Brideshead Revisited: A blissful potpourri of popery

Sebastian (left) and Charles model this autumn's lovely knits

I saw the movie Brideshead Revisited yesterday (out in the UK this week) – it’s really quite excellent. You can tell the critics want to bash it mainly because it’s gayer and more overtly Catholic than the ‘80s TV series. Most critics are cocky-cunty types who share the faith of atheism. The Large Hadron Collider is their present church which will be turned into a large nightclub when that novelty wears off. Also, what’s missing is a good explosive scene. If only “troubled” Sebastian Flyte could be induced to run through Brideshead house with an M60 E4 machine gun and rake all those Virgin Mother ‘n’ Baby paintings, then your average 28-year-old cocky-cunty bejeaned, fashionably godless Empire gawper would be most entranced.

Matthew Goode is suitably dull as Charles Ryder with a voice almost as dreary as Jeremy Irons’, who played the part in the TV series. It’s important he’s drony to signal his interest in Julia’s cunt and not in Seb’s cock. A gay Charles would be all animated and rapid-talking, wouldn’t he? Cock-cunters are solid types as we all know. Ben Whishaw has embraced hardcore camp for Sebastian – facially and as a body type he’s the spitting image of my late friend Robert Tewdwr Moss – so that he holds his cigarette like a lower class tart in Coronation Street, hand and lower arm perpendicular to the upper, smoke wafting; elbow cradled in the other hand. In Waugh-land cock-cocking is a spiritual pathology in response to bad parenting and Marrakesh is the best place for it

Even Emma Thompson is lovely as Lady Marchmain – I say “even” because she’s quite the most patronising person I have ever encountered outside the world of the national newspaper gossip diarist. She is of course far too young to be playing the old devout Catholic cow but perhaps they couldn’t get the insurance for a genuinely old actress like Jean Simmons.

The phrase to look out for in all national film reviews is: “This film is a limp lettuce to the crisp cos of the TV series, scripted as it was by the incomparable John Mortimer who used to return home to his first wife, novelist Penelope Mortimer, with semen stains on his trousers, as she reported in her memoirs”; or something like that.

Hilary Gialerakis: Bullet holes, Brian Sewell and a (Vaselined) big one

Ash Wednesday (Lady and the Leopards)

The other week I attended a retrospective exhibition at the OSO Centre in Barnes Green, London, of the paintings and drawings of Hilary Gialerakis (1924-2003). Curated by her vivacious daughter Antonia, the works are best described as a fusion of Cubism, Surrealism and other modernist 'isms with a distinct Dali-esque influence, elevated by a highly original and impactive use of colour, and in some instances, by wood carving-like surfaces - the paintings reproduced here, by kind permission, suggest a flavour of her work as a whole.

Hilary's life has been described as "Sylvia Plath-like", poor thing. A Plath-like life, as we all know, is the soapy rotten one of a talent repaid with a cult appreciation in life and a too-late posthumous acclamation. Antonia has edited Hilary's diaries into book form, Hilary: An Unquiet Spirit - and what a story it is, written in a spare, dry style whatever the drama. See below to buy.

I opened the book at random and naturally my eye fell on the time she and her war hero husband Vere Holden-White couldn't have sex. A psychiatrist diagnosed an Oedipal problem, that he loved his mummy too much. But Hilary's good sense lighted on another likely cause: his cock was too big. Problem solved with Vaseline. Let this be entered into the Book of Parables against Psychiatry and other Modern Religions.

Hilary was born in Dorset and studied at the Chelsea Art School before moving to South Africa. She married twice and later in life took a female lover. A couple of her paintings bear bullet holes (repaired), the results of misaimed shots at a loved one or two. She enjoyed professional recognition but not on the significant scale she deserves.

The Lotus Eaters
I asked Antonia at the exhibition party whether the Standard's art critic Brian Sewell had expressed interest. She tells me: "I went to his paper's offices in Derry Street (South Kensington) with samples of my mother's work, because I'd heard he doesn't like to attend exhibitions, he prefers to go through catalogues and portfolios. This rather grand woman said that Mr Sewell would like to read the book so I handed her a copy and that's where we left it. I hope he writes about the paintings."

A number of the paintings were sold at the showing; a pity really. I am confident Hilary Gialerakis' work will gain in international recognition with a consequent uplift in value. Among her best works, The Lotus Eaters was up for £3,000 and Ash Wednesday for £2,200 (both oils on canvas). Perhaps in a year's time these will be worth ten times as much. As her friend Roger Smith says: "I do believe Hilary's work is original and strong enough to stand in its own right."

To order a copy of Hilary: An Unquiet Spirit click here.
For further information write to: Antoniagialerakis@yahoo.co.uk

Fiesta

Happy birthday Duncan Fallowell!

Can't come to the party but I'll do your horoscope if you like. xx
PS ... I know you worked with Can so here's I Want More for you ... (I know Peter Gilmour wrote it but I can dance to it and it should be remixed as a Noughties dance track) ...

Paul Dacre has two full-time gardeners ...

and a part-timer. Yes.

Lipstick: 9/11, credit crunch and the Eva Braun test

Weird I know but apparently when there’s any kind of national crisis people start buying more lipstick, a theory once propounded by “Professor” Leonard Lauder, the chairman of, er, Estée Lauder Companies.

“After the terrorist attacks of 2001 deflated the economy, Mr Lauder noticed that his company was selling more lipstick than usual. He hypothesized that lipstick purchases are a way to gauge the economy. When it’s shaky, he said, sales increase as women boost their mood with inexpensive lipstick purchases instead of $500 slingbacks,” reported the New York Times back in May.

I hope Gordon Brown knows about the Lipstick Endogenous Decline Thingy: perhaps Ruth Kelly walked out on him to spend more time with her lipstick.

Now an email pops into my inbox titled Credit Crunch Beauty on behalf of Tesco: “It's well regarded that the trend for red lips in the 1940s was a reaction against economic downturn and a means for boosting morale - but it seems that even in the modern day, we could be turning back to lipstick as a means of guilt-free indulgence.”

Can this be true? In my experience, most women and all trannies wear lipstick whatever the economic weather. The streets are a blur of carmine gashes and dashes, sometimes true to nature’s lip contours, sometimes not. It would be interesting to study before and after pictures of Eva Braun; before disaster was inevitable and after realisation. If lippie is evident in the after pics and not in the before then the idea’s sold on me.

However, should you bother to read the New York Times piece in all its fill-space lengthiness you will halt at this: “Lipstick sales for the first 12 weeks of this year ending March 23 (2008) don’t validate the lipstick theory. Sales of lipstick in supermarkets and drugstores have decreased 3.3 percent compared with the same time period in 2007, according to Information Resources Inc …”

Nice try Leonard Lauder.

John le Carré, the Sunday Times and a spy lie

The theme of newspapers spinning or distorting stories is yet again illustrated, by The Sunday Times (again).

John le Carré complains to the paper of an interview with Rod Liddle last week which had us believe that the master spy novelist was once tempted to defect to the Russians when he worked as a British intelligence officer. Not quite. At all. Le Carré explains in a letter that, as he has done in various of his fictions, he merely identified with professional eavesdroppers.

He writes: “It was in this context that I made the point that, in common with other intelligence officers who lived at close quarters with their adversaries, I had from time to time placed myself intellectually in the shoes of those on one side of the Curtain who took the short walk to the other; and that rationally and imaginatively I had understood the magnetic pull of such a step [of defection], and empathised with it.”

That was too psychologically subtle a message to flog a newspaper on. So the greys and blurs were dipped into the black ink of a lucrative screamer for a juicy misrepresentation. Think of all the years of journalistic education - and subsequent snobbery - that went into that. I understand solicitors exchanged missives.

The long letter makes another complaint which you should read over a large glass of Calvados. Click here. Mind how you go.

Kate McCann, The News of the World and a 'miskate'

Oops, another Colin Myler fiasco (he's the Christian Jonah editor of the paper about to get a mention). The News of the World has apologised to Kate McCann for wrongly publishing extracts from her diary last week - it was a front page, circulation-boosting special. The paper explains on the little-read page 2 (where the political hacks justify their utterly pointless existence): "We published the extracts in the belief held in good faith that we had Kate’s permission to do so. It is now clear that our belief was misplaced, and that in fact Kate neither approved of nor knew that the extracts were to be published."

I may have missed something here but who owns the copyright in McCann's diary? And would it not have been the usual thing to negotiate a price with her reps, or herself even, for publication? Had the Screws done so they would have discovered that she had not granted permission to publish her private thoughts. The paper has made a donation to the McCanns' campaign to find their missing daughter Madeleine. I hope this sum exceeds by a wide margin whatever profit they made on McCann's diary.

The paper has removed the diary from its website. However, as I write, extracts from the extracts are still to be found on Telegraph.co.uk. "The full context of the journal ... written in an A4 pad, have been revealed in a tabloid newspaper after being leaked by a Portuguese reporter," explains the site. An Australian site also carries a substantial amount of material from the diary click here. Loads of other sites lifted material, including Marie Claire 's.

The Screws' Carole Malone page top headline today is: "One Miskate After Another!" But that's about another Kate. Pity.

Btw - ought not the web page that carried the now deleted McCann diary (as indicated in web search lists) have the apology? It isn't as I write, click here .

Happy birthdays to Karl (75), Duncan

Karl, 75, with Jr

Where are my manners? I forgot to wish Karl Lagerfeld a happy 75th (yes, that's his actual age - not 70; Sept 10 - a Virgo: odd, detail attentive, mercurial). And on Sept 26 Duncan Fallowell celebrates a significant birthday as an airy Libran. Madame Arcati showers these gifted souls with all her good wishes.

PS: I forgot to say, Karl is seventy-five

Encounters with Liberace

Lee Randall, Assistant Editor (Magazines & Arts) of The Scotsman writes me of her encounter with Liberace. It's so well done I had to share it ....

Many years ago I "met" Liberace. For reasons that too many Vodka Gimlets have obscured in my memory, he was at the American Booksellers Association convention (ABA) back in the day, when I still worked in book publishing. We were knocking down our stalls and he was trotted around for hellos (again, no idea why).

Even though it was the end of a too-long day, he was elegance epitomised - wearing the most luscious pale suit with a magnificent crisp shirt and a wonderful tie (my memory's fixed these as greys and lilacs and pale blues); his hair was immaculate, his macquillage sublime (ie: there, but not TOO there), and he had one ring on each finger: a huge, perfect, round cabochon agate - again in those same colour ranges - set in gold. Not at all tacky, not at all Vegas, just old style celebrity like they didn't even make any more back then.

As I say, he was magnificent to behold, and he was the most gracious, most pleasant, most well mannered individual one could ever hope to encounter in this kind of "drive by" meeting. . .

So, that would have been late May 1986. By February he was dead. I was knocked sideways - he'd looked so healthy, so happy, so together at the convention. It was around that time that my own friends started dropping like flies, and I saw at close range how swiftly and inexorably Aids could move. Still, better that than the friends I watched linger while all quality of life eked away.

Duncan Fallowell recalls ...

I met him a couple of times at AD8, April's restaurant. Huge, sweet, like a scented polar bear raised on chocolate.

Save Liberace from Michael Douglas

I am very concerned that the reputation of Liberace may be besmirched by Michael Douglas. If film trade reports are to be believed, the former sex addict has pretensions to bring to movie life the (let’s use a standard newspaper euphemism) “flamboyant” pianist who was plainly a fur-loving, rhinestone-outfitted cock-cocker. Even worse, Matt Damon may play one of his old boyfriends Scott Thorson who sued him for palimony. Prepare for the big question to the two actors when promotion times comes around : “What was it like to kiss?”

What’s interesting is the selection of two resolute cock-cunters to play the queens. Is it possible that, given Hollywood’s deranged homophobia, it was thought essential to make the subject-matter of Liberace palatable to the land of Sarah Palin and her foreign parts by casting two actors synonymous with catalogue-constructed masculinity?

The thinking probably goes like this: cock-cocking is box office smeg but why not launder the exercise by presenting two straight stars acting. Normally actors act so we forget they’re acting. In the case of Liberace, it’s essential the actors act against type so that we know that they’re acting. In this way a Trojan is created to sneak in the matter of the cock-cocking.

My preferred alternate Liberace/Thorson combos (of varying sexual types, all interesting):

Rupert Everett/Limahl
Kevin Spacey/Vin Diesel
kd lang/Christopher Biggins
Robert De Niro/Al Pacino
Christopher Lee/Zac Efron

Jonathan Rhys Meyers wouldn't measure up as Henry

I see that Past Pleasures Ltd is looking for a man to play Henry VIII at Hampton Court Palace in 2009. You need to be 6ft tall with a large frame, have a playing age 40-50, be able to grow a beard, be within an easy commute of Hampton Court Palace and be knowledgeable about Tudor history.

It occurs to me that the one man most ably qualified to take on this role, Jonathan Rhys Meyers (who presently plays Henry VIII in The Tudors) would fail the audition.

For the actor is just a shade over 5ft 9ins, looks nothing like 40 let alone 50 (closer 30), doesn't do beards (yet), lives in LA and is probably not very knowledgeable about Tudor history – certainly the people behind The Tudors seem indifferent to it.

What a loss to Hampton Court Palace. But in any case if you aren’t Jonathan Rhys Meyers and you think you have what it takes to play an old scrote who murdered two of his wives, gave heart cancer to another and indirectly killed yet another with his cock, apply to info@pastpleasures.co.uk

Cosmo Landesman and particle physics

I am soooo sorry to hear that the dashing Sunday Times film critic Cosmo Landesman, 52, has had to move back in with mummy and daddy after one row too many with yet another one of his wives. But Cosmo is predisposed to a certain volatility, one suspects. He has already managed to knock his 80-year-old mother to the ground by throwing a featherlight cushion at her - an appalling accident of course. Thank goodness the pillow wasn't a Swan automatic teasmade or a Linda Barker sofa - but I mustn't do that Sunday Times thing of spinning a tale. Only recently he entered one of the Soho Screening rooms and appeared to have a contretemps with a chair, and then muttered to himself for a while. And today at a Tropic Thunder screening (patchy film) at the Odeon Leicester Square, he circumnavigated the huge auditorium twice in the style of a particle rushing around the Large Hadron Collider. Happily, on this occasion, there was no collision and pacifically he found a seat among the 800 or so vacant.

Poll: 'Sarah Palin will not be first woman US president'

In a shock result, 74% of Madame Arcati readers believe Sarah Palin will not be the first female US president. This must mean that John McCain will not die in office. There can be no other interpretation. Incidentally, I like Camille Paglia's feminist hugging of Sarah: I think she thinks Sarah is Doris Day in the shape of Calamity Jane, one of those latterday Western frontier women who chewed the baccy.

Peter Simon wishes you a Merry Christmas

Peter Simon flogged two types of Christmas porcelain candle holder on Bid TV tonight. One featured Siamese twin reindeers tragically connected at the colon in which two candles sat; the other had a mother, child and beardie crouched against a Christmas tree.

Peter didn't realise the tee light candles were battery operated till the glamorous female assistant popped them on half way through the sale - "Ooooh look, they're glowing, they're glowing!" screamed Peter who still does that Frankie Howerd thing of running his tongue around the inside of his mouth when he's being saucy. He probably would have tried to light the plastic candles had the assistant not assisted. "They could go for a pound," he lied. The candle holders went for about £8 for the pair.

Then there was a Raymond Briggs' The Snowman Christmas decoration to flog, a cardboard cut-out of a flying snowman carrying a boy, both wrapped in coils of rope lights. "It could go for a pound," Peter lied as the screen text showed a starting price of £49.99. "It would look lovely in yer bay window or over the fire place or in your reception area," Peter said. So, I switched off.

Can anyone put a name to Hirst's head?

The ever-lively Rob McGibbon is trying to identify the man who parted with his body in order to pose with artist Damien Hirst. Do you recognise the soul, who is probably dead now? Perhaps you recognise him as a former lover or husband, someone who in bed heaved and humped before a grunt and an eight hour snore. It couldn't have been a very pleasant experience. Or perhaps he appeared as an extra in one of Guy Ritchie's gangsta movies or in EastEnders, as one of Babs Windsor's long-lost bruvvers. Do tell me (or Rob whose delightful blog is here).

Rav Singh departs the Screws

Rav Singh is departing the News of the World's showbiz world and Dan Wootton is taking over. How Rav got away with it for so many years is a mystery to me.

Heather Mills - 'Do buy the comtesse's champagne'

The Comtesse Michele Elyzabeth trashed former PR client Heather Mills last Sunday in the News of the World, claiming among so many other things that she was suing the so-called Mucca over unpaid fees. Yet when I turn to the comtesse’s website for her champagne I see that Heather is still being used as a celebrity endorsement with a poignant pic. How fragile is a union forged only in business. Click here

Yes, Toby Young was banned from film set.

Film director Robert Weide claims in a letter to the Spectator that he did not ban gorgeous Toby Young from the set of How To Lose Friends And Alienate People. He further denies that it was Kirsten Dunst who got him banned. Oh, I dunno about that. I’ve got a copy of Empire in front of me – with bloody Quantum of Shite on the cover (I’ve suddenly decided Bond movies are so over) – and in it Mr Weide writes his interesting diary of the making of the movie. Let’s go through the Toby bit step by step.

1 Toby irritates Dunst by giving her notes on how to act. I think this is very thoughtful of him. More writers should take the initiative in this way. Pity someone didn’t talk to the cast of The Women which is nothing like George Cukor’s ’39 job - if you want something done well get a homo to do it, that's what I say. How can straight Annette Bening compare with lesbo Joan Crawford? Serrated edge meets draught excluder.
2 Tell tale tit Dunst then goes boo-hooing to Weide asking whether it’s necessary for Tobes to be on set. Boo hoo.
3 Weide says “I told her to consider it taken care of” The implication is quite plain. Certainly you would not think he means to reprimand the sex god, as he claims in the Speccie.
4 Weide describes a Tobes email with advice on improving a scene as “complete rubbish”. Bitch.
5 Tobes confesses he gets anxious when he visits the set. Poor poppet. Let me stroke your shiny pate.
6 Weide replies evilly: “There’s a very simple way to relieve yourself of that anxiety”. The implication is again plain – fuck off cunty, we don’t want you here. Who do you think you are, you pond life author you. Bloody writers ….

Toby knew when he wasn’t wanted and to all intents and purposes was banned - thanks to Dunst. Weide froze him out. There are many ways of making someone feel unwelcome. Just ask Anna Wintour.

Toby has invited me to his book party tonight but it clashes with Mark Borkowski’s for his The Fame Formula: How Hollywood's Fixers, Fakers and Star Makers Created the Celebrity Industry (click here to buy) which I have just read and love. I hadn't realised Clark Gable was bi. I shall be reviewing it soon. But whose party to attend? Or maybe I should have sex with a Toby Young tribute act. Decisions, decisions.

Mercury Prize. Rick Sky. Ice bucket

I do hope the altercation or misunderstanding between legendary pop writer-turned ents news mogul Rick Sky and the Mirror's showbiz editor Alun Palmer at last night's Mercury is rapidly forgotten - I do soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo hate unpleasantness. Why can't we just love one another? Related or not, I believe an ice bucket was emptied over someone's head. I am sure this and another horrible micro-moment are all unconnected and perhaps were hallucinated as the booze rushed Niagara-like down necks.

Dylan Jones thinks he's Guy Ritchie

GQ editor Dylan Jones says he knows “what Guy Ritchie feels like” after the critical mauling of his execrable Cameron On Cameron book homage to Tory leader David "smug chops" Cameron – quite why a successful journalist must persist in acting the Baldrick to every brand Blackadder is beyond my understanding.

But wait a minute. Ritchie’s new movie RocknRolla is the UK’s top film right now. It’s true the old fusty revanants of “Fleet Street” hated the film but that’s because they didn’t really watch it in their unlaundered clobber: they just sat in the screening room gloom rehearsing smart put-downs. But the cool media like Heat and a hundred others loved it. Are we to believe that the achingly voguish Jones only reads farty British national newspapers in assessing what’s hot or not between shit plop 1 and shit plop 2?

Brian Sewell: 'Francis Bacon loved to fart'

The world’s best art critic, Brian Sewell, relates how he bonded with the late artist Francis Bacon. They would meet at a Harrods juice bar and Bacon would bring an exotic vegetable for liquidising to be added to a beverage. “Asked why, he told me that he liked to fart and to this end would drink any foul concoction.” Unfortunately Sewell kept no notes of his encounters with Bacon: “I recall only disconnected jottings, as it were, with the occasional interjections of let wind.”

Cliff Richard and the case for same-sex 'covenants'

The witterings-on about Cliff Richard's companionship with Father John McElynn make me laugh. The Bible sets a precedent for "covenants" between same-sexers with the much-told tale of Jonathan and David in the Old Testament - 1 Samuel 18:3: "Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul." In verse 4: "And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his apparel, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle." When Jonathan is killed David says (2 Samuel 1:26): "I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: Very pleasant hast thou been unto me: Thy love to me was wonderful, Passing the love of women." The biblical words about this relationship might serve to shape a useful vow in all partnership rituals, civil, religious, cock-cocking, cunt-cunting, cock-cunting, cunting-dildo-strap-on-cock, cock-cock-cunting, Richard-McElynn, (and other variations).

Attention Broadway! Daniel Radcliffe utterly naked! (Again)

A note to Broadway-goers: Prepare to see Daniel Radcliffe in the buff in Peter Shaffer's Equus which so wowed London auds. Here is Madame Arcati's exclusive snapshot of his horse. For times and booking details at the Broadhurst Theatre, click here. The play's currently previewing and opens Sept 25. The poor boy will even have to disrobe on Boxing Day. PS I wonder who the old bag is who took his virginity. Answers please ....

Rupert Murdoch: 'Muslims are genetically inferior'

Michael Wolff's forthcoming biography of Rupert Murdoch, The Man Who Owns the News, reveals that the News Corp boss believes that Muslims are genetically inferior because they marry cousins. I suppose Rebekah Wade has no option but to agree.

Eric Morecambe spotted at Bibendum

Had a delicious long lunch at Bibendum yesterday and afterwards enjoyed reading Fay Maschler's Standard review marking the restaurant's 21st - "The tradition of changing the loose covers on the chairs according to season meant we coincided with Dijon mustard yellow, presumably signifying early autumn, but not an alluring hue. The patina of age, which Conran evokes with pleasure, doesn’t flatter cotton drill.," she writes. What a marvellous old queen she is. "Cotton drill" - I love it.

Alas my reviewing hat was knocked away by the sighting of the late Eric Morecambe who waited on my party. Here is the poppet. Perhaps he could diversfy his career as a tribute act. Where's his Ernie?

Sir Guy Ritchie and the Daily Mail writer; Or the RocknRolla press meet

I have to give the Mail's showbiz writer Richard Simpson 10 out of 10 for nerve at least. There he sat waiting for the RocknRolla press conference to start in his business suit, patiently enduring the hideous heavy metal caterwauling, not talking to the ghastly oiky foreign hacks around him, and all the while nursing a question that would elicit about 10 dismissive words from Mr R, which nonetheless would not deflect him from writing a near-page report on the event in today's paper.

The question was along the lines: How do you account for the success of your marriage? In the course of the question, Richard seemed to call the director "Sir Guy". Then in some backtracking repartee added that he was only trying to ingratiate himself with the faux-knight. Later asked how he knew so much about the London underworld, Sir Guy replied: "From reading the Daily Mail."

Guy Ritchie is a winning character. His cologne was not. When he passed me by in his dark suit - no tie - his Dunhill aftershave, or whatever sweet heliotrope he'd dabbed on, nearly knocked me out. I suspect he's a benign mind-fucker. He liked to tease his cast by lobbing questions fired at him over to them - naturally they hadn't been listening. I imagine his marriage to Madge is one long benign mind-fuck. Best to be on your toes chez Ciccone-Ritchie. You've got to have your wits about you with these two restless workaholics.

The press meet for RocknRolla was at the Oxo Tower Wharf near Waterloo, a dump whose interiors resemble those in the Alien space ship. RocknRolla movie posters were plastered all over the bare brick walls, the ceiling plaster was bubbling and flaking, the naked girders were all rust: I loved it. The wharf is no good example of the architectural hyper-modernism in RocknRolla. But you could imagine a nice old mobster feeding a rival to crayfish there.

The journos were well looked after. Bacon rolls served, coffee poured. I didn't stay for lunch, but I think I spotted some shrimp. Today's Mail trashes RocknRolla - Christopher Tookey is a sharp writer but has grown cantakerous from exposure to the all-male clique of elderly national film reviewers - and I'm astonished. The movie is far superior to Ritchie's other films, even if it covers old ground superficially. London's turned, that's its message. The fucking Russians and American crayfish are running the place.

The Parkin Lot - and 'ignore Arcati!'

Facebook message from Sophie Parkin ...

"The Parkin Lot is on EVERY TUESDAY, 9-1.30am - please come down, BUT don't forget your boottees. No matter what Madame Arcatti says! It's all about the Fun, the snogging in corners with erections is just the side dish. Can't wait to see you lovelies before I emigrate to Holland. Sante as we say Rotterdam! Sophie (Carson and Molly).

Click here