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| Roger Lewis |
Fans of Roger Lewis were most concerned to hear he was at death's door over Christmas with pancreatitis. Happily, Britain's funniest writer was refused an astral tunnel visa and is now back home convalescing. In response to my solicitude, he wrote me the following:
Dear Madame Arcati,
Home at last, where I creep about the chimney corner in a brocade dressing gown like John Hurt doing Beckett's Krapp.
Pancreatitis. Not recommended. My fault for ignoring the diabetes symptoms. But still. 1 in 3 die of what I had -- and once I was on the IV morphine drip, death seemed quite a nice option. (As it still does)
Because I have been patched up by the docs only to have to face fucking bills, fucking invoices, fucking VAT and fucking income tax demands and fucking trying to make fucking ends fucking meet in that fucking freelance way.
I think that's all part of what made me ill: 30 years of doing what I do and mostly all I get are inadequate and irresponsible reviews and (save for yourself and a handful of discerning others ) scant recognition.
Thrilled you seem to like the new book, What Am I Still Doing Here? - darker and madder (and better) than Seasonal Suicide Notes. If I ever do a 3rd volume I have the title ready: "I'll Just Die And Then You'll Be Sorry."
I'll go down in history for at least being Ronald Searle's final patron -- his cover the last thing he ever did.
One funny thing happened this week. I got these fulsome ("Darling Roger") emails from veteran film director Bryan Forbes, whom I only know very vaguely -- from my Peter Sellers research days. Turns out he thought he was communicating with Roger Moore. He (Bryan) only twigged when he asked with justified bepuzzlement "What were you doing in hospital in Truro over Christmas?" As indeed, what would 007 Sir Roger Moore CBE be doing in Truro over Christmas, or at any time?
The boiler has gone kaput this morning. On the whole I'd rather be back in the High Dependency Ward.
Gluckliches neues jahr !
8 comments:
Hurrah for all those that return from the dead.
Being confused with Roger Moore is infinitely more horrible than the pancreas thingy. I'd rather have a dodgy pancreas than be thought of as ham.
It was such a shame that that they didn't make Oliver Reed James Bond but cast Roger Moore instead. Reed must be England's sexiest film star ever - OK, along with Terence Stamp - but he rarely made a decent film. What a shame. Please find a naked pic of him for me to weep over
Shocked to hear of Roger's illness. I had no idea.
I watched Woman In Love the other night and realised what a mess that film is. A marvellous mess. A naked pic of Oliver Reed is an excellent idea - there's not enough cock in mainstream media, what?
I try to like Ken Russell's films - Women In Love is the best of them - but they lack the mystery they so sorely need
The Devils is Ken's greatest movie. Vanessa Redgrave scowled brilliantly.
I loved Roger Lewis's Seasonal Suicide Notes and hadn't heard of the new book. Am ordering now!
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