Up at 5.30…etc. etc.

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