Oh my Lord! My health is as fragile as Kelly Brook’s marital record. Something is going to have to give but rest assured I will claw it back come hook or crook when I get my energy back. Bore myself speaking about health or lack thereof to be honest so I won’t. There are much more burning issues of the week to bitch about. Contrary to Hello! propaganda, Princess Beatrice is not a style icon, Henry Conway is not a fashion critic and Apartment 1A of Kensington Palace doesn’t need redecorating.
London is in thrall to a new generation who would like to think of themselves as Bright Young Things but are in reality as ludicrous and callow as Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies. I am thinking about the moneyed lowlives who hang out in Loulou’s thinking (wrong as it happens) that it is the Studio 54 de nos jours. The only common factor between these people is that they were either born to privilege or literally or metaphorically f***** other people to achieve wealth.
I don’t wish to name names but does anyone’s life benefit one iota from knowing that Samantha Cameron’s half brother is a half witted cross dresser with a tongue longer than Miley Cyrus? I’m not entirely sure who the media think is interested in these also-rans. Perhaps they are giving us people we love to hate to distract from the fact that the people in power in the UK is on the take and we’re all footing the bill.
It always concerns me to see Henry Conway – the love child of Michael Gove and Drew Barrymore – either in person or the press. The same goes for any cast member of Made in Chelsea. I don’t think it’s the kids’ fault that they are so obnoxious. In fact I’d go so far as to say the young generation are rather hippy, dippy, peace, love but also self-absorbed drama queens. One of the Sloanes on Made in Chelsea is called Gabbylicious for the love of Lydia!!!
Slowly but surely I am getting back to work. Thames & Hudson are drafting a contract for my next book that will go straight to the Society of Authors to be checked. Hopefully terms will be favourable and I can get on with it. I’d rather like to nip off to Menorca and write by the beach. Let’s see if the financial climate is clement enough to let me do this in May. Then of course there’s The London Cut exhibition at the British Ambassador’s Residence in Washington to consider. Mrs T is on board and my friend fashion designer Anthony Keegan has offered to fly over from New York and work on the set-up.
Actually, Made in Chelsea is rather compelling. Perhaps they could cross it with The Hunger Games for added amusement. While we’re on the subject I better clear up a befuddlement of mine. I kept saying Jennifer Lawrence starred in My Week With Marilyn. She didn’t. It was Michelle Williams who gave that poignant, lovely performance. Mind you, you’ve got to love Jennifer Lawrence. While we’re back on Marilyn, the greatest Marilyn performer today Suzie Kennedy is hanging-up her peep toe mules next year. Cannot wait to see what the lady’s going to do next. Now there’s a true bright young thing.
I have been pondering why the Bright Young Things of the 20s and 30s were so much more endearing than the current crop of vile bodies. I think it has to do with bravery. Bear in mind the BYTs of ages past had seen a generation of fine young men slaughtered in the trenches. Their mad, gin-fuelled cocktail parties were a rejection of the eminent old men of the establishment who had allowed this mass slaughter to occur. After such horror, who would not drown sorrows in hooch and organise endless fancy dress balls and treasure hunts?
What I also liked about the BYTs was that the scene in London was socially emancipating: aristocrats mixed with American new money. Homosexuality was accepted as were lower class gentlemen with wit, talent and style such as Cecil Beaton and Noël Coward. They were also ambitious and creative and the same cannot be said for the listless airheads who party meaninglessly in London nowadays. They play at careers without the passion of a Beaton or Coward. They also exclude rather than include and that’s the polar opposite of what’s going on in the rest of society.
I’d like to write a piece for The Rake about the death of celebrity. By this I don’t mean the A listers with huge talent and drive. I mean the C, D and E-listers who fill the pages of Hello and OK and the Daily Mail Online. Social networking such as Twitter has proved that ‘ordinary folk’ are so much more interesting and empathetic than the high society pigs in troughs. Similarly, programmes like Gogglebox prove to me that real people aren’t as stupid as the powers that be in government like to think we are. The wool is not pulled over eyes. We know politicians, policemen, judges, lawyers, the media and the unions are lying to us. Up the revolution! Until next time…