Martin Amis, Eat Pray Love & Ed Miliband.

Week Ending 26th September 2010

Martin Amis speaking at the Ham & High Literary Festival was brilliant.  Well it would have been if I actually had the strength to have gone on Monday night.  Oh Mart, STILL haven’t seen you in the flesh after all these years of reading your work and bet you were a treat discussing your latest masterpiece The Pregnant Widow.  Being ill is NO fun at all – really, don’t catch this awful weather changing, why have I caught this, I have been wearing a scarf since August, malaise.  It’s about as much fun as swine flu and I was one of those unlucky bastards who caught it nearly a year ago to this day.  I did wonder why earlier this week that even as a lover of the early night, I was hitting the buffers by 9pm, rock and roll that ain’t!  By Thursday I was completely floored.

Not only did I miss the erudite Mr Amis this week but also Wanderlust, Nick Payne’s play about sex and intimacy at The Royal Court on Thursday night which has had fantastic reviews and held in the intimate surroundings of the top floor amphitheatre.  The two lucky architect friends who I gave the tickets to said it was excellent and since I had booked the tickets months ago, the whole production as usual with The Royal Court is a complete sell out, ho hum, maybe I will do the unthinkable and queue one evening.  One of the reasons of living in London rather than the country which increasingly becomes a distant memory even after living the first eighteen years of my life in the middle of nowhere is the absolute wealth of amazing treats and not all cost a fortune.  Why is it that men all have this romantic notion of the open spaces, the Labrador and being self sufficient and women with the exception of a weekend at Babington, are secretly perfectly content with pavements?

The one thing that being ill ensures is that you don’t crave a drink after a stressful day.  Those first sips like nectar are all but a distant memory when you’re ill.  In fact it is now two weeks since I’ve experienced a Tony Blair moment as he confessed in A Journey who hit the carafe after a grueling day at the coalface, rather than the bottle apparently and perhaps the odd cocktail.

Reading the bitchy comments of the fashionistas gathered at Alexander ‘Lee’ McQueen’s memorial service at St Paul’s Cathedral earlier in the week was a little unfair.  Thank god for the likes of Daphne Guinness who looked amazing, even though she had a little trip on her vertiginous heels.  Hip hip hoorah for fabulous English women like her (R.I.P. Isabella Blow) who are fashion pioneers and go against the David Cameron grain of everyone aspiring to resemble Gap Yah in identikit Boden by way of Parsons Green.

On the subject of politics, David Miliband had the shocker of his life when little Ed became the victor of the Labour party leadership.  Far from being Red Ed, which is a convenient moniker for the startled rabbit looking new leader, David is the one in favour of ID cards, CCTV and mansion tax which all are repellent if Labour is to steal a march on the spatch cock coalition.  It remains to be seen how the Manchester conference goes this week and whether Milli Vanilli have a Cain and Abel moment.

As the week closes, what better to cheer oneself up than being taken to Pizza East followed by a film at Rich Mix on Bethnal Green Road – this time Eat, Pray, Love which was of course quite surface compared to the book of the same name, although, Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem gave an entertaining performance.  I am thinking of writing Eat, Pray, Love the paradoy, Drink, F**k, Sleep, which would make a much more interesting cinematic experience.  Rich Mix were in the throes of celebrating Black History in the main hall on the way out of the cinema and as I smiled at the Jamaican lady on the stall with a jig in my step I knew I was on the track back to fighting fit and a busy week ahead.

Elizabeth Gilbert, Lonres & The Human Comedy.

Weekend 2010 - September 18^th & 19^th

Always can’t wait to read the FT on a Saturday morning for the moronic writings of The Secret Agent and the Fast Lane.  Not a week goes by without a ‘steam coming out of the ears’ academic or captain of industry asking why?  Why does The Secret Agent go on so many holidays and never seems exhausted with countless viewings?  Why does the Fast Lane feel the need to jump on a plane EVERY day?!

The Real Agent works at least 10 hours a day.  You need not apply unless you are an A1 psychologist, taxi driver, athlete and negotiator that would make the UN weak at the knees.

The gym – er once this week – not good enough.  One stone to loose before Christmas and walking from the Old Brompton Road to South Ken quickly is not going to shift it.  No alcohol for a week though which is excellent and boy do you feel the difference.

Watching Elizabeth Gilbert in conversation at the Cadogan Hall on Wednesday night, inspired me to reincarnate my blog.  Here was an attractive, ordinary woman, who had created an extraordinary life for herself.  The author of Eat Pray Love which is just being released as a movie with Julia Roberts playing Gilbert is inspiring.  Not necessary the content, but the fact that so many women felt moved to fill the Hall, with a few poor blokes reluctantly dragged there starving after work, when all they wanted was to be at home watching Eastenders with a nice glass of something and a bowl of pasta.  They wondered quite what they were doing there for an hour and a half watching a divorcee who had come full circle eating her way through Italy, meditation and prayer in India and finding love in Bali.  Whilst the assortment of women were enthralled with the crazy Belgian interviewer’s performance, the men furtively glanced their watches around 8pm and the home stretch.

Thursday night brought the annual estate agents jamboree at Burton Court in Chelsea known as Lonres.  An annual parade of the good, almost great and ever so slightly below average in the property world!  It would have been such a fabulous party had it actually been in the heatwave of June and not one that turned into a night of the living dead within half an hour of nightfall.  The new downloaded torch app on the i-phone was used until the battery had run dry and after about an hour the call of La Delizia beckoned to warm up the almost frostbitten hands and feet.  The new Gucci shoes and Joseph dress completely wasted in the dark, I wish I had worn a blanket.

Now I know that I like my theatre edgy and whilst the performance of The Human Comedy on Saturday night was far more uplifting than the recent performance of a suicide – 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane at The Barbican – in POLISH which made it EVEN more bloody harrowing than it would have been in English – The Human Comedy, a musical based in California during the second World War was just at the other end of the scale.  We lasted till the end of the first half and whilst it would’ve been easy to let the production and music wash over you to the last chord, we thought we could guess the ending.  Due to Papa’s visit, we had decided uncharacteristically to jump on public transport with the result of the 170 home thinking we had stepped into the set of Adulthood – with the gasping pit bull being given pride of place of its own prominently placed seat.

Spectator - Don't bet the house on a property plunge.

http://www.spectator.co.uk/essays/all/6258693/dont-bet-the-house-on-a-property-plunge.thtml

Extract from Exquisite Corpse 2004

The wedding of the year was to be spectacularly held in one of the finer castles in the English Countryside.  It was splashed across all of the newspapers, with lists of the famous guests or ‘rent a crowd’ that would be attending for at least two weeks before the actual event.  Adequate time for any would be gatecrasher or demon paparazzi to plan their route to hedonistic heaven.  They would all be there the write ups screamed with such excitement never seen before for a society wedding, not since the Royal Wedding in 1981 was there such pandemonium over the security and guest list.  Those society kings and queens who had sent acceptance letters to the grooms mother included:  Palm Beach Pamela, the society sunshine queen that would travel around the world in her private jet following the polo jet set and bedding them, one by one. 

P.B.P. so named as her skin was as tough as an old rhino’s from too much sun, alcohol and partying.  Pamela would spend the year, following the sun around the world, snaring each young stud that walked into her path.  There had been recent rumours that she was about to marry one such stud, a gorgeous Argentine polo player by the name of Canto Perineum, with a legendary cock as long and as strong as his most muscular stallions.  Canto owned the most beautiful ranch in the country and surprise, surprise, funnily enough was also one of the richest men in the Southern Hemisphere.  Apparently he had promised Pamela that if she married him this year, he would pay for her face, breast and tummy lift to try to make her look like a pert nineteen year old all over again.  Hopefully Pamela would have recovered suitably enough to attend the amazing wedding so that the whole media crew could gawp at her ‘work’ as they called the surgically enhanced that they reported on.

Contessa Valiuma de la Andepressanta would also be attending with her newest ski bum beau.  The Countessa lived most of the year in Gstaad, was a demon skier and had an impeccable background including an education at Rosey and two billionaire husbands that had somehow died on her within a year of marrying and had left her a vast fortune on which she most certainly enjoyed herself to the full on.  Valiuma bored with her billions had spent increasing time enjoying the old white powder rather than the powder of her beloved slopes.  The last article I remember reading about her described how she had almost died last Christmas of septicemia, from too much party snow up her surgically enhanced nostrils. 

Echinacea Kleinwort Jenson, the German banking heiress, who was now on her third marriage at the age of twenty seven.  Echinacea and Valiuma were best friends and played the international party circuit together beautifully.  They were a doubly successful poker team and played for huge sums of money against the boys at their weekly London game.  Echinacea was part of the growing billionaire going on trillionaire’s club and was well versed in the art of star fucking.  Rock stars, movie stars and pop stars, Echinacea had had them all.  From the outside world looking in, Echinacea and Valiuma had it all and more, in spades and clubs and diamonds, but perhaps not in hearts.

The most annoying of the whole Euro-trash group however, was Hermione von St John’s Wort-Winklehoffen.  I had already met Hermione a number of times since the fated wedding that I crashed and first ‘met’ her properly on the dancefloor of Tramp.  She had thankfully not recognised me at one of Billy’s extravagant drinks parties that he had thrown just before his death.  Wort-Winklehoffen made it plainly obvious that she was desperate to get into my husband’s pants and whenever Billy was in the room, she made a point of purposely standing with her back to me. She behaved as though I had practically fallen off the ‘scene’ and I was subversively blanked whenever I had the misfortune to see her. 

Oh, I almost forgot that Parisian jewellery designer cow, Catalie Hydro, who was definitely not my cup of tea.  She was also at the wedding of the year, parading her bag of tat for everyone to buy from her and thinking that she was the best dressed woman in London.  Little did she know that with those thin red pursed lips of hers she looked like she was three weeks into a serious case of constipation, maybe her lips were that pursed as she was not as successful as she liked to make out.  I would have loved to become fabulously wealthy myself I thought when I met her and then the next time I laid eyes on her, I could utterly diss her and see how she likes it the frigid old scrag.  Slightly over the top I know, but I cannot think of anything more rude to call her at this current time, it must be my delicate state.

So we made our way to the wedding of the year, or possibly the decade.  Myself and two gay male friends, who are two of my favourite people in the world.  The three of us had been talking about the possibility of ‘accepting an invitation’ to the wedding for a few weeks beforehand and thought it might be a hoot.  What better way to spend a Saturday night than to be handcuffed and arrested by the local old bill.  With security rife, how the hell would we do it?  Why did we want to do it?  How would we feel if we found gatecrashers at our own weddings?  I drove up from London that day to meet James and Edmund looking terribly dapper in their trendy but not too obviously Non-U regalia, they had taken all of about three hours getting ready to my forty minutes, including hair.

James and Edmund had always said that I was a gay man trapped in a woman’s body.  I found myself getting very upset at this crazy suggestion and told them that there was absolutely nothing ‘trapped’ about my personality whatsoever, even if it did mean that I could not quite explain why I adored dancing to Hazel Dean’s greatest hits.  We giggled as I drove to the venue and did not analyse the way that we would make our entrance into the castle grounds, which we hoped, was not accompanied by a whopping great moat.  Besides, we were far more concerned about finding the bloody place, without an aide memoir of so much as a map of the area or a previous dry-run recce.

A great friend of ours, Araminta Dunkley, who apparently had multiple experience in the art of graceful gate crashing, had come up with the ingenuous idea of trotting up to the castle door with a wine glass in each of our hands, as though we had momentarily left the wedding throng to take in a little air before dining.  Araminta had been successful hundreds of times with this clever wheeze at various book launches, rock group after show parties and even society weddings.  The only time that Araminta had come unstuck was when she had taken a large balloon size wine glass, fill with Chablis to a party filled with non-drinkers clutching their alcohol-free fruit cocktails.  It was the best piece of advice of the whole evening that we could have got.  Those wine glasses, looking back, even if they were cheap cut glass from the local ESSO garage, were our absolute saving grace.

Graceful gate crashing it was not!  The half a mile drive to the castle was as dark as hell and at low beam, with palpitating heart, I nearly managed to screw up the start to the evening by driving into the entrance’s steepest ditch.  The main entrance was swarming with paparazzi and ruddy faced locals shouting the names of the well-known faces inside the stunning looking marquee.  It certainly did not look like this gate crashing lark was going to be the biggest breeze of our lives.  Our wine glasses were held with the grip of an SAS soldier in Sierra Leone and we sauntered to the castle in the only way we knew how.  The mix of royalty, ageing rock stars, wannabes and security inside was just too full on to make a perfect front door crash.  This is the point where we should have reverted to plan B.  Which of course, we did not have. 

So in gay shoes and my Jimmy Choos, we trampled across an ‘alternative route’ around the castle walls and the adjacent, surprisingly for this time of year, rather muddy cow field.  I have to say that when we realised that we might have to scale the castle’s fortressed walls at one point, we paled in terror and nearly let fly the whole idea to retreat back to the safety of my VW and the local nightclub.  Especially as the ropes and ladders that we had forgotten to bring with us AND high heels (worn by all three of us!) was not quite the ideal situation to find oneself in when faced by a bit of impromptu wall scaling and Oxfordshire cow merde.  We were unquestionably not having it all at nine o’clock that fateful Saturday night.

However, the ghost of party spirit was on our side that night and fifty metres hence, we fell upon a five foot wooden fence which we decided was worth getting a leg over for.  We swiftly got a leg over, only to be encountered on the other side by a young girl with a playful Jack Russell.  The dog apparently belonged to Lady B, the bride groom’s mother, who would be along any minute to check on her beloved hound.  A great deal of fuss was made by us towards the stunned looking terrier and our new found friend, namely Lady B’s nanny and our orientation became a little more louche and relaxed as we happily walked inside the walled gardens.  Hurrahs all round, hugs for each of us, we had got in.  That is until we were ‘found’ by a burly security guard manning the premises. 

With wine glasses still firmly in our hands even after the fence climb, we decided that the best thing to do in this situation was to sit down in the conveniently placed herb garden terrazzo and feign me not feeling on best form to say the least.  Mr. Security asked (just a little suspicion rising in his voice), if we were lost.  I replied in a confident but relaxed voice that I had not been feeling terribly well and had wanted to come for a bit of a walk around the castle grounds and breathe a little fresh air to make me feel better before embarking on dinner.  Mr. S scared the living daylights out of us when he explained that the dobermans and rottweilers were out patrolling the castle tonight and that it was not a safe idea to be walking around on our own.

Thanking him for his concern and that I was feeling a touch better, the security guard kindly showed us the correct and safest way to the marquee. Had we not been carrying our now extensively finger stained wine glasses we would not have got away with it. Don’t even need to go to Brixton these days to live life on the edge.  Just walk through Hyde Park in a thunder & lightning storm and you’ve pretty much had it, or indeed here at Superbenders Castle.  We could hear music, the lights were a beautiful mix of torches and lanterns and we just could not wait to show the crowd how trendy and fashionable we were and to show them how we could shake our thang on the dancefloor.

Shit, bugger, fuck.  The five hundred starry night arseholes were still on the main course of their dinner and the three of us looked like complete loonies again, standing outside of the marquee huddled under a tree.  Security and dogs patrolled past us at too regular intervals for comfort.  Anyone videoing our trepidation would find it was like watching a farce, akin to television’s Big Brother but hopefully a touch more glamorous and without the mingers.  Not only that, but James had decided to bring Space cake with him as our own wedding night celebratory dinner!  What the hell, we chomped it down and giggled for what seemed an eternity under the ancient oak until ………………in like Flynn………………Well I’m not going to tell you quite how we did it now am I, but it was bloody good.  Not a breeze, no James Bond heroics to get in, but it tuned into a truly memorably five in the morning sort of a night. 

The house was packed, every gold backed chair was taken and the gallery stood cheek by jowl.  Everyone behaved impeccably wooden, no running, no diving, no petting for these guys.  They were all here, to see and be seen, with their rented designer clothes and Harry Winston loaned spectacular diamonds.  Ah, there by the waterfall was the bride and groom, the stunning Dozy Malteser and her new husband Queenie Burghley, who looked like they’d been on Senokat all week.  I observed that Dozy and Queenie had spent ages chatting inanely to Stefan Bling-Bling the cosmetics queen, perhaps he was their dealer.  Edmund, James and I were not especially assiduous at this gate crashing business; however, one could not fault the wow factor of the party, dominated by the ruthless doyenne of Supershyster PR.  At last we were having it all.

We danced, we stared and we marveled at the spectacle before our eyes.  There were rose bowls filled full of Columbian’s finest on each table complete with silver straws engraved with the initials of each guest, there was a five foot tower of the most delicious smelling flowers artistically entwined with fruits hardly imaginable, gracing each table’s centerpiece.  But the most interesting spectacle of all was the flirting; smooching and bickering amongst the sea of Pilates toned bodies, moving on from the partner that they had come to the party with and moving swiftly on to the new pick up, in one deftly maneuver.  Including a guest appearance by the three musketeers on the wedding evening video (yes we thought that a bit naff too for a celebration of this calibre) and Edmund’s drunken ‘Darling you look fabulous, congratulations’, speech to the startled bride!  We all thought that this was terribly brave on Edmund’s part, what wouldn’t have made a great party, without a bit of kitsch?!

Novel - Unmitigated Disaster - synopsis

Unmitigated Disaster - synopsis

Chapter One

The door of the Dorchester suite closed shut as Carina Jefferson slowly opened her eyes from a very bleary eyed sleep.  In her millimetre squint, she saw the dark haired man close the door quietly behind him.  She tried to sit up but could hardly move.  She became panic stricken.  Had she suffered a stroke in the middle of the night?   She had recently read about thirty-two year olds who had gone to bed quite happily and the next morning were speechless, quite literally.  No it couldn’t be a stroke?  Could it?  She was the healthiest woman that she knew. 

Her eyes slowly focused on the crushed white powder on the mirror balanced onto the bedside table a foot away from her and there was a small rim of white powder still left on the small glass with what looked like whisky inside of it.  Call housekeeping immediately she struggled as she edged towards the telephone.  There was no doubt about it, Carina had been drugged.  She could not feel her mouth; it tingled as she drew a heavy lifeless hand to her lips.   What the hell happened last night?  How could she have been so out of it to end up like this?  As Carina looked at her left hand she saw a new band of gold around her wedding finger that was never there when she walked into the hotel lobby late last night.

That man, the one that had just left the room, she knew him from somewhere.  He was unmistakable and completely without disguise as he left their suite.  Surely he should have been wearing a party nose and moustache and a hat shouldn’t he?  The paparazzi would get him outside in no time and he would be turned into the FBI, M15, and the BBC in an instant.  The person who had walked out of their elegant suite not five minutes before was none other than Osama Bin Laden.  She had somehow between eight o’clock last night and ten o’clock that morning got herself married to the most wanted terrorist on god’s earth.  She was now Mrs. Bin Laden.

Chapter Two

On the other side of town, Freddie Davidoff was having huge problems with his penalty shoot out practice.  He played for Milwall, which was no longer the hooligans best friend, but a football stadium in the East End of London that had now been converted into a multi-million state of the art contemporary football club, perfect for the Olympics which were due to be held there in 2012.

If Freddie wanted to be England Captain next season, he was seriously going to have to knuckle down and get some decent practice in.  Out must go the late wild nights partying without his plastic fantastic wife and her mentally unstable sister.  In must come six in the morning starts, ten mile runs and more goal practices than he could even imagine.   Although, it would be a very hard move to make.  He could hardly take such inspiration from his boss Geezer Nokia, who spent most of his day looking for a love pad to house his new fling of the moment, when Geezer should have been coaching the team into a replica 1966 winning first team.

Chapter Three

Back at home, still in quite a haze, Carina sat herself down at her minimalist desk and tried to concentrate on writing her weekly column.  She was a widely read and widely talked about columnist on the most popular warts and all celebrity magazine.  This week Carina was writing about celebrities who hung out in Park Lane hotel bars.  Of course, that’s how she ended up at the Dorchester last night.  Mingling with teeny bopper pop stars and pimply soap stars all squeezed into faux leather booths, pouting at each other over pre and post dinner cocktails.

She felt absolutely shocking, but it wasn’t too difficult.  Carina could type one hundred words per minute and how difficult could it be to write about the odd inch of cellulite or whether red and green should never be seen?  Because her job wasn’t mentally tiring or particularly exciting to such a bright girl as Carina, she had the time and energy to spend getting a little more excitement out of her evenings.  Once she got the low down on the gossip for the magazine, she would spend time seeking out and even flirting with the more ‘interesting’ guests at the party.  Obviously last night was no different.

She looked down at her hand and saw the wedding band.  She couldn’t possibly have been drugged for her own wedding?  She may have flirted with slightly career elusive Middle Eastern looking men, but surely she would have remembered marrying them?  The ring would not come off, not with soap, not with WD40, every liquid advertised; hell bent on removing the toughest stains would not remove the gold band on her finger.  Well it was rather exquisite she thought and looked quite antique.  I will just have to keep it on until it wears itself away she thought and carried on emailing her piece to her editor.  

Chapter Four

A few thousand miles away, Dog Tired the faded 60’s pop recluse was just landing at LAX airport.  He had converted to Islam after a huge publicised row about monks not being able to wear trousers, with the Pope on a tour of the Vatican in his heyday.  Dog immediately denounced his Roman Catholicism and persisted on being photographed with a copy of the Koran whenever possible.

Dog was making a comeback.  He had been thirty years out of the spotlight and he was ready for another go at tripping the light fantastic.  Hollywood was definitely the place to position himself for the new reinvented Dog Tired.  After the war on terror, the Midwest had taken to reading the Koran in droves and they would understand his subliminal messages in his new lyrics.  Although Hollywood was primarily run by the Jewish community, Dog would prove to Hollywood that he and his message was the perfect catalyst for both sides of the religious conflict to unite as one at last.  Dog Tired would be more of a united one-world hero than any Bush or Kerry administration could ever be.

Chapter Five

Freddie Davidoff was despondent as he clicked his purple limited edition Ferrari shut.  He stood outside of his huge mock Tudor mansion in the middle of Epping Forrest and sighed a heavy sigh.  How could his wife, his tour de force be such a power wielding hungry, cold calculating bitch.  He had wanted to give up football two seasons ago when he had turned thirty three.  He would have been able to go for the sports pundit position that he was loosely offered on Sky for a huge amount of money.  But oh no, Deborah Davidoff, the money grabbing attention seeking wife of his made him stay in the game.

Freddie Davidoff wanted more than anything else now to be an actor.  He had a great face and still a great body, why it made him more money in endorsements for sunglasses and designer jeans than football every could.  He had a fantastic agent in the guise of one Jonathan Wiseman, the best connected Jew in the business and the agent of many a Hollywood film star.  If Tom Ford could make the transition from designer dresses to downing daiquiris on the silver screen, then why couldn’t the gorgeous Freddie Davidoff do the same?  He would pass it by Wiseman at the launch of the newest Mayfair members bar and club Doodle tonight.

Chapter Six

Carina Bin Laden, nee Jefferson got ready for tonight’s launch of Doodle.  Still feeling quite woozy after the previous night at the Dorchester, Carina wasn’t so sure that she should even be going out at all.  The only reason was that she could probably glean enough material for a whole month of issues of Cheap Tat tonight with all the A to Z listers going to be at the party.  It would then give her enough time to fathom out who and why she had managed to get herself married to a man that she did not know last night.  She felt very vulnerable and completely unnevered.  What was she doing coming back to her own apartment on her own?  Surely a man like that must have surveillance on her night and day?  As long as she stayed in the clear and did not do anything wrong or speak to the wrong people, it would go away, and surely they would leave her alone?

Freddie and Deborah Davidoff were having the biggest argument of their lives.  He hated her common look and thigh split Versace.  Why couldn’t she wear something a little less obvious?  Dear Freddie came from a nice Home Counties family and could still not understand why his gutter snipe wife could not shake off her Black Country accent and her fondness for plastic four inch stilettos, whatever expensive help that they were able to employ.  Her sister Wendy was not much help either, always edging her on to wearing outré outfits that got the flashbulbs of the waiting photographers in a frenzy.  Deborah Davidoff featured on the cover of Cheap Tat three out of four issues a month.  The only reason that she did not appear was either because she was in Japan endorsing new karaoke machines, or because she was too ill or too weak from her self inflicted food neurosis.

Chapter Seven

Jonathan Wiseman could not be missed as the centre piece of any party.  His clients adored him and genuinely so.  He got them the best jobs in the business, he had the best personal contacts and most importantly, made his clients more money than most of the other sports and actors agents in town put together.  ‘Hey Freddie, you know Mr. Yokomoto here is looking for a new face for his trendy new painkillers,’ said Jonathan enthusiastically.  ‘Sounds great, hello Mr. Yokomoto,’ replied Freddie politely and smoothly as ever, giving a huge flash of Harley Street veneers. 

‘Jonathan you know that footballers aren’t supposed to suffer from headaches, I don’t think that Geezer Nokia will allow me to do this one,’ said Freddie.  ‘Don’t worry about Geezer, he could do with a few painkillers himself, maybe the two of you could do the campaign, it’s going to be in South Korea anyhow.’  ‘I thought the strap line, relieves your pains on and off the pitch, might be good one Freddie,’ smiled Jonathan looking directly at Deborah Davidoff who was doing a very good impression of a Christmas tree.  ‘By the way Jonathan, I want to pass an idea I have about my future with you, you’re an expert on getting the best out of Hollywood actors I hear.’

Carina whoever she was since last night, had enough material to sink a battleship.  Everybody who the PR company invited had made it to the launch of Doodle that night.  Carina put away her notepad and thought that she would stay for one more drink to relax from the tensions of the night before.  Plus she did not want to return to an empty apartment just yet, be good to speak to some familiar faces to put her at ease again.  After two years of writing about micro minis and rhinoplasty, she couldn’t wait to talk to a few old friends from fashion college that she noticed in the crowd.

Carina walked over to a rather ornate swan ice sculpture in the middle of the room, it was beautifully carved with real looking black and orange eyes.  Champagne poured over its wings and into ready glasses moved in to place by the expert waiting staff.  ‘Do you like my masterpiece,’ a voice said from behind Carina.  She turned around to see the most handsome man of questionable heritage.  He could have been a whole mix of different species Carina thought.  A beautiful olive skinned face with piercing green eyes and dark smartly groomed eyebrows.  Lebanese, Indian, Egyptian or Afghan she had no idea where.  Carina turned around to face her stranger head on.  ‘Fabulous sculpture,’ she said.  ‘I’m a partner in this club, I’m glad you like it,’ said the devastating stranger.  ‘My name is Salem Compton-Brown,’ he offered.  ‘And I am Carina, um, Carina Jefferson.’  ‘I know, I’ve seen you before,’ replied Salem not altogether unfamiliarly.  ‘Promise me that you will meet me for dinner tomorrow night at Zuma Carina,’ said Salem.

Salem Compton-Brown was quite an English sounding name thought Carina as she went home in the taxi that night.  Where had she met him before?  His face was a little familiar but she could not remember having spoken to him before.  Although she met many people in her line of work and new faces came in and out of fashion, such a beautiful, sophisticated man such as Salem Compton-Brown, she would have definitely remembered.  As she fumbled in her bag for her purse to pay the taxi driver, Carina accidentally stumbled and sat back down on her mobile phone.  Damn she had accidentally dialled 999, the safety lock wasn’t on.  I hope I didn’t waste their time she thought and felt bad as she realised what she had done.  Five minutes later as she was putting her key in the lock, her mobile rang, number withdrawn.  ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello, Ms. Jefferson, Scotland Yard here, is everything ok?’ ‘Yes, fine thank you, sorry I dialed 999 by mistake, I’m so very sorry,’ said Carina in a state of shock.  ‘If you need anything, do call us any time day or night.’  The line went dead.

Chapter Eight

Off the coast of Belize a conference call was taking place.  ‘We are ready for Operation Mount in one month’s time,’ said the voice in Belize.  ‘Affirmative,’ replied the other voices in North Korea, Sudan, Iran and Finchley in North London.  ‘I have been surveying the area all week and all is going to plan.’  The major terrors of the world were planning the biggest attack ever seen to coincide with the Hollywood Bi-Centenary taking place the following month.  ‘Who is taking care of the how shall we phrase it, guest list?’ asked the North Korean General.  ‘Everybody will be there Sir, I have their acceptances in writing,’ said the voice from Hollywood itself.  ‘I have organised past, present and future of Hollywood, leading heads of state and even the US President himself is giving a speech on the night.’  ‘Good work and now we will not rest until those uncultured ignorant philstines no longer remain on Mohammed’s soil.’  Dog Tired put down the telephone, he had a lot of preparations to make.

Chapter Nine

Freddie Davidoff gave his last conference at Milwall before he left that day for Hollywood.  Jonathan Wiseman sat next to him, fielding away any unwanted questions on why he wasn’t taking Deborah with him.  Little did they know that Freddie and Deborah were now estranged following his complete embarrassment of her at the Doodle launch party.  ‘Freddie will be appearing in a fabulous cameo part as an international footballer in the new Quentin Tarrantino movie,’ Jonathan announced with all the pride of a new mother.  ‘Wonder if he will get to keep his cheesy grin or whether Tarrantino will make it wider for him with one of his swords,’ quipped one of the many present hacks.

Chapter Ten

Carina still couldn’t remove the damn band of gold on her left hand.  Salem Compton-Brown was going to ask her god knows how many questions about it at dinner at Zuma tonight she was sure of it.  She had to get some sort of story straight about it, she couldn’t think she was so nervous.  As he walked into the restaurants, every woman’s head turned.  Salem Compton-Brown looked and smelt amazing.  He looked supremely confident but not a bit pretentious in his hand cut Saville Row suit.  His mother would have been proud of him, whoever and wherever she came from Carina thought.

Salem Compton-Brown turned out to be half Saudi Arabian and half English.  His mother a wealthy oil producer’s daughter had fallen in love with an English old Etonian called Compton-Brown in the sixties.  Salmira Wassabi was a society beauty of her day in Saudi Arabia and came over to live with her parents in a suite at the Dorchester one summer when she turned eighteen.  She had met Gordon Compton-Brown at a dance given in the Dorchester’s ballroom in her honour.  Young Gordon was a cherished debs delight who could not be kept off a smart London party’s list.  The eighteen year old Salmira was immediately taken with his good English looks and height and they married exactly one year later.

Salem’s parents were now divorced.  The once beautiful Salmira died of breast cancer ten years ago.  His father Gordon met a faded sixties supermodel at a mutual friends dinner party one night and now helped her at her donkey sanctuary in deepest Devon.  It sounded like Salem had enjoyed a reasonably comfortable yet conventional English public school life, even though now he was lumped together with the nocturnal playboys that made up the partnership of Doodle.  I wondered why he had singled me out at the Doodle party?  God knows the room was five deep in gold lame with Paris Hilton look-alikes strutting their stuff in front of admiring glances.

Salem Compton-Brown made no mention of Carina’s band of gold, which she felt a little odd.  Maybe he didn’t see the wedding band she thought.  Although, he was so meticulous with his own clothes that he surely would have taken in every little detail about her, especially as he seemed so interested.  Maybe he already knew why she was wearing it, but she did not feel he was acting odd towards her in any way at all. Salem was very open about his past and the way that his parents had forged perfect Saudi and Anglo dynasties together.  He had a job as a partner in Doodle which cost over twenty million to refurbish and to market, he was used of course for his vast inheritance and his contacts.  Wasn’t he?

Chapter Eleven

Freddie had just completed his first acting class with LA’s top coach.  Jonathan Wiseman had organised it of course.  Freddie, perhaps not a natural but definitely not as wooden as some of the hopefuls that showed up on a daily basis waiting tables in the Rodeo Drive coffee shops waiting for the big one, Freddie had a huge head start in the movie stakes.

‘“Slash, Bang, Wollop” is going to be just HUGE Fredster,’ said Jonathan confidently.  ‘You are going to be the next big thing, I can feel the buzz about you Freddie, the chicks all love you.’  ‘And the guys all love you too,’ winked Jonathan.  ‘There’s Quentin Tarrantino over there now Freddie,’ said Jonathan.  ‘Hey Quentin, what do you think of my new star, mean mother with a sword don’t you think?’ asked Wiseman.  ‘Hey dude, that was a great scene, just great,’ said Quentin.  The cult movie legend congratulating a mere bit part ex-footballer on his newly honed martial arts skills.  Freddie Davidoff could get used to this.  Deborah and her dippy sister Wendy seemed a whole lifetime away.

Chapter Twelve

Carina looked out of the window along the Champ D’Elyses.  Paris was so beautiful in the springtime and so was the man lying next to her.  Salem Compton-Brown certainly moved fast.  Carina Compton-Brown certainly had a certain ring to it.  Well slightly better than Carina Bin Laden it had to be said.  Even though they had only known each other for a week, Salem would hardly let Carina out of his sight.  She was absolutely caught up in the whirlwind of the amazing romance.  Dinner at every fashionable restaurant that Salem had a substantial share in for the past week and now, a five star Parisian weekend, complete with private jet.  All at Salem’s expense.  He had still not asked about her wedding ring.  Maybe he thought it was a modern girl’s statement.  After all there was what looked like ancient writing around it and it could possibly pass for a Boodle, Doodle & Dunthorp number.

Short Story - Immortality 2004

Short Story - Immortality

Closing the pages of The Times, Simon Dawlish sighed.  What would his father General Dawlish have made of his favourite newspaper now being sold in this strange tabloid version?  Nothing lasts forever his father would have said.  For all intents and purposes it felt and looked like the free local Devon rag that fell upon the mat on a rainy Thursday afternoon.  Indeed it was a rainy Thursday November afternoon today.  Simon looked at his watch it said a quarter past three.  He had better put on his coat and drive the twenty minutes to see Mrs. Winterson at Clifftop Hall in Clifftop Bay.  Since he had been back in England, Simon spent an hour with Mrs. Winterson in her rambling old precariously perched grand house every Thursday afternoon, ‘talking things through’ as she called it.  Simon wasn’t sure if the weekly hour spent with Mrs. Winterson (he never knew her first name in the five years that he had known her) really made a difference to his sanity or not.

In the car on the way to Clifftop Bay, Simon skimmed through the channels of the car radio.  Depending on his mood and indeed the weather this would habitually sway his choice of motoring accompaniment.  Heavy traffic signaled that Simon needed to listen to calming influences such as Classic FM and Radio 4 rather than the usual heart speeding dance music and aggressive rap that seemed to emulate from every other station he encountered.  He remembered one particularly fraught afternoon that he had spent in the car at the end of this summer.  The afternoon was still vivid in his memory even now.  How odd what one remembers Simon mused a non eventful car journey two months ago.  After everything that he had been through in his career all over the world, he was amazed that he still loved to drive.  His best friend Robert Jeffries had been killed this year in Northern Ireland.  A drunken visiting American Marine had crashed into them driving home from a regimental party.  Simon liked to think that every time he stepped into his car; he was somehow preserving the memory of his best friend Robert.

Simon was driving through Peckham in South East London on a very hot, sticky Saturday afternoon.  He was driving back from his ex-wife’s house after having lunch with her and the children.  It had been a particularly tense lunchtime.  The nervous excitement he experienced as he approached his one monthly visit to his two children Harriet and Ben.  The children’s constant screaming and tantrums.  He would have brought up his children differently, precocious spoilt London brats that they were, but he loved them both enormously and he would never abandon them.  A house of screaming banshees in the middle of gentrified Victorian London.

Notwithstanding that his ex-wife Theodora was getting married again so soon after their divorce but coupled with the ninety degree heat; Simon could not wait to get back into the unruffled world of his air conditioned car.  The soothing sounds of Classic FM hiked up to full blast to alleviate the hoards of ant like shoppers, zig zagging in front of his eyes moving fast and dangerously towards retail nirvana.  As he moved ironically tortoise like in his new Mercedes sports willing the traffic lights to go green but seeming forever to be programmed on red.  The stress of the self inflicted social occasion compounded with real life in all its glory before his windscreen.  

Simon had just returned from Kabul just forty eight hours earlier with one arm bandaged heavily.  The children had asked why daddy was bandaged up like action man.  They could help him with his bandages, they had learnt about doctors and nurses at school that week.  Simon turned up the radio louder the panic to find some open country was overwhelming him.  The shoppers out in Peckham today were not to know that he had nearly died fighting for his country and saving millions from their peril.  Whether he lived or died was no concern of theirs, only another statistic on the ten o’clock news.  People would still shop every Saturday, get drunk, make love, argue, and abuse each other.  Without him.  Without a second thought for wars thousands of miles away.  Life went on. 

It was a brave thing to do Mrs. Winterson had told him when he met with her the following Thursday.  Such social instances that most London people took for granted were going to be more than doubly traumatic for a war hero such as himself.  ‘I’m not a war hero Mrs. Winterson,’ said Simon seriously.  ‘The things that I have to do are part of my job, there is nothing heroic in cutting short the lives of young people whatever they have gotten themselves involved in,’ Simon had told Mrs. Winterson solemnly.  ‘You’ve had a very upsetting year Simon,’ replied Mrs.Winterson.  ‘You’ve got divorced, you’ve moved house, your best friend has been killed, we must not dwell on the past however difficult it is to move on, we must look to the future now,’ Mrs.Winterson said softly but resiliently.   ‘You have masterminded deadly and important missions Simon, but I’m afraid I have to give my professional advice to your superiors,’ said Mrs. Winterson seriously.  ‘I have given the matter much thought and I am afraid I do not find you in rude enough mental health to go back to the field at this time.’  ‘I understand Mrs.Winterson if that is your final decision,’ replied Simon.  And with that Major Dawlish stood up and made his own way out of the library room of Clifftop Hall back out to the drizzling rain.  The sort of rain that seeps into your bones and impregnates even the hardiest Barbour.

Well that told him.  He was going to be pen pusher from now on.  A very safe option.  Good job, good salary up at GCHQ investigating any intelligence leads that his men on the field under covered for him.  Life was going to be different now.  Simon either had to accept it or drown in his misery.  He should look at the opportunity of facing many more days and years ahead, he was only forty four for God’s sake.  One of the reasons why his wife divorced him was that she never knew whether it was going to be the last time that she ever saw him as he walked out of the door on his way to his next mission.  Now he was going to be a white collar worker like everyone else he knew outside of the military.

Making his way home, Simon stopped the windscreen wipers, the rain was easing up at last and the sun peaked out behind the clouds before it went down westwards for the evening.  A rainbow was just beginning to appear and it arched like a magnificent Greek structure across the sky.  Of all the miles that he had travelled in the army, he had thought that he would have found the end of the rainbow by now somewhere in the world.  Simon laughed to himself.  How ridiculous.  They go on for ever stupid, indefinite and immortal.

Dave Cameron's new idea of Big Society?! I wrote this article in 2006.

Fight or Flight? By Joanna Symes

With mounting pressure on future generations’ use of the earth’s resources and the competition for jobs increasing every year, shouldn’t the Government be promoting a new alternative to the student gap year?  A new compulsory coming of age National Service perhaps?  Non military service working for an overseas charity, a certified fair trade producer or an established company with an environmental mission which involves shock horror… an element of old fashioned hard graft.

With today’s students competing fervently for university places to study the life works of Madonna and yet another Media Studies course, one has to reflect whether three years of boozing and bonding really is the way forward for the world’s future decision makers.  Notwithstanding that most under graduates start their university education at nineteen after the now almost obligatory and fashionable ‘gap year’.  Not everybody knows what they eventually want to do career wise aged eighteen.  Forced to decide what they want to do at university is like asking a grade A fourteen year old psychic’s student with an interest in molecules whether they might be interested in helping Iran with their nuclear programme in a few years time.

It is very conceivable that the so called ‘gap year’ has replaced the life changing experience of the standard three years of university life before young adults enter the frenzied world of making a living.  Among ABC1s as the Government still likes to categorise people, the offspring of the upper echelon of society are eschewing university altogether after their gap year.  It is no longer fashionable or necessary to go to university when making a living from making jewellery or launching your new Japanese restaurant is beckoning.  Many of this group however confident are still happy to spend their year ‘bumming’ around Thailand or surfing the waves in Australia rather than focusing their minds on more serious issues.

Generally speaking, it would unfair to adopt the policies of the fun police and stop gap years being fun.  Why doesn’t the Government think ahead of all of those new adults who could vote for them and encourage their career paths instead of insisting on crippling fees to learn about the intricacies of the venn diagram of reality TV?  Maybe there should be further incentives and policies set up by the Government for the future generation to embark on a year of being environmentally and socially sound.  Eighteen year olds will well and truly be able to say that they can have their hash cakes and eat them.  Or should the Government offer the old style grants to those individuals who enrol on what could be packaged and PRed in a much more appealing way as the new one year National Service without battle?

In the UK between 1945 and 1963, two and a half million young men were duty-bound to their time in National Service.  The only escape was failing the medical.  National Service initially required a one year period to be served in the Armed Forces.  However, the dawn of the Cold War and the emergency of men being thrown into combat situations such as Malaya increased the period of service to eighteen months in 1948 and two years with the demands of the Korean War between 1950-1953.  Two years service remained at two years until the last National Serviceman, Second Lieutenant Richard Vaughan of the Royal Army Pay Corps, was demobbed on 16 May 1963.

Todays under graduates could decide to incorporate their new one year National Service to an area of future relevance to their impending careers if they were canny enough.  An individual with a future desire to work for BP or Shell for example, could enrol on a National Service experience for the company both in the UK and abroad on projects researching and producing cleaner fuels.  Visiting the oil refineries, learning the politics of laying down pipes in countries such as Azerbaijan and downing vodka shots in Polish mining towns would surely enhance the strategic mind of a future oil corporation’s employee no end?

Would be teachers could apply to teach English, art or PE to those in the developing world.  Whether your penchant is for climbing in the hilltop village schools of Nepal or teaching in the Ugandan village of Kaliro at the local Bukumankoola Primary School, a network of one year’s non combat National Service would be staged.  Think that you could make it to director of Thames Water one day?  Why not choose your one year service by joining a Ganga Yatra?  Ganga Yatra consists of a journey for saving the Ganges for pollution, diversion and privatisation.  Makes the running of a UK relatively clean Water Company seem simple in comparison.

The not so eco profession of making millions working at a world leading investment bank could very possibly benefit from a pre-stint working for an ethical fund.  Step forward Jupiter’s Socially Responsible Investment Team or the Ecology Building Society.  The ‘in’ gap year of the 1980’s was to work the land based in a Kibbutz.  Why not take that idea one step further and pick grapes at the ever growing number of organic farms both here and abroad.  Or learning to milk and farm herds of organically fed and reared cows for those interested in a prospective job at Waitrose?

Those unfortunates already slapped with an ASBO should be persuaded that there is more to life than hanging out at the mall or zig zagging on the already over crowded roads in their packs.  Shopping malls are the preserve of the bored and the plastic fantastic.  The present deterrent seems to make no difference to these cash hungry hooded adolescents with a limited education.  In fact being in possession of an ASBO is sacrament to a badge of honour.  ASBOs individuals having to spend a year clearing up after natural disaster somewhere in the world would surely be more of a frightening experience than a driving licence sized piece of paper and a 10pm curfew?  One which would, if one believes in hope, challenge the ASBO owner’s thoughts on their haunting existence.  How would they feel after lifting concrete boulders in Pakistan rescuing survivors and deceased from an earthquake?

Once started, it is easy for a myriad of ideas come to mind on how to spend a year putting to the world to rights.  Only this time putting the world to rights would mean a more physical sense rather than over ten pints at the student union.  How to fund the year would be of course the Government’s first question.  Well gap year students are already funded by their parents or earn the money themselves from a stint of weekend and evening work.  The scheme could be run as a company in the vein of the Voluntary Services Overseas (VSO) with those working without parents’ handouts earning the going rate of a novice teacher, builder or farmer.  Accommodation could be on an exchange type basis if there are no funds directly coming from parental help.  Government spending on overseas aid and emergency funds could come in the form of human beings physical help as well as monies to the charities directly.

The last point being relatively controversial because the Tsunami appeal being a victim of its own success.  The millions generously donated to the charities exceeded far and beyond the munificence expected.  Resulting in the British Red Cross being in funds for more than they could spend in the Tsunami disaster areas, but unable to legally distribute the monies to Africa for example.  Legally, monies raised have to go to the cause originally stated and not to the charity as a whole.  Perhaps part financial part human worker on a one year gap year or new National Service, whatever to call it would be a possible solution to the earth’s problems.  Not least in immediate help within disaster zones. 

It is no doubt a million miles from a two week stint at a five star spa on Parrot Cay.  Only the difference with Parrot Cay after a month back at home the memories are of the azure waters and relaxation after spending three thousand pounds.  The memories and experience of a year in some of the poorest countries or being part of changing the food chain to a natural one would be an experience that was unforgettable and most likely life long.  National Service whether compulsory or ecologically sound gap year is one that the Government should embrace sooner rather than later to encourage the coming generations’ climatic changing environment.

Non combat – Vive le environmental revolution.