The Promenade des Anglais. July 2016.

Dear Rowley,

A few years ago, I spent a couple of ill-advised weekends in Nice staying in a hotel on the Promenade des Anglais. The highlight of the trip was discovering the Plage Ruhl beach club on the P des A which was my idea of paradise. I don’t particularly like getting sand in my crevices and the beach was a perfect pebbly strip with a sisal red carpet leading to an ocean as blue as Sinatra’s eyes. The parasols were blue and white and the sun loungers matched my auntie’s varicose veins.

The highlight of trip was Miss P and her beau Bastian zooming over from Menton for lunch. Of course the bar at Plage Ruhl was always open so we were plastered by the time Suzi arrived but it was such fun. Imagine what fun it could have been with the love of my life at my side and zero alcohol addling my brain but there we are. Lessons finally learned.

So it was with horror and sadness that I saw the white lorry driven down the P des A that mowed down over eighty innocent people roll to a halt bang next to the entrance of the Plage Ruhl. It was a terrorist atrocity (natch!) and the assassin was finally executed in a volley of police bullets. Shame he wasn’t taken alive to explain what right the twisted little fucker had to steal human life in such a terrible number.

You can’t help but wonder whether the Illuminati-Davos-Bildenberg gremlins actually exist when you consider the timing of the atrocity. Our new Prime Minister Theresa May hadn’t curtseyed to The Queen twenty-four hours previously before she is faced with her first COBRA meeting. Ditto Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson who had to step-up to the plate and make a statement. Both did rather well which promises much from our new government.

Though it is not popular to say so in London post-Brexit, I have throughly enjoyed the past few weeks in politics. It has been brutal but that’s what was necessary to clean the murky fish tank that is the Palace 0f Westminster. Mrs May’s putsch when she appointed a new cabinet was nothing short of Game of Thrones or, more pertinently, Bring Up The Bodies.

If we were living in Tudor times, Boris would not have made Foreign Secretary. Iago Gove would not have encouraged him to resign. He would have drown Boris in a barrel of malmsey wine. The first edict Mrs May would have issued would have been the arrest of Gove, Osborne and the rest of the Eton cabal. They would have been sent to the Tower and beheaded swiftly.

Would Mr Cameron have escaped with his life if Henry VIII was on the throne? Probably not. But we are not in Tudor times and the Eton cabal will live the rest of their lives out of the sunlight of power. Actually, strike that. As we speak, Mr Cameron is penning his resignation honours list feathering a few more friends’ nests and guaranteeing directorships that will see him right for the rest of his life. Then that’s got shall get and all that…

I was most impressed by Mrs May’s debut speech outside No. 10 Downing Street. Her resolution is to give Britain back to the British workers and not make it a haven for shady foreign dollar and the pigs-in-troughs who live here but stash their tax-free in corrupt principalities. If our Prime Minister achieves this, I will feel proud to be British again and contented to live in our green and pleasant land.

It is super to have a female Prime Minister again. It is equally fabulous to have a British Wimbledon Champion or two etched on the trophies. And apparently Old Mother Levin has left British GQ. All this and heaven too. I have one thing to say about the latter’s exit from Hanover Square and that is ‘Spencer House’. As Miss Midler says, ‘we bear a grudge’.

So the future looks kind of bright. Thanks to the Sherwood Massive, I feel like I have a future after many years in the Slough of Despond. Speaking of Sloughs, I do find Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress all the more apposite these days. I am not religious but I do believe that life is not just a rat race. It is a marathon. I’ve lived in Vanity Fair for most of my London life and been distracted many times from my goals. This is the first time in a long time that I think I really know where I might be going.

I had a very happy Friday afternoon with Lee. We had a late lunch in Sheekey’s Oyster Bar – now rechristened Sheekey’s Atlantic Bar (?!?!?). The place hasn’t changed much over and above a new blue canopy over the terrace. Personally, I preferred it when the Sheekey’s rusty red canopy stretched almost the length of St Martin’s Court but it is horses for courses.

Sheekey’s is an important hurdle for me. Mrs T and I have drunk more Prosecco at the Oyster Bar than Edith Piaf and Marlene on a bender in the Latin Quarter. On this occasion, I ordered my usual Angostura and Tonic and we cackled like fishwives all afternoon. After a walk along the South Bank, we decided to catch an afternoon showing of Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie. I’m going to give you  my thoughts on that turkey in another letter.

For now, it’s a weekend of writing the next chapters of the Grindr novel Tomster, KitPlay, Tomster and Me. I’m about six chapters into part two and 30,000 words down. Any similarity to characters living or dead is entirely intentional. Until next time…