Molly Parkin's alternative Queen's speech - Boris, you've blown it!

Molly Parkin on sale - at Selfridges!

Selfridges' Bright Old Things. Molly Parkin, far right
(Click pic to enlarge)

I've always thought my darling fiancee Molly Parkin should be in a shop window on permanent display. Now a dream is turned to reality. In the New Year, Selfridges launches a "concept" (ie a PR project) called Bright Old Things - or BOT for short. I love a BOT. It involves a load of talents showing off something in a Selfridges window on Oxford Street - and among this lot of BOT is Moll. Each of the participants (ranging in age from late 40s to 80s) has enjoyed some kind of renaissance or career turn in middle to late life.

You'll be able to buy BOT products (Moll's paintings, for instance) in store. But what precisely Moll will be doing I'm not sure. My current understanding is that she may sit in a window and cause traffic jams as millions of people pass by, gawping at her as she paints. It's hard to imagine that this is possible yet what else can one think? Or perhaps Moll will be seated in her own in store pagoda - I just hope a price tag is not attached to her. In which case she might be bought by some Qatari squillionairess and never seen again. What a tragic outcome that would be.

Anyway, keep your eyes on Selfridges, poppets.

Lifesurfing - BOOK TRAILER

Sarah Jane Morris sings Molly Parkin's 'Sally'

Sarah Jane Morris singing 'Sister Sally and Me'. Lyrics by Molly Parkin. Music by Simon Wallace. Filmed by Robert Chilcott. Total bliss - and a taste of things to come from the album, the stage show and the multi-media movie experience. You can see Moll in the video relishing Sarah Jane's stunning performance.

Molly Parkin: Art, cock and lyrics inspire jazz videos

Poppets, it's been too long! I return armed with two gorgeous jazz videos inspired by the sensual and erotic art (and lyrics) of Molly Parkin. Chelsea Hotel Orgy will doubtless prompt post-Christian atheistic beards who work for Google to try to close down this site (not for the first time) - and to expedite this process, may I draw attention to the depictions of massive cock. So Long At The Party is a little tamer and features the fabulous voice and person of Ian Shaw against the backdrop of Parkinalia. I just made up that word. Am I not the cleverest?

So, sit back, poor a drink, forget about Strictly and X Factor. And wallow in another world.

Chelsea Hotel Orgy (Wallace & Parkin feat, Alan Barnes)
Paintings and drawings by Molly Parkin including ‘Chelsea Hotel Orgy’ and ‘Las Vegas Lay’ which were used as the starting point for an improvised blues by Alan Barnes (tenor sax) and Simon Wallace (piano). The video includes preliminary sketches of the featured paintings.



So Long At The Party (Wallace & Parkin feat. Ian Shaw)
Lyrics and paintings by Molly Parkin, sung by the brilliant Ian Shaw with Alan Barnes on clarinet.

Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World 2014 - be a sponsor!

Poppets, if you wish to do your bit to create yet further confusion in the minds of literalists, fascists and UKIP, do make a financial contribution to Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World, to be held in London in October.

Was it really five years ago that Madame Arcati attended the 2009 Alternative Miss World? Read all about it here. "Is that a vagina?" co-host Ruby wax wondered aloud as yet another drag interpretation wafted past her. Personal transformation is one of the major themes of our time and I cannot think of a more exotic event than Andrew's for bringing to life the full spectrum of artistic cross-dressing (or whatever the latest term may have been assigned).

I won't go on as I'm busy. But do visit this page and read all about the history of Alternative Miss World and how you can play your part in the furtherance of sartorial and cosmetic art.

Isn't it time Andrew Logan had a knighthood? I hope they don't keep him waiting as they did my delightful friend Sir Christopher Lee.

Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World will be held at Shakespeare's Globe on October 18, 2014.

Doctor Who: Capaldi is only just short of Cappalling

Madame Vastra - not one for David Icke

Ooh, I don't know, poppets. The Arcati jury's out on Peter Capaldi as the new Doctor Who. A Scottish Doctor Who. And being Scottish entitles him to complain - according to the script. Was this a knowing contribution to the Caledonian Yes/No referendum? A sly allusion to the world of politics to which one Malcolm Tucker once contributed his foul-mouthed wisdom, so ably played by Capaldi? Doctor Who mustn't get too clever - Whovians are not ultra-smart people but obsessives with social limitations. Their one true calling is the history of Doctor Who. What they don't know about the sex lives of Daleks is not worth knowing. History (non-Doctor Who), to them, is a place like Wonderland where everyone's a bit cute  and sounds like Yvette Fielding - Hitler no exception.

Deep Breath unfolded slug-slowly, the more to make space for acting. Capaldi did a lot of acting - his soliloquy in his smelly rags before a tramp turned up with the desired coat may yet feature in a thesp master-class - how to work Waiting for Godot into BBC sci-fi. Fans are quite used to Doctor Who changing shape so we could have been spared the epic anguished struggle with identity. How it went on. Rather like this paragraph. I must move on and set an example.

The lady lizard, Madame Vastra (I do love a madame) who I guess must be male because she's the husband of a human female - or else a native of the Land of Lesbos - easily stole the show: I did love her fireman's pole slide in rescue mode. The only person this will have displeased is David Icke whose synonym for establishment is reptile. I also liked the Jeevesy butler alien who confused mouth with eyelids. This is more like it. More cheap whimsy please and then I can pretend Jon Pertwee is still Doctor Who - my personal fave.

I have no problem with middle-aged Whos. Time Lords should bear the ravages of time on their clocks. Young actors have ardently reported sex drives (Matt Smith's off-camera erections proved far too distracting) and I'm afraid Who must share a raft with Mother Teresa and, er, Cliff Richard. Additionally, what Whos must not do is emote too much or imagine Olivier's ghost is assessing.

At the moment Capaldi has only slightly dodged the rating of Cappalling. Room for much improvement.

Most Haunted: Empty space is engaged

Yvette Fielding

The new Most Haunted is to be found on the Really TV channel - or, Oh Really, as I prefer. Yvette Fielding bellowed at empty space she calls ghosts, "I'm not afraid of you - S-C-R-E-A-M!" She has dispensed with the clairvoyant medium bit - in which a psychic recited information gleaned from Google searches about the relevant property's history of ghosts - which perhaps took up too much face time at the expense of hers: seasoned MH followers will have seen this coming as the ex-Blue Peter presenter diversified into mediumship, exorcism and levitation. These days she presides over ouija board seances, showcases the latest lovely Hammer Horror velvety capes and orders empty space to engage in conversation with her: a tall order given her readiness to shriek at creaks. After all this, the dead simply can't get a word in.

Actually, last night she wore no velvety cape but a tidy ensemble of cross-dressing inspiration: man's jacket, crisp shirt and garish yellow tie, all last seen on the Maggie Thatcher Spitting Image puppet that desired to be Churchill. For this alone I would have sat through a TV charade. Indeed, Yvette's various manifestations offer a running narrative of an ego struggling with the challenges of sharing (camera time). She even shares camera duties now, striding about with a tiny portable, introducing her underlings and tall husband Karl who has aged markedly in recent times. Or else, that was a white misty nimbus about his thinning locks.

The troll-like woman I think called Kath, who produced most of the screams in previous shows and did Yvette's makeup, has been replaced by a pretty, non-screaming near-mute who now does Yvette's makeup (lay off the kohl, dearie). Various hairy hunks bearing camera cargo grunt concordance with Yvette's every word ("DID YOU SEE THAT?!" "Yes."). For welcome contrast, the bald man who I believe is nicknamed Pebbles by MH fans - because he's the suspected astral thrower of stones when empty space fails to fill - has survived Yvette's latest cull.

In place of a medium we glimpsed an aged beard billed as a demonologist. He looked pleasant enough. Sadly he had nothing to do, was quickly forgotten about but made up the numbers when Yvette required crowd shadow scenes.

Perhaps the most interesting new addition is the man at the end - the Ofcom-required sceptic - who resembles the late Syd Barrett, of Pink Floyd fame. Long rock star hair, pretty face; trailer-trash clobber. His monotone instructed that poltergeists may or may not exist - "it's all a matter of belief." May I be the first to announce that Syd Barrett is not dead at all. He lives. Despite appearances.

Roger Lewis - 'Iain Dale's egotistical desire to be morally superior'

I think we can all agree that Madame Arcati is a proven champion of polysexuality (ie anything goes provided it's legal), so I was stricken - yes stricken - when I learnt that a celebrated Arcatiste had been accused of homophobia. The man in the dock is Roger Lewis (author of the classic Seasonal Suicide Notes - get for someone's Christmas. Now) and his accuser is someone called Iain Dale, a droning right-wing radio and TV opinionist who makes executive decisions in publishing.

I recall Mr Dale back in 2013 receiving a police caution after scuffling with a pensioner on Brighton seafront. Apparently, the old codger had dared to wave an anti-nuke banner in the vicinity of Mr Dale's author Damian McBride, prompting the sort of behaviour that Theresa May roundly condemns when the cameras are pointing at her and she's thinking of life beyond the Home Office.

Plainly Mr Dale has no keen ear for humour, camp or otherwise: indeed, to observe him on news chat shows, hangdog face composed in stoicism, is to re-experience Clement Freud but without the jokes (and beard). Then one day recently his eye fell upon Roger's review of a Dusty Springfield book in the Spectator. He was so appalled that he withdrew his company's book contract offer to Roger.

I emailed Roger with my commiserations, asking him what he made of all this. Here's his (slightly redacted) reply, from Austria:

"I wrote a perfectly fine piece on Dusty Springfield, inter alia making the joke that lezzos all have big chins the better to go bobbing for apples - and this cunt Iain Dale, a man of whom I had never previously heard, comes out of the woodwork accusing me of all sorts! And me the biographer of Charles Hawtrey and the world expert on camp comics!

"What I hate about the man is his egotistical desire to be morally superior - no sense of humour, hence of proportion, like those Welsh language fanatics I always poke fun at and who foam at the mouth when teased.

"XXX"

Iain Dale has responded on his blog

Hacked Off versus Private Eye: Now it's personal

The latest Private Eye's Street of Shame opens with an item on Joan Smith, the new Executive Director of Hacked Off. She promises to target companies that advertise in media signed up to the government-unapproved IPSO which launches next month and hopes to succeed where the PCC signally failed and regulate some of our newspapers. Private Eye is not IPSO-friendly but is Hacked Off-hostile while Hacked Off itself is IPSO-hostile but presently merely cool towards media that are 'unregulated' - such as the Eye.

No space was found to remind us that Joan's arrival in our post-Leveson world introduces a personal element to the ding-dong between the Eye and Hacked Off. Her former spouse is one Francis Wheen, Private Eye's deputy editor, who has much to do with Street of Shame and regularly froths in various places against Hacked Off's outrages (when he's not sulking over the existence of psychics, God, gods, aromatherapists, scented candle magic and anything else not sanctioned by white-coated geeks).

I wonder whether Mr W dispatched a congrats to Joan on her appointment. I do hope so. He strikes me as a gallant sort.

Lauren Bacall - and who was NOT heir to Bogie

In my glossy magazine days I was sent to interview Lauren Bacall. 30 mins had been allotted and she turned up 10 mins late. "I've a lunch date so let's get cracking," she growled. I surprised her with her horoscope, which she proceeded to pick apart because I'd made a basic error (my astro green days) in the calculations - she knew exactly to the degree where each planet and point was in her natal chart, inadvertently giving me a story. When I wondered which then current actor was heir to Bogie - I playfully suggested Richard Gere - she made a vomiting face, repeated his name over and over in a disgusted way ("Rich-hard GEEEre?"), giving me another story. On the 30th minute sharp she shot up and swanned out of the hotel on the arm of her lunch date companion who'd come to collect - John Gielgud.

Duncan Fallowell: Why he's given up on star interviews

Duncan Fallowell: The modern
approach to flogging books

In Duncan Fallowell's latest book, The Rise and Fall of the Celebrity Interview: A Personal Account - a long essay best read in one gulp - Tina Brown is blamed for... oh, let's start again. I'm getting ahead of myself.

I've had some personal experience of Mr F. In another age I feature edited the late IPC glossy Woman's Journal. In my first week in the post, following years as a jittery freelancer, I had to deliver on promises made (aka wishes expressed) to the grand editor-in-chief Laurie Purden MBE and produce big-name interviews by writers. Now. Not just hacks, not just "professionals", but prose naturals of the stylised kind. Of the sort likely to take Laurie by surprise. Because nothing bored her more than an expectation confirmed. She wanted to be taken unawares by an expert in seduction. Only people with a voice and a gift for animating their perverse reflexes in the written word would do. Byron Rogers could do it. I did not know DF but he'd already made an impact (on me and innumerable publications). He really did take one's breath away. He'd pissed off Gore Vidal big time. "He's lazy," bitter, angry Gore growled when I mentioned DF in an interview. "He said that I said writers are like cows - I am not a cow." I liked the way DF started his slebby pieces, as if idly picking up on a conversation begun sometime earlier or out of earshot. By some magic he seduced one into thinking that it was worth listening in on, to see what happened next. All an illusion, of course. All artifice. But this is what he calls a celebrity interview. An unfamiliar voyage into the familiar.

So, I made contact with DF from one of the top floors of IPC Towers and before I could say "lunch" he'd delivered the nightclub queen Regine to me from the sunny south coast of France. The piece enraptured Laurie, not normally given to orgasmic display, such was her intimacy with disappointment. I knew I was safe for a while. Yes, DF: you played your part in my survival.

So, let's start again. In his latest book, DF holds Tina Brown responsible (not solely, but majorly) for the destruction of his brand of celebrity journalism in newspapers and glossy magazines. She's to blame for his decision to give up on interviewing the stars. You'll have to read the book to find out how precisely, but the word "corporatism" is repeated. No matter Tina's glory at Tatler/Vanity Fair/New Yorker/Whatever she did not get DF at all. "She became a control freak," writes DF, of her immunity to his interviews that she'd commissioned. Her editorial expectations were narrow; she favoured the "girlie and conventional": she animated the corporate move against "authorial independence" (ie DF's). Her Vanity Fair became a "watertight plastic product which no writer was allowed to upstage with a personal voice." Tina B unleashed the infection of professionalism on a generation of underling and inferior editors anxious to copycat her success in their own name. Bitch.

That aside there's much yummy goss and much reflection on the pleasing by-product of celebrity meet-ups. I won't repeat the Germaine Greer sexual position that was novel even to DF. The John Osborne letters crackle with acid intelligence and guile. Wily Mick Jagger (probably) positioned a certain druggie book title on a table as a nod to DF's chemical treks. Oh, there's much to savour. And there's no malice. Of Tina B, DF remains fond. It's just she's put paid to his career as a celebrity interviewer. Bitch.

Of course, the celebrity interview is still alive and kicking, as cat litter trays everywhere testify. DF does not credit Hello! as another foe, with its seminally inane Q&As and PR-driven drivel, draped around pendants of posy pics of orange skin. The celebrity interviewer (epitomised by the ever self-regarding Piers Morgan) is now favoured, one half of a recorded collision of a double-barrelled marketing campaign to other media, pegged to book/film/whatever releases (as identified in italics at the end).

During my time at Woman's Journal, by far the most successful interview we ran - as measured by headlines generated all over the world - was DF's discourse with Germaine Greer in which she ended up rating lovers by nationality. British men - all homosexual! You can imagine the impact. All achieved by allowing two people of learning to do battle in and on their own terms. Laurie (bless her) felt no need to interfere though she did order me to strike out a "fucking" or two. We were a smart ABC1 glossy after all.

Student hacks (among others) should read this book to script the next retro-revolution in journalism. The online extravaganza of global readerships has scarcely begun - and these billions of the jaded and the seen-it-all will be seeking tit-hardening surprises. Q&As won't do. Mark my words, poppets.

DF's book can be downloaded here now at 99p

Dominic Lawson & astrology: Cainer offers reassurance

Dominic Lawson treats Daily Mail readers to his recycled views on astrology (it's crap, in short) and even cites a 1940s psychology experiment in evidence, seemingly unaware that certain learned persons have cast doubt on the science status of psychology. I see that Dom is a Sag so I looked up his stars by the Mail's Jonathan Cainer for today. What message has he to impart to Dom? "If you complain, find fault, express a sense of outrage, or generally take pains to point out the downside to any particular plan or idea, it won't be long before someone else echoes your sentiment and you find yourself with many comrades to support you in your protest movement. Stick to smiling this week." So there we go Dom: yet further recycling of your views is forecast in our nation's rags (and in our one satirical organ); each an, er, original voice.

Gary Pulsifer's Arcadia dismissal: 'I became increasingly marginalised'

Gary Pulsifer

How common to fire someone on a Friday - and I don't just mean commonplace. 

The dismissal of Gary Pulsifer yesterday from the publishing company he founded in 1996 - Arcadia Books - is shocking and presently inexplicable. Poet and novelist Fiona Pitt-Kethley (one of Gary's authors) compares his exit with the recent aggravated departure of Richard Ingrams from The Oldie, the magazine he founded in '92. She adds in a tweet: "The more I think about the sacking of Gary Pulisfer from Arcadia Books the crazier it seems. He has such a network of international contacts." And she asks: "Doesn´t experience and professionalism count for anything in publishing these days?"

Another of his writers, Michael Arditti, has tweeted his sorrow. He writes: "Horrified by this news. A sad day for you and for all your authors who must now reassess our futures." Only recently, Arcadia brought out Bonnie's Greer's memoirs A Parallel Life (reviewed here).

I asked Gary for an interview. Instead he sent me this statement:

"Of course it's difficult to leave the company I founded nearly 20 years ago and the one in which I invested so much in terms of energy and enthusiasm. In the new Arcadia I became increasingly marginalised and in a small company I suppose there is room for only one Big Chief. It has also been a real struggle to exist on the money I received as remuneration on a freelance basis. So it's with both a sense of sadness and relief that I say goodbye to all that. I've really been touched by the goodwill I've encountered since I made my announcement, not least from the stable of writers I built up over time."

Of his future he wrote this:  "And, who knows, perhaps I'll get Pulsifer Press up and running again."

Arcadia was rescued from administration by an outfit called MediaFund in 2013.

Molly Parkin's Sequinned Relic show a hit - but will it overturn Irish ban?

Molly Parkin & Andrew Logan at
Vout-O-Reenee's

Molly Parkin's return to the stage last night was an overwhelming success. Perfectly set at daughter Sophie's fab London E1 club Vout-O-Reenee's, the show - titled X-Rated Ruminations of a Sequinned Relic - wowed a full house. Among the audience ( I almost want to say congregation) was darling Andrew Logan whose Alternative Miss World returns this October. I'll have more to say about that shortly - meantime, do read my review of his 2009 extravaganza.

It was a mere 28 years ago that Moll last did stand-up - though she might not describe her show as such. So wild and gorgeous was she then that she got herself banned from Ireland - "I think I still am," she tells me. May I suggest to our friends over there that Moll, 82, be forgiven for whatever indiscretion(s) she committed. In all likelihood, most of the audience of that time have either passed away or are queuing up for assisted suicide now that it's fashionable not to suffer any more prior to death.

Certainly, Ruminations covers life's gamut of experience. It includes Moll's poem Viagra (read here - but beware David Beckham's cock. I know how sensitive some of you are; never having got out) as well as a reminiscence about a steel ladder she purchased in order to expedite her passage up the astral tunnel, prematurely, via the Thames. Moll's genius is talk and her magical ability to convert the daily humdrum into the sublimely comic. And she does it without telling one joke. It just comes natch. Her Ruminations show will be touring parts of the UK (and Ireland?) so keep a beady eye on your local ents listings when you can quite tear yourself away from regional coverage of the church fete or magistrate's court.

Moll and I are now permanently engaged once again - and she has a ring from Venice to prove it. Quite what that means in your world is frankly none of your business but ours. And stay in touch with Moll on Facebook.

Molly Parkin: Return of the X-Rated 'Sequinned Relic'

My gorgeous former permanent fiancee Molly Parkin is about to unleash herself on a public grown flabby on TV tat. On Saturday, July 12, she returns to the stage with her new stand-up show, X-Rated Ruminations of a Sequinned Relic. Her comeback previews at daughter Sophie Parkin's great new club Vout-O-Reenee's in London's E1.

Here's the foreplay: "Wisdom poetry Filth poetry Laughter poetry Glamour tears of joy - a celebration of life aged 82. £10 includes glass of wine or soft drink." You don't have to be a club member for entry on this occasion.

She tells me that the show will be quite salty - "I added 'X-Rated' to the title to keep kids away and prepare the audience for some surprises." Sequinned Relic is already being booked by various venues around the UK - so keep eyes peeled, poppets.

To get to Vout, here's the link. There's also the club's Sequinned Relic Facebook page here.

Piers Morgan - a bull in life's tiresome china shop

Piers Morgan does persist in drawing attention to his own fallibility. It's an admirable quality in itself, to stand on a high altitude ledge and invite fate to push. A casting director would approach Heath Ledger to play Piers in the biopic, but for the tiresome limits of mortality. Ah, There He Goes. RIP. It's a winning proposed title.

A similar thought occurred only last Sunday when my eye (just the one) glanced on Piers' Mail on Sunday column in the paper's rather good supplement Event. I find that Craig Brown's Event book reviews are an able guide to what he's likely to spoof in Private Eye a few weeks on. Chris Evans' natterings on motors is in there too - of no interest whatsoever. Camilla's son parades his foodie weltanschauung. I don't read him either. But in an uncertain world it's reassuring to be reminded of celebrity constants driven by nothing more than nominal recognition.

Last Sunday, Piers teetered to the edge of the ledge and shared his thoughts on Rebekah and Andy. Both have something in common with an awful lot of other people who enjoy mere nominal recognition - they're close personal friends (CPFs) of Piers. His loyalty is a thing of wonder. Were I a Piers CPF, I'd feel duveted against the world's harsh consequences. Piers rightly revelled in Rebekah's release from Old Bailey trauma, already compensated for loss of office to the tune of a measly £16m. As for Andy, Piers played the safer game of not intruding on legal grief. But he told a telling tale instead. It was a parable with multiple angles.

He recalled a stag do in Spain. A cock-cunter friend of his and Andy's invited them and other cock-cunters to a bullring wherein male bonding required play with a livin'-snortin' bull. Apparently a number of the world's finest were gored in the name of friendship (I relate this as a summary of Piers' faultless memory). Then it was Piers' turn in the sandy arena. The bull, in common with Ian Hislop and other exemplars of masculine wisdom, took against the former CNN talking head and proceeded to try to kill him. But fate had other ideas. Step forward Andy Coulson who bravely and selflessly clasped his huge hands on bovine horns, steering them away from Piers' swaying, Moby Dick tum. This was cited as an example of Andy's courage, fidelity and honour. It did not occur to Andy, now Hotspur of Wapping, that the bull may have viewed Piers as one of many tortures in its brief and afflicted life and worthy of extinction.

I have no problem in finding every word of Piers credible on this encounter. Andy Coulson is a strapping chap of inordinate height (rather like too many in Murdoch's employ, past and present) and all the boldness of a hitherto unobstructed process. What's revealing is the sheer primordial and unreconstructed machismo set as expectation among peers of shared delusion. Was it this instinct - this drive to test life and parameters without regard for outcome - which lay behind the whole hacking saga? If so, you can keep it, poppet. It serves no useful purpose, here, there or in a Spanish bullring.

Piers, devoid of any reflective trait, cannot see this. Instead, he recalls a moment of high glamour touched by fear of death or injury. A thing to reminisce about in the bigging-up biz of CPFs. The reward of survival is continuation of the dream of masculine assertion - and ignoring its nightmare aftermath.

Bonnie Greer: Her memoir A Parallel Life gives good creak

I do love a book that gives good creak. You open it up, and that asthmatic scraping protest - a sure sign of sound binding - marks one's ingress into a new environment; someone else's world. Bonnie Greer's hefty autobiographical tome, A Parallel Life, creaks like all the un-oiled doors in Hammer Horror's hammy oeuvre. Physically, it's a solidly produced hardback with paper not likely to yellow fast. The cover is a refraction of beautiful Greer faces in different life phases suggesting a chronology within (unlike, say, Gore Vidal's memoir Palimpsest, a lyrical cobweb of memory and anecdote, starting and ending nowhere in particular; but a whirligig of gorgeousness) - and one that does not bring us up to the present. A further volume is likely to follow. I shall expect gossip.

Fans of political chat shows will know Bonnie Greer. She's the one with the lilting, Borg-queen-smooth American voice who always speaks extraordinary good sense. Do certain names have a heritage of virtue, or lack of? Bonnie's near-name-sake Dr Germaine is also a superb clear-head liberal with an uncanny ability to dispel fear-driven nonsense in a few words. The fact that I agree with everything (more or less) that the Greers have to say is of course pertinent. All I can say is that when the Greers speak, I feel reassured that the public world is not entirely crazed, prejudiced, privileged or compromised by money, special pleading or pig ignorance (or cravenness to a newspaper).

Bonnie reveals herself to be a synesthete - she involuntarily perceives things in a multi-sensory way; for instance she sees the word 'Negro' as the colour grey. She'd be welcome in a Will Self novel. Likewise, to moi, 'Greer' triggers a gold, sharp sword in my mind. One would feel honoured to be decapitated by such a thing. The Greers are crusaders of a sort.

Born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1948, Bonnie tells her early life story lucidly and with little sap. Her sense of engagement with the wider world is built from many influences: Shirley Temple, her autodidactic father's Reader's Digests; Baldwin; much more. Personally, I rarely read a non-fiction book from start to finish. I dip about. So when I first opened A Parallel Life (creak) I learnt that she started menstruating between the ages of eight and nine. In another dip I lived her Catholic upbringing and coming apostasy - yet she doesn't give us the standard Dawkinsist line about people of faith, as if the Enlightenment were the birth moment of a better humanity. 'I'm not someone who thinks atheists are grown-ups and deists are children...,' she writes. 'Atheists who...promulgate that forget a very important thing about human nature: we are transcendent creatures. We look UP. We believe. It is crucial for us, and is one of the definers of our humanity.'

Dip Three and it's bathos time: in Amsterdam she notes the many dog turds. Sooo true. My random reading is a fateful way of discovering quickly the most fascinating attributes of one's subject. A type of bibliomancy; a view into another reality, I find.

Beyond Greer's countless appearances as a TV talking-head, I knew nothing of her until I read (or dipped into) A Parallel Life. She is a playwright and has an OBE for services to literature. The Observer lists her as one of the UK's 300 Public Intellectuals. She's not just some measly, atheistic geek, however. The memoir reveals her to be in essence an artist with a stark gift for stripping away the crap of prejudice and delusion. Her soulful insights are keener than mere systemic hand-me-down ideas. The latter perhaps have uses in CVs and other variants of PR.

Do read this book and allow its rich honey to drench your senses. That's me being a synesthete.

***

I did look at Baby Boomer Bonnie's horoscope for in her memoir she gives us her precise date of birth with time - November 16, 1948; Chicago, GMT 12:16 pm. I'll keep this brief and to the point.

Bonnie is a double Scorpio with Scorpio co-ruler Pluto at the top of her chart. It's interesting that Bonnie titles her book A Parallel Life for the Scorpio myth is that of the double life: one lived, one secret, to a highly pronounced extent. Life is lived with a sense of concealment, even if not much is actually concealed; or with hyper-awareness of an alternative veiled self. We all reconstruct ourselves to some extent for public consumption. Double Scorpio accentuates the need for such re-ordering, and for secrecy, the hidden; for private places. Even her loved ones may say of her at times: 'Do we really know Bonnie? What's she on?'

The location of her co-ruler Pluto in the most public chart place - that of career - bestows much power and influence; but also a mystique; even a magic. Where did she really come from? What has she done? These can be some of the questions asked of her. She will be loved or loathed - she provokes. Even if I did not know Bonnie's identity I would say this is the horoscope of someone who wishes to reshape perspectives and/or acquire power.  This person does not like to be led, certainly not professionally. Pluto is one of the mythic celestials of power itself.

Scorpio is also ruled by Mars; and Bonnie's is in Sagittarius. This identifies her as a pioneer of conviction. In its worst manifestation it can bestow a holier-than-thou mindset. In its best, an example of breaking out of bounds and conventions. Mars here pursues new ideas of liberation or enlightenment. She would have made a fine lawyer.

Her Moon in Taurus opposite rising point draws her to practical, down-to-earth types who nurture her or whom she nurtures. Many of her key bonds (personal or professional) will have a parent/child quality. She may find that in certain relationships after a while, she is involved with someone who reminds her of a parent; the mother especially. She will be most influenced by women and feel more at one with them, especially if seeking advice or therapy. Bonnie's key role is that of nurturer. Her Moon is quite challenged in the horoscope - since I know nothing of her relationships I cannot comment. But certainly she will have had to face many challenges in key bonds with a need to make marked compromises. Her public roles and 'career' will have played an important part in synthesising complex problems in reaching accord with certain other people.

Mercury (planet of words and thought) rising describes her literary career. Gemini Uranus in Scorpio's traditional house of the 8th suggests a highly individual approach to sexuality, philosophy and other energies which delve beneath the skin of things. Gemini (one of Mercury's signs) compels her to articulate what she discovers in her subterranean journeys.

A Parallel Life, click here to sample or buy

Richard Ingrams - 'I broke the law (or something) in how I appointed Ian'

Richard Ingrams on the cover
of The Oldie

The darling Richard Ingrams was interviewed on BBC News yesterday. 'Cove' is the word that came to mind as he gave us his standard foggy old fogey act, grey bristles shooting out in all directions like some ancient shaving brush left on the sink.

He told us that he does not recognise any of the celebrities in the newspapers these days and that a great many stories are duplicated throughout the media from a 'central source'. Journalism was made to sound like battery farming. The Oldie's publisher had got rid of him because he (Ingrams) had asked some awkward questions - 'But you can't just sack people now,' he said not entirely correctly, alluding to the disciplinary hearing Oldie owner James Pembroke had summoned him to. This tended to confirm Madame's speculation that his departure was expedited by invoking legislated procedure as a gesture of intent (in itself illegal technically, if true). Ingrams had simply jumped before he was booted. A shameful way to treat a nat tresh.

Ingrams bemoaned the power of publishers to appoint editors. Why, when he was Private Eye editor, he'd selected Ian Hislop as replacement. He freely admitted that this probably broke the law (or something) - perhaps an ad should have been placed in Media Guardian (as was): 'Lord Gnome seeks to adopt scion - we are not an equal opportunities employer.' That last bit is just me extemporising; allowing the imagination free interpretation. These days an editor can't just draw on his own judgement and cherry-pick a mini-moi in his own image. Publishers now do this - one of the reasons why newspapers and magazines are being homogenised and robbed of uniqueness.

When Ian Hislop decides to move on, I wonder how his replacement will be selected. Is his successor (probably testiculared) already close by toiling on the satire when not moonlighting for the Mail? Or in the second year of his degree course at Oxbridge as I write? Questions, questions.

Ingrams still pulsates and glows despite every sign of imminent stroke. I see no reason why he should not found another mag or do something naughty. At the end of the TV chat, the interviewer paid Ingrams handsome compliments, wishing him to endure forever (I paraphrase). The old satirist looked quite disapproving or alarmed or suspicious, a refreshing reflex to ghastly arslikhan - perhaps fearing appearances while the inner furnace was nonetheless restoked.

Hacked Off, Steve Coogan, Lord Copper and Lord Gnome

Hacked Off has lost the battle. The Leveson recommendations will not be implemented no matter how much you donate to the cause or how many petitions you sign. It has been decreed by press owners and by Private Eye - their licensed fool - that any attempt at state regulation of our print media amounts to 'censorship'. So, the press have dreamt up their own fig leaf with an 'indy' judge at the helm to redden hacks' buttocks for misconduct. The public are not that interested, the government party has an election to win come 2015. Labour is total shit. The caravan has fucked off out of it. No one much is listening.

The behaviour of Private Eye in this filthy enterprise is of especial disappointment (no, I shall not be cancelling my sub: I don't have one - I freely buy a copy every other Wednesday - at full price: I'm not cheap. It's still worth the outlay). That our nation's one satirical organ allies itself with the Rothermeres, Barclays, Murdochs and Desmonds after all that we heard at Leveson must surely prompt the odd chortle in cynics'  minds.

Recently, Hacked Off's Steve Coogan was appointed a patron of Index on Censorship, prompting the resignation from the campaigning charity of Private Eye editor and mini-moi dep ed Ian Hislop and Francis Wheen (resp., as patrons). Steve's exercise of his freedom of speech had proven a little too much for the comic gentlemen of British satire. Perhaps Richard Ingrams is too immersed in his Oldie misery to have noted the many ironies in all this. Lord Gnome and Lord Copper join forces to fight the Abused Celebrities! Except of course most of the people hacked by corrupt hacks were not celebrities but ordinary people caught up in bad news.

The best one can do against united power is to retreat for the moment and observe. Just watch. Note, for instance, how Private Eye will start to carp about the new press fig leaf. The organ's credibility is on the line. The outcome of the Brooks/Coulson trial has no bearing on this - it became a sideshow sometime last year. Let the fuss pass; then observe how monarch and licensed fool pick up where they left off in a game of inflation by mockery. What do I mean? Wait and watch.

Meantime a useful statement from Hacked Off about the Coogan business.

Felix Dennis: Man who spent $100m on tarts goes to heaven

The notorious planter of trees, Felix Dennis, is dead. Who? Do fuck off. Frankly he meant nothing much to moi. Oz trial. Lots of cock-cunting rock 'n' roll ("all needless" - Dennis) - says he spent $100m on drugs and tarts. Probably. I can believe that his big life ate up a lot of the planets resources; in later life he planted thousands of trees, so that's something. Unfortunately he was hirsute and this attribute always triggers my prejudices, as against the likes of Islamic terrorists aged 22 (to indicate pathetic conformity and allegiance to the faith of masculinity), male deities (authority and divine misandry), goats (foolishness), mammoths (extinct) and Lord David Blunkett of the Satyr (smugness with morning glory).

The two-faced hack creep and atheist Rob McGibbon interviewed him sometime ago and is worth glancing at:



I do like Dennis' poem Anti-Social Behaviour Orders - click here to hear it to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

Richard Ingrams: His next magazine creation is obvious

Madame Arcati always helps those of advanced years (see my back catalogue on all the old prostitutes I have profiled) - and so it falls to moi (again!) to make a suggestion to Richard Ingrams (lately deposed editor of The Oldie, once of the province of Private Eye) on his next career move. I should hate to see this national treasure tarnish as bitterness takes possession. My art department has gone to the bother of mocking up my career suggestion. Gratis. (Click image to enlarge.)