Two Chaps Talking

New York City

Mon vieux,

A few months ago two 'books' were published in this 'country'. They might both be described thus; 'Drunk man pukes. Doesn't wash self or clothes. Can't get girlfriend. Has wash. Gets girlfriend. End.'

Fascinating stuff. The Great American Novel perhaps. Clearly going to be around for generations. Future of the written word redefined and all that. Now for some reason neither book sold more than half a dozen copies, and all those went to their mums. Who'd'a thunk it? as common parlance over here might ask.

But what's this got to do with the price of eggs? I hear you opine. Chap passes drivel daily but doesn't soil his mood by even so much as a glance at same.

That's all well and good until one's own tome is casually rejected by a publisher previously considered of note (think of cold birds dressed as butlers) on the basis of the aforementioned tripe not selling.

It's like turning up your nose at Le Gav because Mcdog's share price is down. Not that one is claiming Mayfair temple of French food status of course, but a decent beef Wellington surely?

According to the hard-of-thinking-no-doubt-pulchuritudinally-challenged-bitter-and-twisted-barely-literate bint in charge of this hitherto respected 'publisher' one's efforts amount to no more than those 'writers' to whom I previously alluded. I might add this is on the basis of not actually reading the opus. A mere verbal summary from one of her gifted and horrendously undervalued editors (who wanted to acquire the book) was deemed sufficient.

You haven't read my novel Old Love but I'm sure you'll understand why someone'd think a slovenly, loutish, monosyllabic genre is precisely that in which one writes. Who could possibly think any different? A cursory glance at our own correspondence would show even the meanest intelligence this is exactly the type of thing one is trying to write.

So it's perfectly clear then that the gosh-mummy's-hosting-a-Bush-fund-raiser-must-find-new-boyfriend/shoes/handbag New York publishing muffia know exactly what they're doing. Thank god the future of literature is in such safe hands.

Apparently if one wore frocks and went under the Mem's name it'd be on the shelves as I write. And all one dreams of is a pink book jacket with cartoony girl's legs and handbags and fun writing. I don't think.

What me bitter? Au contraire.

With that out of one's system let us move onto something else. A pal is about to celebrate his umpteenth birthday and was seeking a likely and lively boite in Soho in which to conduct the English portion of his debauchery. Without one's own steady hand on the tiller SomeHow (there's a clue) our favourite soggy-carpeted-washed-up-ad-and-film-wankers club found its way onto his list. Imagine my lack of surprise when it was described and dismissed thus - 'More IBM Corporate Presentation than Gak'n'roll'. So even the rolled up tenner brigade have forsworn the place. Too many toffs perhaps? Was it ever thus?

Breaking bread together on the New York leg of his celebrations last week I was enjoying a rather splendid calvados when, drifting in and out of coherence as is my wont, I happened to overhear a snippet of the OB&C's conv. She was talking to a pal about something called Niagra, which I thought had to do with gushing torrents somewhere in the north of America.

"Apparently it lasts for up to four hours," said the pal.
"Four Hours? Good God!" exclaimed the Fragrant One. "What on earth are you supposed to do for the other three hours and fifty-seven minutes?"

There was much holding of sides and spluttering of Muscat, though I can't profess to understand what the devil they were harping on about. I suppose that's to be expected though isn't it? They do move in mysterious ways, their wonders to perform.

I think it was the last intelligent person to run this place who opined 'Ah Feel Yure Payyne,' and on the subj. of over-exposed dermis I most certainly do. There's nothing quite like our English fillies after a warm summer, about to wrap themselves in tweed, but sporting a cocktail dress for that one last time. Nor is there anything quite like the pasty dough complexion of early spring. Both equally extreme and one as desirable as the other repellent.

Growing up in the sun-dappled tropical paradise of Bournemouth on Blighty's Mediterranean coast you and I have deep mahogany tans without the unsightly hirsuteness of our friends Gianni, Jean-Paul and Carlos. So were we to remove for a moment the white linen suit, loosen the tie, and unbutton the Sea Island then it would quite a treat for those gathered.

What's that? Oh there's a phone call. It's Polly-Pot calling for Kenny-Kettle, I'd better take it.

Pale and interesting I was born, and so I beg to remain.

Yours hiding under hay while the sun shines,

S

P.S. Just heard a report on the wireless that claims 'American food is the greatest in the world - Official'. That frog fool Raymond Blanc declared it apparently. He must be taking the piss surely? The fattest nation in the world perhaps? Certainly got the stupidest leader. I could go on but better not.

Posted by S at 02:41 PM | Permalink

Dear Boy,

Spring and all that. When a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove.

I suppose I should be filled with vernal joys and sap-rising urges but, to be candid, I find the arrival of the first sunny day in Blighty spiritually disheartening.

Ask most Chaps and they'll talk about walking in parks, playing tennis and young women wearing less clothes. This, I fear, is where my problems start. I would be all for the strappy sandal on the well turned ankle and the healthy glow of taught, tanned flesh. Tragically this is London. At the first sign of sun, women take entire leave of their senses and, more particularly, taste, hauling from some benighted corner of the wardrobe, scraps of garment that would not look amiss on a topless carwash operative in Tennessee or a Bangkok bar girl. This is dragged over the rounded extremities of a body that has seen nowt but the light of bar, office and Tube for a clear eight months and has been fed on a diet of Chardonnay, fags and M&S prawn sandwiches since puberty. If one is charitable one can speak of pale alabaster and Rubenesque curves but, and here my art history may be a little rusty, I am fairly sure Rubens never did anything called 'Odalisque with gray-washed bra straps cutting into lobster pink shoulder, visible and fraying thong in tattooed builder's cleavage, chipped toenails and cornplasters crammed into last years sandals'.

Tragically, last Summer saw a fashion for what I can only describe as trailer-trash chic - a kind of tacky, 1980 Marbella meets Daisy Duke, knowing, post-modern, post-feminist, sluttiness. An intervening winter has not been kind. Any sense of irony blew away with the leaves of autumn or melted with the last slush of the Christmas party season. It looks like few people took the opportunity to clear the wardrobe and, in consequence, even Bond St looks like a Jerry Springer audience on a hot day at an Alabama hog roast.

I have alway preferred to view Englishwomen at the end of the Summer. They are aglow with health for a few evanescent days before plunging into the layers of winter wrapping in which they've always looked their fetching best.

It's not as if men fare any better. The first visit to the park brings an early sighting of, that most London of phenomena 'The Fat Man with the £300 Raquet'. With no appreciable warmup, he will throw himself into a championship level game on the first decent day of the year and, if his heart holds up, will have destroyed his groin, hamstring, elbow, rotator cuff and sense of dignity by the second set. He will retire sufficiently injured to sit out the rest of the season in the bar and the next time he holds a racquet will be when he buys next year's.

There are also, of course, the runners. There is little I can say about how undignified this can be as I've been known to try it myself. Suffice it to say, a chap likes to think that something may slap against his stomach as he runs in loose shorts - it is demeaning to discover that it's his breasts.

Parks, of course, are simply impossible. They are a solid terrine of sweating ghastliness throughout the season. The only notable exceptions are the private squares which are never, ever used as those with access are at their place in the country on any suitably warm occasion.

To compound the awfulness of the season, we're trying to move house. The newspapers, like the rest of the English, are obsessed with property prices, predicting alternate boom and bust on three minute cycles. The only thing I've worked out for sure is that, though it's invariably a buyer's market when you're selling and a seller's market when you're buying - it's always an estate agent's market.

Finally, in a recent poll, a sizeable majority of English people expressed a desire for an identity card system which would be more draconian in its powers than any other in the democratic world. In the same poll they also averred, almost unanimously, that they did not believe that the government would be able to keep the information held in a secure fashion.

A commentator on Radio Four opined thus...

"It just shows how pathetic the English really are. If there was a fascist coup they'd queue up to get in the trucks... as long as they had the Mail on Sunday and Harry bloody Potter".

'Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I'm going into the park to do pastoral dances'.

Toodle Pip

T

Posted by T at 09:15 PM | Permalink