Nicholas Hellen: NISA to see you, to see you NISA

The new Private Eye reports that the Sunday Times news editor Nicholas Hellen - aka Lord Percy, because of his airs - is in trouble again. Reporter Abul Taher has filed an official complaint over Percy's alleged habit of calling him a "suicide bomber". It is always distressing when one's sense of humour is not fully appreciated, and Percy has my full sympathy.

I now learn that NISA - the News International Staff Assoiciation - is lodging a complaint against Hellen over his treatment of colleagues.

Arcatistes will recall that Percy has an unfortunate habit of being taken for a bully - it is a matter of much astonishment that News International, which lately has adopted a more civilised approach to staff management (apparently), seems quite hopeless in the early identification of dysfunctional staff conduct and dealing with it as required by law. This whole matter reflects on the poor judgement of senior editors at the paper. But then Hellen must have acquired his set of values from someone.

Jonathan King: Soldiers and their excuses

One finds Jonathan King in a dyspeptic, dystopian mood in his wonderful Deck of Cards 2009. Soldiers especially may want to turn away now - your excuses for immorality are mercilessly pilloried. The song can be bought on iTunes.

Sebastian Shakespeare: Let's make him soooo famous

The Standard's gossipy little writer Sebastian Shakespeare appears to be fame-famished, the poor poppet. He recently told his public (the Hon Vanessa Kensington and her chihuahua, Paree) that he had ignited a huge row on Twitter because he'd said something original, like, tweeting's only a fad. Alas, the controversy just missed my cognisance, but I'm sure Vanessa and Paree ran their digits (and paw pads) raw in his defence.

I think I'm right in saying that he edits Londoner's Diary, but now he fancies himself as a celebrity columnist. The good news is that he can only get better. Today, for instance, he reveals he lunched at the Ritz. That in itself could be interesting, I suppose (I can't recommend the Ravioli of Pumpkin with Ceps and New Season Truffle highly enough) but then he goes and ruins it by adding "that most iconic of British hotels made famous by Julia Roberts in Notting Hill."

That's a bit like saying that one has visited a pyramid "in Egypt", y'know, the pyramid made iconic by Peter Ustinov's Poirot when he mopped his brow within sight of one in Death On The Nile. We can safely affirm that the Ritz was iconic long before Julia played a whore and lived happily ever after, shopping. He also affects to be down with the kids like his colleague Anne "fessed up" McElvoy by informing us that he lives in the same"'hood" as David Cameron. The Tory leader gets a name-check en route to Sebastian's elegy for his unblooming rooftop wisteria.

Incidentally, if Sebastian is still editing Londoner's Diary, he may want to make a correction or two. Jason Cowley is the editor of the New Statesman, not Paul Johnson. As a contributor to the magazine, he ought to know. And I don't quite get the opening sentence to the Nicholas Coleridge item: "Do you view the recession in black or white?" True, Coleridge's novel (the title is of no consequence) comes in two shades but what has that got to do with the recession? It's not mentioned again in the story which brings the surprising news that the tome was edited.

But how sweet of Sebastian to promote Nicholas' novel. It's only to be expected of one who also is the books editor of Tatler, whose MD is, er, Nicholas. An unavoidable synergy I'm sure.

I do hope my comments prove constructive. Meanwhile, send a link to this story to 10 websites and help to make Shakespeare iconic.

David Starkey: In for Henry's quill

I, too, am enjoying David Starkey's Henry VIII: Mind of a Tyrant, but more for its moments of Tudor calligraphy than anything else. To watch a confident quill at work, its curlicued lettering thickening and thinning as if by special effects, is to witness all manner of nonsense made formal by ultimate elegance - rather like a Christopher Hitchens sentence: an act of style over substance.

Starkey himself is an irksome performer: all camp emphasis and tabloidy rhetorical questions. He is also given to overstatement. In the latest episode he tried to persuade us, to rousing music and crashing sea waves, that Henry's imperious stamp remained indelible up to WW2, because of a few forts he built along the south coast of England. Perfect nonsense. Anyone would think the English Nero had saved Blighty from Hitler.

Starkey is recycling a lot of stuff from his earlier tome on Henry - and it's a perfect disgrace that Arundel Castle couldn't be bothered to put on the heating as Starkey exhaled steam in a cold chamber over a Christian emblem. No wonder he never took off his coat.

What I wanted was more about the actual nature of Tudor religious piety. If the papacy was so honoured, why did the French King go to war against the Pope and why did Henry so wantonly reinvent himself as England's pontiff? Starkey too easily scours the calligraphic scrawl and simply tells us what was written, but does not explain the cynical religious double-think of the age. Did European royalty regard the Pope as just another king, pissing on their parade? Starkey would do well to address that question.

Also: How big was Henry's cock? That's another question.

Alternative Miss World: Drag date with Molly Parkin

Molly Parkin's taking me to the drag pageant Alternative Miss World on Saturday, May 2, at the Roundhouse in Camden, as her VIP partner, natch. "The event that brought Leigh Bowery to London, that intrigued artists from Brian Eno to David Hockney, that has attracted fashionistas from Zandra Rhodes to Ryan Styles - The Alternative Miss World - a beauty contest like no other – ricochets back into the limelight for its 12th outing since 1972 at London's premier venue The Roundhouse on Saturday May 2nd 2009," reads the invite.

The theme this year is the elements so I was thinking perhaps of wearing an iPod instead of a tie, screening David Attenborough's The Living Planet just below my chin. Could be useful if the conversation dries up.

Molly is one of the judges, along with the likes of "Queen of Colour Zandra Rhodes, Textile Temptress Celia Birtwell, Bruce Lacey the elemental artist, pilot and AMW veteran, Movie Maestro Ken Russell, Rocky Horror’s Creator Richard O’Brien, Hollywood Superstar Tim Curry, South Asia’s Cultural Guru Rajeev Sethi, The Doyen of Craft Today, Philip Hughes, London’s Latest Hotspot Amy Lamé, Jonny Woo the Darling of the East End, Time Out’s Tony Elliott, the Roundhouse’s Supremo Marcus Davey, Alternative Miss World of The Universe 2004 Miss Secret Sounds of Sunbird Rising CCCP, 2004’s Co-Host, the fabulous Julian Clary," et al.

Semi-naked boys, dancing girls and the biggest exhibitionist mature tarts of London will all be on display.

Tickets: £27.50 Groundlings and £50 Seated. The Roundhouse Box Office T. 0844 482 8008. For more info on the event and venue, click here. Andrew Logan reveals a little more about the show here.

And heeeere's Andrew (you may have to turn up the volume)


And don't forget you can meet Molly on Tuesday nights at the Green Carnation in London's Greek St, click here.

Victor Zammit: His $1m challenge to afterlife deniers

Retired Australian lawyer Victor Zammit is offering $1m to any afterlife researcher who can rebut evidence for the afterlife. Click here. The applicant must understand scientific methodology, must know about admissibility of evidence and is recognised as an investigator in this field. In other words, your average pig ignorant sceptic who just hangs on the words of Richard Dawkins or Christopher "bisexual word god" Hitchens is not likely to get very far.

"Any evidence [for the afterlife] that's not rebutted remains valid," is quite properly his mantra.

You can read his book A Lawyer Presents the Case for the Afterlife here. It begins with this statement: "There is undeniable scientific evidence today for the afterlife. I am a former practising attorney-at-law formally qualified in a number of university disciplines. I am also an open-minded sceptic."

Zammit: What happens to us when we die, click here.

Richard Dawkins: God and cunnilingus

An exchange with gods-denier Richard Dawkins on Twitter:

Richard Dawkins: "I do not believe in God because I do not believe in Mother Goose." - Clarence Darrow, 1930

Madame Arcati: I do believe in God because I do believe in cunnilingus.

Richard Dawkins: lol, I may have to RT that. This is the Twitter for www.RichardDawkins.com btw, I've run it since 1999.

Horney in Australia: Dealing with the Down Under

I think the UK ignored the Arcati tale about London publishers bidding for Australia fundraiser queen Marie Sutton's Princess Diana letters, but someone called Andrew Horney (great name) on the Sydney Morning Herald picked it up. The Horney didn't credit the source, but I'll set him an example and link Horney here. Do watch it, it could prove instructive. It contains a universal message. I'm all heart, ain't I?

American presidents in drag: Pussy and Frau Martha

A friend sends me gender reassigned enhancements of two American presidents and makes my day. Meet Pussy Tourette Clinton and Frau Martha Bush.

Sebastian Horsley: 'Obama's another white in the Black House'

Brothel-meister Sebastian Horsley delights me with his take on President Obama: "He's no more black than you or me. Everyone's coloured, or you wouldn't be able to see them. He's half-black half-white. Must be confusing for the cunt. Doesn't know whether to rob you or shoot you. Don't be fooled. Men who have greatness within them don't go in for politics. He's just another white at the Black House." For more of his especial dystopian perspective, click here at the excellent Spoonfed site. Sebastian's MySpace site: click here.

Only if Obama allows members of the CIA to be prosecuted for torture will I even begin to think he is substantively different from the anti-Christ Bush Jr.

Christian The Lion: John Rendall's so up there Down Under

Anthony
"Ace" Bourke & John Rendall at a book signing for Christian The Lion

Madame Arcati was delighted to attend the launch party for children's book Christian the Lion at Taronga Park Zoo, Australia, through the person of one who shall remain nameless. Like a demon, Arcati takes possession of different individuals who think they're in full control of their faculties but are really just me. Worrying, innit?

Christian the Lion? Oh yes. Now, as you know this is the work of Anthony "Ace" Bourne and John Rendall who together bought a lion from Harrods (in '69 I think, check Google), and it's all been written about, complete with YouTube videos. John is best remembered in GB as the sometime social editor of Hello! and sometime husband of society/celeb PR and party organiser Liz Brewer. Now look at him - on TV's The View only recently with Whoopi Goldberg pushing his book. I understand that sales proceeds are being donated to the George Adamson Fund, but there will be heaps rolling in for John and Ace from a film deal and licensed products, such as toy Christian lions.

I feel certain that Liz back in London and their daughter Tallulah Rendall will be delighted by this creative resurgence in John.

Among the guests were Jane Ferguson with daughter Heidi, Angus Hawley and Prue Fisher (Angus was married to Antonia Kidman, Nicole's sister and Tom Cruise flew him and 20 guests in his private plane to an island for a bucks party), Jenny Kee and Amanda Nankervis... Jenny was John Lennon's girlfriend before Yoko; she reckons she turned him on to Asian girls. Oh, and so many others I can't be bothered to mention.

Jenny Kee & Amanda Nankervis

Calling Betjemaniacs - have you the Poetry X Factor?

Instead of mugging old bitches in shopping malls and then bleating on Jeremy Kyle's hideous TV show (all male guests affect a lubed, snaggle-toothed short fringe), why not enter the John Betjeman Young Person's Poetry Competition? Details can be found here.

Betjemaniacs are legion. Among their number is Private Eye's Ian Hislop - I understand he has made a programme for BBC4 on the history of the Poet Laureate to be aired in May. Hislop interviewed Betjeman's daughter Candida Lycett Green in the Polly Tea Rooms in Marlborough for the show.

I Love You, Man: How not to make it sound gay

For an example of how Hollywood gets its Calvins in a twist over male on male relationships, see the TV ads for new movie I Love You, Man.

It's actually a bromance - about straight man estate agent Peter Klaven (played by Paul Rudd) who lacks a special male pal to act as best man at his upcoming wedding, so he goes on a series of man-dates to find one. Soon he stumbles on fellow straight guy Sydney Fife (Jason Segel) and it's love of a sort at first sight - strictly no tongues however. It's a buddy movie really, but pilfers the chick flick thing and spells out what straight men feel about each other and whatnot. It's all very entertaining in a rudimentary way.

Now here's the thing: how do you market such a flick without it sounding gay? Easy. You ignore the theme. So according to the TV ads it's about a guy whose fiancee won't give him a blowjob - and guess what? His best man tells all at a pre-wedding drinks! Gross! No mention of the bromance or man-dates or the manionship - it's a wonder the script got greenlit at all.

Jade Goody Art Show - nanny media fail to stop it

Mark McGowan's posthumous tribute to Jade Goody has lost its home at Cordy House, Shoreditch, East London, after media twerps put pressure on the venue to play nanny on behalf of Britain's half-wits and had the art show stopped. So it will now take place at The Guy Hilton Gallery on Sunday May 3, 2-4pm. Journalists and editors who attempt to stop this will be hounded to a care home where they'll be starved and abused as a matter of course. I couldn't care less about Mark's show, it'll be the usual rubbish, but I defend his right to make an exhibition of himself to celebrate the bones of a celeb of happenstance.

'The Diana Papers' - UK publisher in purchase bid

Marie Sutton

I learn that a UK publisher is trying to secure the so-called "Diana Papers" from Australia's fundraising queen Marie Sutton.

The Papers are a collection of letters between Marie, Kensington Palace and Diana about her last visit to Australia, plus a load of letters from politicians, government ministers and officals etc trying to wrest the project away from Marie. But in the end Marie is triumphant as a kind of co-host for Diana's visit after Diana intervenes.

The hundreds of letters have been bound and put into a chronological order: what emerges is a great tale about the intrigues and backbiting behind a high society event. In addition, there are exclusive photos (never published) of Diana's supposed grave on the island at Althorp that Marie took when Earl Spencer gave her a tour ("a pile of sad looking muddy dirt" I am told).

My own feeling is it would make a marvellous movie, in the satirical vein of In The Loop.

Nicky Haslam: The Documentary by Hannah Rothschild

Hannah Rothschild

A Darling - that's an Arcatiste angel - tells me that one of Lord Rothschild's brats, writer/producer/director Hannah Rothschild, is making a documentary of one of Madame Arcati's Favoured Few, Nicky Haslam. Isn't that exciting? Hannah is a Gemini, btw, born on May 22, 1962, so we're virtual twins.

Aren't you, as a dumb unthinking atheist, with your picked-up godlessness cos you read it in a manual someplace, intrigued that two Geminis born within hours (Mercurial time, however) of each other should share an interest as singular as Nicky? No? Well, fuck you then.

My Darling writes in his encrypted message: "The only time I've ever seen Haslam was in the beer garden at South Central in Vauxhall. I thought he was talking to a glamorous woman until my friend pointed out that she had shovel hands and an uncommonly large Adam's apple." Goodness, and I thought April Ashley lived in the south of France - John Prescott's a friend of hers, incidentally.

Last year, Hannah raised the odd eyebrow still capable of such athleticism by appearing to contribute to a book titled Corfu the Garden Isle, compiled by Count Spiro Flamburiari. The Rothschilds are usually shy of publicity, see. A 2008 report in the virtually invisible online newspaper, The First Post - managed last I heard by an ex-Telegraph diaspora - suggested this was a "new book": yet according to Amazon.co.uk, the title was released as recently as 1994 (and a secondhand copy is available at a bargain basement £136.17 as I write). Perhaps someone could elucidate.

Nicky Haslam

In the book Hannah - whom David Hockney immortalised in a portrait - says of the Rothschilds' villa on the island: "Until the early Nineties, a huge searchlight placed above Aghios Stephanos searched the night water looking for escaping Albanians. Ships and pleasure craft straying into Albanian waters were apparently shot at. Following a drunken lunch my godfather Tremayne Reynell took up a dare to collect an Albanian pebble in a small sailing dinghy. We all watched in terror as the small craft tacked back across the straits waiting for a clatter of bullets to rip through the tiny sail and her captain. He made it back and with the pebble."

Frankly, Hannah (recently appointed by the PM as a trustees of The National Gallery for four years) and Nicky are made for each other. Fish, why didn't you tell me of this development? I am most displeased.

For more about Hannah, see her website.

Jade Goody - Mark McGowan's art tribute

Mark McGowan is planning to reenact the last few hours of Jade Goody's life in what he threatens will be a two-hour performance at Cordy House, Curtain Road, Shoreditch. Tickets for the May 18 performance are £17/£25.

"I am from south London," he says, "and I loved Jade. The last months of her life were in the public eye, except the moments of her death. As an artist, this is my tribute to Jade, I always supported her, even through the Shilpa Shetty incident." Here's a preview trailer: I doubt that his singing voice would get him far on Britain's Got Talent.

John Rechy: A midnight cowboy for Easter

John Rechy

A perfect Easter present for your friendly archbishop et al is John Rechy's City of Night published last month by Souvenir Press - it took decades for a British publisher to pick up his 1963 debut novel. (Though see comments) It was the first to delve into the gay sub-culture of America and find its heart.

Edmund White writes: "In that groundbreaking book he was... observing a whole new array of characters: drag queens, the still-beautiful boy living dangerously beyond his sell-by date, the guilt-ridden married men eaten up by desire and remorse, the vice cops and fag hags they're all there, many of them for the first time in American literature... this classic American novel."

Rechy wrote of his book: "City of Night began as a letter to a friend of mine after I had been to New Orleans. I wrote City of Night because they were my experiences hustling, and it began as a letter. I didn't think of it as a book." Gore Vidal hailed him as "one of the few original American writers of the last century."

A 2008 interview with Rechy by the scaredy cat Rupert Smith, click here. (Poor Rupert, so sexually bold, so craven in the company of "senior" journalists).

John Rechy site

To buy City of Night, click here.

Graydon Carter Short Story: God's Big Bang

Graydon Carter's Lothario reputation has inspired me to write a piece of fiction, titled God's Big Bang, based on his legendary hotel fucking, as reported by Rupert Everett.

Graydon Carter took in a deep breath and lost three of his five bellies - just enough to catch sight of his vast manhood from a vertical perspective, standing to attention the way Toby Young didn't in Graydon's presence when the little scamp was researching his book at Vanity Fair.

"That goddam son-of-a-bitch," growled Graydon thinking of Toby as he let out a vast gale of air and lost sight of his organ. For a moment his enormity quivered at the fear of deflation.

"Oh Graydon, Graydon, look at it! Bring it over here before you lose it," bellowed the awed blonde in the hotel four-poster, usually purple-shiny with the latest Eva Mendes De-luxe Duvet which had been carelessly cast to the floor.

"My God! Who's that?" barked the mighty editor-in-chief as he caught sight of a strange looking man in the bedroom. "What the - ?"

"There's no one there but you, honeybunch" said Blondie lightly. "It's just you're looking in the mirror."

For a moment he thought he had spotted the ectoplasmic effusion of a ghost, all cottoned up about the head. Then he realised it was just his own hair, a vast, proud luxuriance, the like of which once dreamt about by elderly periwigged gentlemen grandees of Louis XIV's court.

"Oh, Graydon, it's gone!"

He breathed in again, losing an impressive four bellies this time. But, alas, the combination of Toby Young and the imagined ghost had caused his blood to surge from his cock to his cheeks. All he could see now was the rolling result of one too many dinners at Gotham's finest restaurants. He knew choler was bad for the blood pressure.

"Ah, fuck it," shouted the man who had written diatribes against George W Bush every month in his women's magazine for eight years with no discernible effect. "Come over here and give it a rub."

Blondie sighed a little, and then spun out of bed on her pert naked buttocks. A scream followed and then the poor girl lay unconscious on the carpet. She had landed on the Eva Mendes De-luxe Duvet which proved slippery underfoot.

"That's great," said Graydon to himself. He swaggered over to the lifeless form of his inamorata and couldn't feel a pulse. "Fuck!" He began banging her chest with his fist, like they did in ER, causing the floor to tremble with each blow. The actor in the room below lay in his bed wondering how the old boy upstairs could keep up such a pace - the thought stirred him and he started thinking again of another man who had once lost his dental crown on the actor's cockring.

Mercifully, Blondie came round in Graydon's arms - he had mistakenly felt her Cartier Love Collection watch, not her pulse - "Hello God, I must be dead," she whispered, struck by Graydon's resemblance to the image of the Old Testament sky god she'd seen on a biscuit tin once. Graydon scowled, "Don't ever fucking say that in front of Hitchens - he's crazy about his atheism," he snarled.

"Oh, Graydon, it's up again," she whinnied. "Come here and do me."

The actor in his bed could only marvel at the resumption of banging above. "It must be Viagra," he bitched as he stroked his cockring. "It takes me at least an hour to recover."

'Graydon Carter an amazing fuck' - Rupert Everett

Miss Marple has a big cock

Rupert Everett, currently triumphant in play Blithe Spirit, has this to say of Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter: "I was once staying at a hotel and I was in the room directly under his. He is an amazing fuck. And you can quote me on this. The screams coming from the woman were some of the purest sounds of pleasure I'd ever heard. And there I was sitting alone in my room unfucked. Suddenly it all made sense. That messy hair of his that I always thought was buffoon hair was buffoon hair hiding a monster cock."

For more of this tasteless porn click here. The interview is on the Daily Beast - edited by Tina Brown, former VF editor and not a noted pal of the Miss Marple lookalike giant cock-cunter. I wonder whether this tribute will not imperil Rupes' contributing editorship of VF. I always said the magazine is essentially vulgar.

Graydon Carter denies he's an amazing fuck, click here.

Molly Parkin to stay! Dentist blamed for Green Carnation exit!

Worshipful devotees of Molly Parkin will be over-joyed to learn that she has been dissuaded from foolishly quitting her weekly party gig at the Green Carnation club.

Sources inform me that she was under the influence of codeine (aka methylmorphine, an opiate used for its analgesic, antitussive and antidiarrheal properties) and other troubling pharmaceutical drugs administered by her dentist when she forgot for a moment that there's fuck-all else to do on a Tuesday night in London but dance attendance on her mirrored person to a 60s soundtrack. "The dentist had no choice but to sedate her because her roots were hanging out of her mouth like spaghetti," one of her semi-naked male litter-bearers tells me. "The drugs turned her mind for a day or two. But now she's back to herself and her dangling gob roots are gone."

Madame Arcati has agreed to host one evening soon at the Greek Street club under her watchful eye as party empress. I'm thinking of a theme - it maybe a Margaret Rutherford evening or one dedicated to people who look a bit pervy. Feel free to make your own suggestions, but remember Madame Arcati likes to combine elegance with inappropriateness.

The party tomorrow there will be to bid daughter Sophie adieu as she prepares for marital bliss in Hollandaise Sauce Land. Please bring a stolen sachet of the relevant condiment in her honour.


Margaret Rutherford, possible theme of the Madame Arcati Night at the Green Carnation

Piers Morgan: Getting pissed with the PM and Simon Cowell

The fatuous fathead Piers Morgan gives an interesting interview for a change, thanks to the wonderful extracting skills of Lee Randall of The Scotsman - one of the few papers left that does not run Hello!-type self-lubricated pieces in the presence of celebrities.

Of Gordon Brown's omnipresence in his latest chewy diary- bio God Bless America, the fathead reveals: "He's there because I like to get drunk with him. I was there [No 10 presumably] the other night with him and Simon Cowell and Amanda Holden and we all got really drunk. He relaxed a bit; we trashed a few bankers over the champagne and ate a few insurance people by the time we got to the chocolates. Very enjoyable."

I'm not sure that the Prime Minister should be getting drunk, let alone with such a scurvy crew of TV smuggers. And I hardly think the PM is in a position to trash bankers when only until recently he was quite happy to ride on their coattails and take huge credit for a prudently-run economy, based on fantasy money as it turns out. Some of his best friends were bankers.

Morgan also farts out: "I think loyalty is all important, whether it's friends or family or colleagues." Yes, but when did statuesque Telegraph celebrity transcriber Celia Walden arrive in his life? Before or after his marriage drooped? That's a rhetorical question.

Read the interview, click here.

Molly Parkin - farewell to the Green Carnation (boo hoo)

Terrible news! As if it's not awful enough that my pink trooper is turning black and blue in detention at Her Maj's Pleasure for trying to have sexual intercourse with a copper (allegedly), my fiancée Molly Parkin is giving up her Parkin Lot gig at the Green Carnation club in London's Greek Street. All the colour's draining away.

What will one do with oneself on Tuesday nights? Just how many other night owl events are being hosted by a style queen who got it together with a 23 year-old surfer boy when she was 73? Molly is a unique beast, and I am frankly appalled by her decision to quit.

It's all daughter Sophie's fault. Just cos she's gone and fallen in love and is off to Holland (or "Hollandaise Sauce Land" as Molly puts it). See, Sophie did all the arranging. The stretch limo bookings, the moozik selections (nothing post '68 - tsk), the readings and what have you - actually, I don't know if any of this is true, but it sounds right and that's all that matters on this site. So I guess Queen Molly, used to being waited on, has decided she has better things to do in Chelsea as her Cannes-bound biopic and a Croatian adventure beckon.

And what of her sexy male attendants? Roberto, the Welsh-Spanish ex-fiancé of Sophie's and his lovely composer friend, Leonardo Di Lorenzo whose horoscope I must do? And that awful squirt who goes around the club bitching about the Molly biopic (he really must be dealt with) ... will I see these gorgeous hunks ever again?

Leonardo Di Lorenzo

Still, I mustn't forget that I plan to marry Molly. Andrew Logan will tie us up sometime soon and perhaps Zandra Rhodes will be Maid of Honour. It will be a new kind of union, one rooted in art but visceral nonetheless. I reserve the right to try to seduce all of Molly's slaves, whatever their imagined orientation. And she can have her surfer boys.

Molly's last night is on Tuesday, April 7 - come and see her off to new adventures, as well as Sophie to Hollandaise Sauce Land.

Green Carnation

Pink trooper arrested at London's G2 demos

My pink super trooper aka Ben Moore has been arrested at the G20 demos. How wonderful that the burger-brained police should prove to be so compliant in furnishing Ben's artistic exhibition set against the moronic protesters. I had feared that Madame Sarkozy's bodyguard might shoot him but she wisely stayed away and I think arrives in London on Friday, wanting to be seen at her decorative best.

A more effective demonstration would comprise 100,000 people standing in rapt silence made up as zombies. The poor police, ever desperate to show off to the cameras, wouldn't know what to do with themselves.

Stop press: 'Rumour has it he was trying to get it on with one of the police officers'

Sky News fiasco over G20 protests

Sky News' TV coverage of the London G20 demos is a total disaster - all blurred images on cheap camera phones. I have never seen anything more pathetic. All part of some craven idea about the Twitter generation - ie let's sack the pros. There are better produced porn flims on xtube.