Up the Workers. March 2018.

Dear Rowley,

I took at 6.30am walk in the West End this morning to clear my head and let me tell you there were zero English faces to be seen. The good people who were cleaning your streets, stocking your shops, scrubbing your loos and rushing at ungodly hours to work were all immigrants. I have been accused of racism towards the Chinese recently and, your honour, there wasn’t a slant eye on the streets either from what I could see. Sue me.

This is a major shout out to the people who really run London. These people work for a minimum wage, they take no pleasure from this city and they work to live. They aren’t having a ball in this glorious capital of ours. They are cleaning up after our mess, feeding us, clothing us and serving our drinks.

I won’t even start on the homeless who have given up on any kindness from this heartless city and freeze on the streets rather than rape the state and take charity. I admire those people sleeping in bags so much more than the bankers, civil servants, politicians, celebrities and bankers who pillage this city for money and give NOTHING back to the ones who metaphorically wipe their bums because they have been dealt a bad hand in life.

Perhaps I have told you that I was at my happiest in London when working in a bar called The Yard in the early 90s. I had no real cash. I worked to live. But, boy, was it fun and there was solidarity amongst the Yard girls and boys. We were having a ball, discovering all that was genuine and amusing about London and exploring our burgeoning sexuality as big old gayers.

What I would not give to go back to those days so I have made a few decisions. I am going back to those days. I shared with you last month that after the burglaries I was going to spend a few months on Menorca. I was tempted to change my mind by London. I was asked to commentate on the upcoming Royal Wedding, I signed a new book contract and I was asked to do another six part series for the history channel.

I might still do all these things because I have earned them. But it is looking increasingly likely that I will hop a plane to Menorca for the month of April. The weather might not be great but I would rather be there than here. I want the sand of Son Bou beach between my toes as it was thirty years ago. I want happy people around me not drones and Chinks. I want to leave behind all publishing commitments for four weeks and let them stew in their own juices while I heal.

Bar work at this precise moment in time sounds like Heaven. I want to make people happy serving them chuckle juice and earn a minimum wage just to live on a Baleraic Island. I want to leave what is laughingly called my birth family behind as they have me and want to give my real London family a break from my troubles.

Apropos birth family, I cannot call my parents even though I have read them to filth in recent weeks. Some of it was deserved and some of it was gratuitously nasty. On balance, Mum and Dad have never given up on me and have only done what they thought was right to keep me alive and on the path to happiness. For that alone I owe them love and respect.

The same cannot be said for my extended birth family. The first sign of manic behaviour – and how would they know apart from reading my Letters because they never call let alone visit – and they are like greased weasel shit as far away as possible. I have not spoken to my brother, my aunt, my uncle or my cousins for months. They clearly know I have been going through ten types of shit and they keep their distance. We all have our problems I know and I care no fucks about theirs so maybe I am a selfish cunt and am only getting payback.

Strike that. If my Aunt was in trouble, I would be on a train to Sheffield faster than Speedy Gonzales. As it is, I will only go back for funerals when I am the one who writes and reads the eulogies because the rest of the family has all the sensitivity and emotional maturity of linoleum.

I keep playing the gay card to explain my disconnect with my family and I think I am on the money on that one. How can donkeys communicate with a unicorn without feeling seething jealousy that I am living my life for good and ill the way I want to live it. The nightlife aint no good life but it is my life and, honey,  it is ten tonnes of fun.

I am broke again thank you Thames & Hudson. My publisher promised himself blind that I would be paid an advance of £1500 yesterday and it did not transpire so I had to borrow £60 from my bestie Lee to buy booze and fags because I was so wound up. If Thames & Hudson had tried to reverse my recovery from a manic episode, they could not have done a better job than dance £1500 in front of me only to snatch it away. Threats have been made because I commented on social media. The irony.

The problem here is that I have nothing more to lose after my grandmother’s ring was stolen. Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. I will not take this lying down any more unless it is on a beach in Menorca and then I will take a point of view. Two rules in London: be nice to people who serve you and don’t fuck with James Sherwood. Simples.