Spent the larger part of this morning in bed skyping with Tim Willis whose book about Nigel Dempster hits the shelves today in the UK.
When I was a small boy living in Stanley Road, Whitstable I used to just love reading his column. A window into another altogether more exciting world. A world with which my Mother was very familiar from her days working as a waitress in the Carlton Club.
I was secretly shocked and delighted by his salacious Royal gossip. Dempster’s code name for the Queen when he wrote about her in Private Eye: Brenda.
I think more than anyone it was he who inspired prepubescent me to search out the fun-loving aristocrat and the demi-monde. I alluded to him at the beginning of my film AKA.
Years later he wrote about me unfavourably after I was caught pretending to be ‘one of them’.
Nigel Dempster and the Death of Discretion published by Short Books. Buy it.
Today I am strangely at peace with myself. It’s been this way more often than not these past few days. I have no idea why. I guess because I am no longer in love. No longer pining. No longer focused on another. I am listening to Copeland, majestic strings elevating the view, the moment..this life!
Two good friends called for advice. Isn’t that strange? I can help others when I tend not to be able to help myself.
Now that my fantasy of loving another has been safely stowed in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of me I can concentrate on what I do best. Dreaming. The dream of love is so much better than the reality. Good God it is so exhausting being in love. So consuming. Being in hate can be just as tiring. Thankfully I am neither.
I have named the lil maggot on my ball. A pain in the balls. I have a picture of my tumor. I will put it up when I can.