Farah Damji is rearrested in Dublin - as an Icelandic!

Farah Damji - variously described as a "serial fraudster" and "convicted stalker" - has been rearrested in Dublin after absconding from justice during her last London trial in July of this year. 

She was up for breaching a restraining order arising from an earlier conviction for stalking. She was sentenced in her absence. Judge Michael Gledhill has indicated that he wants her brought back before him for breaching bail conditions even though he now works in Oxford.

According to The Irish Times, she was apprehended by the police last Monday and taken before the High Court in Dublin and remanded in custody. She is expected to be extradited shortly. The Garda National Economic Crime Bureau claim she was passing herself off an as Icelandic national and fake IDs and credit cards were found at her apartment, it is reported.

Oh dear Farah, if true. You never learn. Same old baloney over and over again. Yawny!

In happier times (or were they?) Farah had the honour of interviewing Madame Arcati (see here). Madame is perfectly prepared to give even the incorrigible the chance to see the light, though she is often disappointed. 

Of late, while in prison or on the run or whatever (hard to keep up), Farah "helped to" start up The View Magazine for "women in the criminal justice system". She even persuaded the painfully modish George The Poet to contribute. In this piece, she describes life in prison as "grey and boring" so it is curious that she seems so keen to make return visits to the clink. Prison governors, she writes, couldn't run a corner shop which is one reason why recidivism is no high, hers especially no doubt. 

One gets the impression that she thinks she would make an excellent prisoner-governor. What a great movie idea. Who should play Farah?

In other matters, I am still wondering who it was who waged a campaign against this site some years back. I make no allegation for now but Madame Arcati is an unforgiving opponent. Cross my path and prepare to become roadkill, in the figurative sense of course. I have a list of suspects and I will be avenged.

Here is poppet Farah advertising The View on YouTube. infamy, in-for-me...

Made Arcati self-identifies as....

Darlings, so good to be back, though you never know with me. Not much has changed since I kicked off this blog in 2006, except the dramatis personae of moments. Old foes have swanned away or waned while others stay in post like stuck turds before strike of prunes - Francis Wheen at Private Eye, Camilla Long and India Knight at The Sunday Times, et al. My ex-permanent fiancee Molly Parkin still reigns in Chelsea but we are no longer an item or even an 'item'. Duncan Fallowell is awaking to the joys of electronic publishing - and where is Roger Lewis? I must get another story out of him, Farah Damji is now on the run in Ireland, eluding an arrest warrant - I had no idea she stalked ex-fucks or rejectionist fucks and am astonished people still fall for her self-laundering campaigning scams. Give yourself up poppet and place yet another burden on the public purse.

The big theme du jour (for five more minutes) is gender fluidity. Naturally, Madame Arcati is ahead of the curve. Back in 2006 and onwards, a number of readerly cocks and cunts asked Madame who she really was, not just the identity behind the living legend, but her sex. It was noted that there was a certain "aggression" in my prose, out of kilter with the scented female stereotype in plaid skirt, which could only jar in the minds of those yet to sample Julie Burchill's work. I seemed butch yet decorous of form and awfully capable on a bicycle. And of course I commune with the dead and the 'dead' - such as Jonathan King who frankly should be knighted. The preoccupations of the playground never really entirely leave us - all too apparent in the media and now social media.

I defy categorisation in the way angels cannot be sexed, even if their names suggest a cock or cunt or both. I belong to your cultural dreams, dear; a figment of someone's imagination, dashing up and down the gender-labelling theremin without touching, posing as this or that depending on intent or whim. Yes, I am a self-identified idea - this is what a self-identified idea looks like. Moi.

Now run along and play boys and girls or b*ys and g*rls in your homes and offices, making a cult of your genitalia, whether cis, trans or cobblers. Fantasy has its place, such as here. But not there for the most part.

What Lady Colin learnt of Boris after she sued him

I do adore Lady Colin Campbell's regular chat shows from her drawing room at Goring Castle. In her latest video, now hosted by son Misha after Croatian aristocrat Prince Leo unaccountably took off, she talks about the time back in the Noughties when she successfully sued Boris Johnson. 

He was then editor of The Spectator magazine and had characteristically failed to stop his columnist Taki writing something defamatory of Lady C. You can listen to her story below. But two things are striking about her recollections. The first is that after she sent Boris "an excoriating three-page letter" which touched upon one of Boris' then ongoing extra-marital affairs - he was married to Marina - a spy at the magazine told her that he reacted to her insults in a most amazing way: instead of denouncing her he said to colleagues that the magazine should hire her as a columnist because she was such a good writer. Lady C recounts that this impressed her and suggested that he was a man who despite many personal flaws could "think outside the box". Consequently, she thought he'd be suitable for Number 10 when years later he fought to become PM.

Fast forward to an intriguing moment after Lady C won substantial damages and costs against The Spec: she was at the grand French Brasserie Zedel in London with a party that included her two sons Misha and Dima. Boris was also there with Marina and at some point he got up and with no hint of rancour introduced himself to Lady C and her sons. Charm itself. This also impressed her. A mark of "character" and "gumption" she observes. 

Given this level of gumption, I fear Boris will be PM for longer than anyone can imagine.

Julie Burchill joins Twitter - at last!

Madame Arcati is delighted to see that Julie Burchill has joined Twitter at long last. Its brevity and range suit it to guerrilla warfare and instant reaction - as well as the occasional schmooze. In the old days this site relied on Google spiders and a few darlings in the media to mention me when I fed them a tale or two. Now I have only to post something and link it to social media and Arcatistes flood in like sewage.

Dame Julie (why not?) is to be found at the charmingly named @boozeAndFagz page. Her current post has to do with the peculiar India Knight, her even more peculiar partner Eric Joyce and the silence of mainstream media on the subject of his recent conviction for what the BBC calls "a child sex offence".  Read Burchill's piece here. 

Susan Penhaligon: two poems

Darling Susan Penhaligon (a delightful Cancerian; I sooo attract crabs these days...) has honoured us with two more poems, both utterly lovely. I especially adore The Cremation (St Ives). One of my all-time TV drama series favourites is her Bouquet of Barbed Wire from the '70s, and many will fondly recall her in A Fine Romance that ran in the '80s. I really do think an enterprising publisher should collect Susan's poems and put them out. If you wish to show your appreciation, leave a comment below. Don't be cheap and just go back to the fucking social media. 

With Apologies to Jenny Joseph

Now I'm seventy I shall not wear purple,

I have no need for satin slippers,

my red hat will sit snug on my highlighted hair

and I shall only sometimes wear it.

I will giggle much, much more.

I shall love all young people and

pass my wisdom as voodoo,

it is they who will press alarm bells.

I shall not hoard pens and beer mats or regrets

and I will sit down frequently,

not brandy stoked or pavement squatted,

but comfy and content with a lit stove.

I will not eat three pounds of sausages

or wear terrible shirts but grow peppers

in a pot on my windowsill

and if I spit it will only be to polish them.

I shall choose the moment to say fuck

with exquisite precision.

But Jenny Joseph you are right,

I will pick flowers in the rain

2019

The cremation (St Ives)

I am down near the weathered rocks again,

by surf, the smell of surf, the ceaseless, black

souled cry of gulls and my mother,

my mother, in the sea filled house of memories.

She has gone,

swept in a pod caressed with flowers.

We played 'That's entertainment'

I saw her dancing, her arms waving like a swimmer

making sure she was watched.

I walk the cobbled streets without her,

a map stapled to my childhood,

each crease has been explored,

each fold examined,

and there is the sloping beach as I remembered,

the smell of Blue Grass perfumed her bag

propped up against a basket full of pasties

with a check rug, rough against our baby skin.

The harbour beach for tea,

we were raised with sand in our stomachs.

The sea, the sea, my mother and the sea,

I am formed by its stones and lashing waves

as moody as my mother and her painful love.

I am not easily here.

I know the tides are forever,

but she is not.

Madame Arcati's virtual background beach reads 2020

How sad that Lorraine Candy has lost her job at The Sunday Times. That'll teach her to cross astrologers and me in particular. Now, who are my top people right now? I am fickle and quickly fall out of love, so make the most of my kindness, bitches.

My summer read authors are as follows (set against a Covid-19-averse virtual background beach in my boudoir):

1. Lady Colin Campbell. Now known popularly as Lady C and Georgie to her friends. Riding high with her Meghan and Harry book and posting marvellous YouTube chat shows hosted by Prince Leo von Breithen-Thurn - who I am given to understand seeks a wife. Lady C thinks it a good idea that he marry a royal cousin, but animal husbandry advises against genetic localism. Listen to Madame. Lady C's verbal assaults on rapidly souring Philip Schofield (or "His Majesty of the Closet", as Georgie refers to him, cruelly) are sublime. Incidentally, Georgie plans to sue the Daily Mirror over some stories it ran.

2. Duncan Fallowell. A perennial favourite of mine. Thanks to him I have no need to travel to New Zealand. My carbon footprint is in intact. Do buy his new novel LONDON PARIS NEW YORK: a precarious tale. You won't find a better writer, though Will Self fancies himself.

3. Roger Clarke. A master of mists and energies in empty spaces, aka ghosts. The Anna Wintour of spectral fashion trends, poppets, though far, far brainier. Headless ghosts are no longer in vogue apparently. Do read his fab book A Natural History of Ghosts. Perfect as nights start to lengthen. And then re-read.  

4. André Leon Talley. His memoir The Chiffon Trenches is bitter and therefore divine. He bangs many nails into the coffin of American Vogue editor and former ally Anna Wintour, to add to all the others. Indeed, she is starting to resemble Pinhead in Hellraiser. She'll be great in one of the franchise horror sequels. No script to learn. As for André, well, let's just say he writes as he speaks. I suspect his memoir was gossiped into a dictaphone.

5. Lyndsy Spence. I can't wait to read her Maria Callas biography. Her Insta account is a dedication to the book-in-progress and I am intrigued to learn that the opera diva was so into astrology. While you're waiting why not read another of Lyndsy's biographies, such as Mrs Guinness: The Rise and Fall of Diana Mitford, the Thirties Socialite. It enraged Daphne Guinness for some reason so it's worth finding out why. Zebra-haired Daph designs and sings - a duet with Nicky Haslam should be expedited. But put away the cut crystal first.