Well, I was shopping the other day in the Piggly Wiggly and chanced upon a tableau that might hold the key to my immediate future. There was this hen-pecked man in a decent suit trailing after this hag with child who was basically bawling at him to ‘do dis do dat’. He took it but you could see his patience was being severely tried.
Why do we do it ladies? You meet the man of your dreams then chip away at his dignity, personality and wallet until he’s ready to do a Fargo. It was always the tradition that men let themselves go and women fought like Charlemagne to keep young and beautiful. Now it is the men who look butfty tufty and the women who look drawn. Seeing as I am on team gay, this suits.
However, within gay world there are similar relationships: even down to the wailing child in the pram. If I had wanted children God would have given me a vajayjay. I have no interest at all in children until they can hold a decent conversation. To digress slightly, isn’t Naomi Campbell mad as a fucking snake? That baby woman act worked in the twenties but she must be seventy seven if she’s a day. I’m more of a Linda Evangelista kind of a guy.
Speaking of Linda, I interviewed the lady many times. On our first meet she was under the watch of Dee Carps. She was vulnerable (aren’t we all?) and the previous journalist had made her cry. Dee gave her a moment and then introduced us. I found her quite the most beautiful creature I had ever, ever seen. I would cross the floor for Linda.
We met again a couple of times and then came the time when the Daily Telegraph ran a shot of Linda looking under par on a runway in Portugal or some such. Dee rang and said did I want the skinny from Linda first hand? I did and we talked and she called me sweetie. The interview ran in the Daily Telegraph under the headline ‘I know I have a sell-by date’. She felt betrayed, I was mortified and it was another day in the life of the British national press.
The papers suspected that what Linda called ‘food poisoning’ was a euphemism for drugs. Well, she told me in no uncertain terms that she’d never been there. I believe she liked a few sips but honit soit qui mal y pense. I think Linda is the Madame de Pompadour de nos jours. She has aged like fine wine and has conquered all. End of.
I’ve always been a great admirer of Madame de Pompadour. In fact, I will go so far as to say that Tessa and I were courtesans at the palace of Versailles when Madame de Pomp was in her prime. The lady wrapped a king round her little finger, held his attention and – when he started to get frisky – found dozens of gals on the subs bench to take her place in his bed. Smart woman.
As I was saying to Mr Lodge over a romantic lunch at Andrew Edmunds the other day, sex is the least interesting aspect of a relationship. It is, of course, fundamental but if it be five minutes, five hours or five days it should be kept in its place. Sex is the one thing that doesn’t depend on anything other than mutual attraction and a complete avoidance of deodorant. It’s the rest that counts: the mind, the trust and the love.
I find that I was conditioned to want to emulate previous generations and get married and be a one man man. I still do aspire to be a one man man but I think as a mistress not a wife. I am so cut out to be a mistress. I am an independent lady like Linda Evangelista. I like my own company. But I do enjoy putting my furs on of an evening like Helen Mirren in The Long Good Friday and being taken up West to go tiara shopping.
Cheap joke alert. Code Red. I was talking to a girlfriend the other day about my misspent youth at raves in Manchester at The Hacienda. ‘Oh yes’, says I, ‘I was often taken up the hass back in the day’. Can we all have a collective groan for that one (salve Ida Barr)? Where was I? Oh, yes, being a mistress. I think it is the way forward. I’m not a fan of gay marriage. As Midler said, ‘I knew something had to replace disco but marriage?’
Confessing I have been living entirely for pleasure of late and do have to sign another contract to keep the wolves from the door. Apropos, my glamorous agent Geraldine ‘Yellow Poppy’ Woods texted yesterday to book me for a gig at Clivden with Paul Hollywood. Talk about beauty and the beast! I’ve only met Paul once. I was lunching with G at Sheekey’s and Paul was in the neighbourhood and joined us. A more amusing man I have yet to meet. Those eyes! Those thighs!
No, darling, I didn’t go there. I wasn’t the other woman on that occasion. But I liked Paul and think I might be the exit strategy when Mary Berry decides she wants a younger model. I haven’t been on telly for ever. I don’t miss it that much but I do miss the lolly. Seeing as I am probably now in my prime perhaps it is time to flash it around a bit again. By the by, if Andy Burnham and Clare Balding had a love child it could probably get a booking as a pantomime cow in Aladdin this Christmas. By the bypass, Brad and Angelina have just given a ‘rare’ interview. Shut up! Until next time…