Dear Rowley,
Only five years ago, nobody in the world except for friends and family knew Cheryl Cole, Rhiannon, Julian Assange, Lady Gaga or Baroness Ashton. Was the world a better place? I’m guessing. I suppose we get the public figures we deserve. The one I am most afraid of is Chuka Umunna the Labour party opposition MP who has sprung fully formed like Athena from the brain of some evil genius such as Lord Mandelson. Chuka reminds me of Tiger Woods, that driver Hamilton whose Christian name I forget and Barak Obama.
Like the aforementioned, Chuka is your prototype handsome black guy who is sold as an honourable, likeable and integral human being. I watched him on Daybreak yesterday morning turning on the charming man of the people act that subliminally tells you he will be Prime Minister before the decade is out. And yet. In the final minutes of the interview he was asked about admitting that he’d smoked a doobie in his youth. He sparkled and dazzled and was modestly mea culpa. Then he made a fatal error. He asked the presenters if they too had erred. We’ve all erred duckie but daytime TV presenters are not dope heads. They said so and his eyes darted like a dope peddler down the souk in old Tangiers town.
People in the public eye – me included – are slightly eccentric if not mad as coots. Others who try to keep out of it strike me as sane. The more I read about Tom Cruise and his Scientology buddies the more I think this cult sounds smashing. Apparently, the Scientologists send potty mouth texts to each other, they despise psychiatry, they actively close in around their chosen ones and block out those who do them harm and they know people in high and low places. What’s not to like?
As I said to Better Half last night, I think Scientology sounds like a blast. When Tom was first inducted, he was invited to their secret HQ where a bungalow with pool and flower meadow freshly planted had been prepared. He was audited and given steam baths to cleanse (sounds familiar?) and he was ‘love bombed’ by Sea Org members telling him he was fabulous and loved. He is now the highest paid person in Hollywood. I’d much rather a kooky cult with odd ideas about alien invasion than religions that force you to chant and drink imaginary blood in the form of red wine. End of.
Well, as you know I have not been. I’ve been very ill. But whatever does not kill you makes you stronger. I had a real dressing gown day yesterday after a meeting with my darling Dr B who confirmed a few suspicions and sorted me out. I didn’t get an early enough night but still wake up at 5am and have to get match tough for an ITV This Morning appearance with H and P to talk about The Queen’s Diamond exhibition with a collection of sparklers in the studio.
In ordinary circumstances, I would bail. I’m not well. I will be but I’m still a little fuzzy around the edges. However, I am also conscientious and will not let other people down unless I’m dead and rotting. Puts me in mind of the poor 1970s supermodel Gia who was rather a casualty of heroin. She’d get bombed at fashion shoots and have to be made-up when passed out cold on the floor. The fashion editors would revive her with vodka, prop her up and make her pose while the snapper snapped the few seconds when her eyes were briefly open. This I must do today and hope the words come. Don’t know how she does it…
Apropos of nothing, I had an email from a new male underwear brand called D Hedral. I like what I see. The model puts me in mind of a chap I encountered in the camp Greco-Roman health spa in Holborn a couple of weeks ago. Ordinarily, the pool is populated by kind old tuskers who mind their own business and let me mind mine. That morning, I was in the pool when what can only be described of as a slut walked in. He was wearing pink shorts and holding a mobile phone.
Call me old fashioned but does anybody but a renter take a mobile phone into a swimming pool? He didn’t sauna, swim or steam but lay on a day bed like a Boucher nude texting with eyes occasionally darting. As I was padding back to the locker room I cast a glance and his eyes locked with an expression that suggested smoking in bed during and after. He followed me into the showers and we showered cheek to cheek. I’m the first person to enjoy attention but it smacked of a honey trap so I didn’t take the (jail) bait.
What else does the week hold in store? Nowt. I need to rest up, get stronger and then get back into business. Doesn’t it warm the cockles of your heart that Bob Diamond is eschewing his £20 million pay off? I wonder how the incompetent/corrupt banker will be able to pay the rent now he’s out of a job. My heart bleeds for him. Until next time…