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.