How It Looked. How It Was. Consequences. July 2012.

Dear Rowley,

It’s official. The insurgency against the Jubolympics in Bloomsbury is gathering momentum. As of yesterday, Bloomsbury has been invaded by every nationality and age of chav in town for the Olympic Games. We have scrawny Asians with less spacial awareness and personal cleanliness than the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. We have Eastern Europeans with busy jeans and mullet haircuts. We have dumb, gum-chewing Americans in baseball caps and substandard trainers. We have greasy Italian youths who look like the lower echelon of gays on the evolutionary spiral.

It never ceases to amaze me that the apparently sophisticated Europeans appear to have the fashion and tonsorial style that England left behind circa 1975. None of these people know where they are going either geographically or in life. So a short walk to see Gail in Capri (the dry cleaner not the island) involves dodging like Jenson Button to avoid the drones and eventually giving up and walking in the gutter where you’re at the mercy of the perfidious squadron of Boris Bikers.

I don’t mean to be bah-humbug. Strike that, I do. The Olympics will be a disaster for London’s economy. When I made an emergency 10.55pm dash to Tesco on Southampton Row for – well, let’s just call it an item – the store has employed a security guard. It is also ten-deep with foreign chavs stocking-up on pre-packed burgers in buns, crisps, pork scratchings and Cherry Cola. The stench is unbearable as is the wait for said item.

This situation will only deteriorate. Not only is Russell Square the ‘Meeedja Hub’, it is also the main conduit for all the pigs in troughs who have dedicated traffic lanes for their limousines to and from Claridge’s and the Olympic Village. The traffic  is absolute mayhem. And who on God’s good earth authorised a load of Polish Super Marios to dig-up Southampton Row on the eve of the Olympics? It is pure lunacy. As for the G4S security issues, I can only hang my head on behalf of the MD in shame.

G4S’s MD could have a jolly good case at the Parliamentary inquiry in telling Labour MPs that the reason nobody has shown up for work is that they squandered thirteen years in government breeding generations of bone idle, pig ignorant scum. Do you think I should stand for Parliament Rowley? I could form a neo Peronist party for Bloomsbury and Fitzrovia.

Now enough about them. How about me? Well, as you know for the past month or so I have been profoundly unwell. Select friends and family have diagnosed my troubles thus: drunken slut with anger management and mental health issues. This could still be true but now we know why. I consulted my doctor over the past few days and have finally got to the bottom of it. For years I have suffered from debilitating migraine headaches that have come and gone on a regular basis.

This we sorted with a magical pill. Once that layer of pain was stripped from my head, we discovered chronic sinusitis brought on by years in archives and warehouses that cause a temple-pressing, agonising daily headache. This we’re treating with drugs in liquid form and a daily dose of nine Aspirin. So, thank you for your concern. I am on the mend: not there yet but I will be back in business by next week. I can’t say it’s been fun and a half but I am terribly grateful to the NHS for the recovery.

So now it’s eye tests, dentists, ENT specialists and migraine experts a-go-go to sort me out once and for all for the next forty years. The best news is the pill regime I’m on daily does not preclude a glass or two of Prosecco when I feel in the mood. Of course the booze now has to be restricted to the amber bubbly stuff but I think that’s doable.

My doc also said that I would need to lead a boring life from now on to manage migraines: getting up at the same time, exercising regularly, eating little and often and sleeping deep and relatively early. This weirdly enough I already do. Of course I also cabaret nightly with a cigarette in one hand and a Champagne coup in the other but honit soit qui mal y pense. Anyway, so that’s me. How’s you?

What else is new on the Rialto? I missed yet another opening night at the Hampstead Theatre as a guest of Issy. This time it was Love’s Labours Lost. But, then again, I think it so much more selfish to impose oneself when unable to crack a smile than to stay in bed with a boxed set of Damages and make professional notes. I also got through the entire Six Wives of Henry VIII starring Keith Michel loaned to me by Mr Morgan-Owen who has finished a first impression oil sketch of The Portrait. It’s rather marvellous but will startle small children and panic the cat.

Lots of work to catch up on for various people but they will have to understand that when you’re out for the count it’s better to pass on the work to someone who actually has a pulse. Until next time…