Two Chaps Talking

Hey Ho Old Love,

Summer's here, clothes are off and lingerie begins to peep out over waistbands and shoulders. In other words all's right with the world. Of course that could all change over the course of ninety minutes on Friday, and by the time this reaches you there is every chance that we'll know the outcome.

Now I know what you're thinking: what is a well-known flaneur and drunk like yours truly doing thinking about the rigours of chaps in footer bags far away. Well I'll tell you, its those bloody Argies. With their swarthy looks and dark uniforms, especially that one with the boot lace tied round his fat head. And they're short, and worst of all, and I don't say this lightly, they're not gentlemen. There now I've said it. I hope we rip them to pieces and dance on the scraps, I shall be in position at the bar of Nevada Smiths at 12.30 British Summer Time with pint of Old English in my hand and my insides tied in knots.

There is little chance of my being able to communicate in any normal sense when the game is over but I have a rather smashing little machine that I understand accepts something called text messages. I thought these were purely for porn and the racing results but I'm told one can receive actual notes from ones chums. Should your assistant's assistant have nought better to do then they might try contacting me that way.

It's been a busy time of late with not a little camp fun thrown in. Briefly, the missus has bought a Mercedes convertible from Barbera Streisand and along with every gay man in New York we went to see the Pet Shop Boys.

On the subj of the car I wanted a discount because I loathe the old trout but can you believe those jokers at Christies actually said it should command a premium. Are they mad? We take delivery soon, I'll let you know how the old girl smells.

The lovely Pet Shop Boys (or should it be Per Shop Greying-Middle-Aged-Men) were delightful. They've written a song about a 'rap star' (whatever that is) who takes a young man back to his hotel and gives him a private show. Very amusing.

Last week saw M and I ensconced in the country sunning ourselves and swimming when the need arose. I had finished the first draft of my novel the previous week so I had nothing on my mind, which is, I must say, not a state I enjoyed. Without something to work on I felt lost.

Rather disturbingly there is the prospect of some freelance fashion work being banded about, though I'm confident that frequent allusions to it will ensure its demise. It always has in the past. Either way it won't get in the way of the literature.

On the subj of which you will shortly be receiving a book - The Golf Omnibus by PGW. If you turn to page 38 and read the last paragraph then I think you'll see something that resonate rather well with our feelings toward the daily grind. Though I'm afraid the allure of golf rather escapes me, more of a tennis man myself.

So it's the Golden Jubilee of Her Maj today. I've seen the whole thing on the television and part of me does long for the motherland. Not that I'd have anything to do with rubbing shoulders with smelly EastEnders of course, but a large glass of beer with some stout English souls, followed by random acts of civility and cocktails at six do have their appeal.

No plans to join you in the very near future, though if we made it to the final I'd be hard pressed to endure the lack of interest over here and so might stow away to cheer our gallant boys from home.

And that, Everard, is the score on the door. There's everything to play for and it's a game of two halves, lets hope we do well on the day.

God Save the Queen.

S.