Still Alive

I'm very much still alive, but for the past fortnight, I have been unable to post, as the power and all lines of communication to the house were cut by the worlds press, in an attempt to smoke Leslie out, so that he would say something about his friendship with Peter. We remained steadfast, (we have a generator in the outhouse, and enough grub to last a year) and yesterday evening the last of the paparazzi left. This morning the gentleman from the telephone company came and re-connected the lines, and bingo! here I am back 'on-line'.
Three weeks worth of newspapers got delivered this morning, and hardly a dickie bird about Peter, Leslie or Michael Jackson, so it looks as though it might have blown over. But I see the Booker shortlist has been published. Leslie was delighted to see Alan Hollingshurst on the list of course, but followers of this blog will be feeling terribly chuffed at seeing David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas make the cut. Some weeks ago, I said that you could get eights about him at Hills; now he's come into evens. I had a pop at that price; even if he doesn't win (which I suspect he will), then at least I (and those of you who took my tip) will have managed to get a bit of value. He's not worth backing at even money, of course, but Sarah Hall is at ten to one for The Electric Michaelangelo, and for my money is the most fancied of this outsiders. I'll have a little hedging bet on her at that price. Most fancied in every sense; she was at Phuckwhitt in the summer, and is a little corker; thinking mans crumpet, if ever there was.

Richard and Judy fiasco.

Well, Richard and Judy have been and gone, and their little film on Phuckwhitt Hall was shown last night. I still think it was a good idea to have them here, despite everything. If only I had drunk a little less at dinner, perhaps I would have managed to resist sliding my hand up Judy's thigh under the table. Perhaps even more pertinently, in view of the current situation re the Leslie/Peter Mandelson/Michael Jackson photographs, it would have helped if Leslie could have resisted sliding his hand up Richards shapely leg. Neither of our overtures were at all welcome, and the couple stormed out, taking the film crew with them. Mrs Evans was most upset, as she had cooked a splendid meal, and had been promised a line of charlie by the cameraman by way of a thank you. Their piece, 'Pervert Hall' did not cast us at all in the light we had hoped for. Far from it. In fact, we are now besieged by the world's press, who are camped around the perimeter. We can't get out to the town for supplies without being asked about Peter. A few of our friends are rallying round, and trying to get fags etc into us. Protest singer Tom Robinson is one such; the darling man turned up this morning with milk bread and gaspers, and says that he's going to stay with us as long as the siege lasts. He is a dear and good man.

Max pulls a master stoke

Old Max Clifford is worth every fucking penny. He's fixed it so that the 'Richard and Judy' show comes and films here at Phuckwhitt tomorrow and Sunday. They will do a little 'Weekend in the Country' piece, which will be broadcast this coming Monday, 6th September, during the Richard and Judy show, which starts at 5pm. This will show the world that Leslie is just a perfectly normal widowered baronet in his mid-seventies, who is never happier than when pottering about in his library, working on his life's project, a translation of Hegel's 'Phenomenology of the Spirit' into Welsh. What could be more normal, for such a figure, than to take an annual reading pary to Tunis? This keeps the press off our backs for a few days; more importantly, it takes the focus away from Peter somewhat. If the faeces does get sucked into the air-conditioning, then people would have seen that Leslie and his household could not be more conventional, and things like that have been known to sway juries. Max has gone back to London, the phone has fallen silent, and Leslie and I have just enjoyed a dinner of cream of asparagus soup, cod baked in a cheese sauce, and cold apple tart, cooked for us by Mrs Evans. Now we're working our way down a bottle of the '73.
It's the calm before the storm.

Extraordinary times

After a long journey down from Wales and a somewhat bruising evening in the Coach and Horses, I felt that an early night was called for, and I was out of the Colony Club and in bed by three. Feeling reasonably glad to be alive on this sunny day, I popped into The French House for breakfast, where I found Jeannette Winterson and Marie Osmond sniggering over this morning's 'Mail'.
'Ah! Spume!' boomed Winterson. 'I see your brother's in the soup!'
All Marie Osmond could do was giggle, of course. I like Winterson, but I can't understand what she sees in the Mormon chanteuse. She's still getting over Shania Twain, of course; Osmond is transitional, or so I hope for Winterson's sake. Dolly Parton has always had a soft spot for Jeanette, and they would make a lovely couple. But she can't sem to see it. I digress...
To my horror, The Mail had got hold of some forty year old photos of Leslie and dear old Peter Mandelson sporting on the beach in Tunis with that little shit Michael Jackson. After a quick couple of stiffeners, I hurried from the pub (to the sound of Winterson and Marie Osmond's somewhat derisive laughter), and got on the phone to Leslie. It looks very much as though the balloon has gone up; inconvenient for Leslie, but it could be the end for Peter. Old Leslie was terribly upset, but I told him that I would get straightaway on the blower to Max Clifford, and that we would get to Phuckwhitt by dinner. Until we arrived, he was to take the phone off the hook, and instruct Mrs Evans to tell callers that he was NOT at home. This calmed him down; I spoke with dear Max... who is sitting beside me as I write, on the first train out of Paddington for Leominster. Tally Ho!

Phuckwhitt Phestival - last day

I'm back in London, hot foot from Presteigne. I thought it best under the circumstances. The crowd on the last day was well into the hundreds, and although the million pounds for the roof restoration (not to mention Leslie's reading party in Tunis with Peter Mendelson), seemed a long way off, at least it meant that we were going to break even. But Mrs Evans, trying to make a few bob on the side (as who can blame her, since Leslie can't afford to pay her for her duties at Phuckwhitt) was selling 'brown acid brownies', which sent the crowd into a frenzy. They threw cans and bottles at The United States of America, and booed all throough The Fugs. Both parties were most upset, and stormed off after two numbers apiece. It seems that this country is not yet ready for the sixties art-rock revival. Ginsberg saved the day somewhat, and gave a most spirited rendition of 'Howl', but Leslie was not at all pleased, and is blaming me, which seems most unfair, since it wasn't me who spiked the crowd with bad acid, but Mrs Evans. If you ask me, Leslie is scared of her; she knows too much about what Leslie and Peter get up to.
Still, it was good to see Ginsberg again. He managed to keep his hands to himself, and was kind enough to make the following contribution to the little festschrift which a few friends are preparing in honour of my forthcoming seventy first birthday;

Half-diamond Poem (concrete) for dear old Hilary:

O
An
Old
Tart
Stung
Unsung
Spumers.
Tragic.
Sixty
Quid.
Doh!
Eh?
O

Isn't he the sweetest man?
I'm off down the Coach and Horses; my sojourn at Phuckwhitt may be over for now, but it's nice to be back in Soho, just as it's coming back to life after the summer.