Fish was right – publication of Nicky Haslam’s Redeeming Features: A Memoir has been postponed from November 1 to January 3. How annoying for Weidenfeld and Nicolson to miss out on the Christmas prezzie rush, and for me. I was getting sooooooooooo excited at the prospect of learning more of Tallulah Bankhead’s infatuation with him – she loved public schoolboys as I think MI5 discovered in their trawls and she may have even yielded to some under-age cock, the dirty cow.
So, instead I have to read Russell Brand’s tiresome “memoirs”, My Booky Wook, serialised in the gorgeously celebrity-obsessed Guardian (shouldn't it be restyled The Guardian! ?). His prose style stirs up Henry Miller as realised by Ken Dodd – “I didn't understand what I was witnessing, but by jingo, I knew I liked it," he writes. "Dumbstruck, I sat looking at the women, their hair, each strand identifiable as it responded to a fan that had been placed there to elicit exactly the reaction I felt in my pantaloons.” The extract I read today chronicled his sex addiction and its treatment at the KeyStone clinic. “In Hong Kong, I was naked and shy about my body. I had trouble getting hard, and the blow job seemed daft, not sexual, just giggly and intrusive.” It's all very tattyfilarious and I'm sure Guardianistas will appreciate this smutty excursus. To read click here.
For class I sought out the American former supermodel Janice Dickinson, currently residing in a downunder jungle on I’m A Celebrity. Of Lynne Franks she said: “I’m going to stab her in the middle of the night. You don’t think I’m kidding, I’ll eat her tits. I’ll fry up those big old boobs.” My kind of bitch.