Robert Tewdwr Moss: Fifteen years on and a bio's planned

Robert Tewdwr Moss with Wayne (my thanks to Nesta Wyn Ellis for identifying the cat)

Fifteen years today (Aug 24), the writer Robert Tewdwr Moss was murdered in London by two pieces of worthless, opportunistic trash who may be entitled to apply for parole now. If you've not read Robert's fabulous travel book on Syria, Cleopatra's Wedding Present,* I highly recommend it, especially as the murderous regime there faces the chop. It's not by any means a political work; it is a sexual and romantic odyssey in a world frozen in time. But Boy George is famous there. There's hope yet.

An American writer recently got in touch with me. He's planning to write Robert's bio and asked me for contacts and insights. At first I was tempted to cooperate, then another mood took over. What's the point? His 'bio' is Cleo and the rest is goss. And the prospect of hunting down the crawlers who accreted to him because of his micro-celebrity, for their permission to pass on email contacts and other whatnot, filled me with a profound boredom. The truth is I couldn't stand many of his friends and acquaintances - many of them tiresome hypocrites and snobs. You don't set up a blog like this as a love letter.

No, let Cleo be Robert's memorial. It's a bright jewel still sparkling in an expanding desert.

* Duckworth is reissuing the book on September 22, 2011. Click the link above to buy.

Robert Tewdwr Moss: When John McVicar wanted him

The 11th anniversary of the murder of Robert Tewdwr Moss prompts a most interesting memory from the deputy editor of the Oxford Mail, Toby Granville:

Dear Madame,

I was shocked to hear of Robert's passing, particularly the circumstances, when I stumbled upon a report about him online several years later.

I didn't know Robert well, I just met him a handful of times while he was freelancing at the Sunday People magazine where I started life as the office slave.

During one of the regular four hour lunch breaks when the rest of the team went to a wine bar or down the Stab to get steamed, I was ordered to stay and answer the phones which never rang. On one of these days Robert bustled into the office, absolutely terrified, with sweat dripping all the way through his bohemian suit.

Suddenly, and unusually, all the office phones started ringing.

'Don't answer them' he exclaimed, as he shuddered against the wall of the office, dabbing his forehead with a hanky.

As they continued to ring, he revealed that one of London's most dangerous men, legendary bank blggger John McVicar was 'hunting him down' for something he wrote about him in the broadsheets that he wasn't too pleased about.

I picked up each phone, then another, and each time I was greeted with the ferocious tone of Britain's formerly most wanted, demanding to know where 'that Tewdwr Moss' was.

'He knows I'm here!' screamed Robert, as he fled from the office, darting down the corridor, with his hands flapping in the air.

It is the only memory I have of him, but a cherished, and hilarious memory nonetheless.

All the best, Toby

Robert Tewdwr Moss: A (dead) Gay Guy (once) in Damascus and A (missing) Gay Girl

Robert Tewdwr Moss and his pussy cat

As the world (ie a few cock-cunting or cunting-cock journalists) wonder about the identity and whereabouts of the A Gay Girl In Damascus blogger - apparently disappeared while the actual proud owner of Gay Girl's faked face came to life boo-hooing on BBC2's Newsnight about internet stolen identities (the perils of) - let us not forget A Gay Guy In Damascus.

He's dead now and he wasn't Syrian. His name was Robert Tewdwr Moss and he wrote a classic travel book called Cleopatra's Wedding Present. For an insight into the repressed cock-cocking realities of Syria, order your copy now. British author Robert lost his life not in some dusty souk but in grimy London. His murder was greeted with near-universal indifference by the British media - because he was a grown-up cock-cocker - and in one instance, with chippy mockery by one of the Duncan Campbells (in the Guardian).

So let us celebrate the British media's sudden interest in Syria's Gay Girl. Whoever she/he/it is.

Cleopatra's Wedding Present, buy here.
Excerpts can be read here (click cover image)

Robert Tewdwr Moss: 10 years on

In earlier posts in July I reminded those who care that Aug 26 marked the 10th anniversary of the death of Robert Tewdwr Moss. And here we are now.

I tried recently to buy a copy of his fantastic travel book about Syria, Cleopatra's Wedding Present, but it's out of print, more's the pity. I'm tempted to re-print it myself. It's a book of timeless worth both for its writing and its sensibility: a book only Robert could have written - a funny, gay picaresque odyssey-cum-love story in a fundamentalist Moslem country.

I had thought to re-read his many obits that improbably appeared in the nationals back in '96. I say improbably because he was not famous, known only to a small circle of journalists. Many of the obit editors hadn’t heard of him but were persuaded by the likes of Peter Parker and Philip Hoare to run pieces: they and many others had sensed in Robert the potential for tremendous achievement and had already witnessed his genius for affecting so many people through his personality and voracious interest.

Cleopatra was a promise that tragedy made a memento. I say this not to glamorise him, he had many faults like everyone else, but to acknowledge a general impression of him by all or most who encountered him.

I planned to re-read his obits to say more about his life but I now think I prefer just to remember him and some reactions to his death. One that sticks particularly in mind was a news feature on Robert written by one of the Duncan Campbells on the Guardian.

Even now it seems astonishing that this paper commissioned and ran the piece. It told the story of a murder mystery in high society, the death of a man who wrote for Tatler and other posh periodicals, who was gay. It was written in a semi-amused way as if Hercule Poirot had been hired to script a voiceover for yet another homicide on the Nile. Because the victim was (wrongly) perceived as part of a privileged world, because he was a man who was homosexual, the writer imagined that he could write a piece of emotional indifference for the entertainment of his audience. This hideous article alerted me to a streak of viciousness that runs through the Guardian to this day – at its worst it makes the Daily Mail look as benign as a village newsletter.

Aside from the obits, newspaper coverage of Robert’s death was thin – ironic given the fact he’d written for most of them. His passing coincided with the awful murder of a child (I forget the facts) – the subject of pages and pages of fact and speculation mixed with the usual exploitative emotionalism. Child murders sell newspapers. Gay male murders don’t.

An obvious point to make but one worth repeating.

Robert’s obits were inevitably eccentric and colourful: a little too colourful for the likes of the priggish Ian Hislop who at the time despaired at the odd subjects of obits these days: he was plainly referring to Robert’s. Hoare’s obit in the Independent recalled how an editor at the now defunct IPC fashion glossy Woman’s Journal first “discovered” Robert. He had written to the editor on coloured notepaper and enclosed cuts from some obscure West African magazine. He was invited to the soulless glass tower near Blackfriars. The editor recalled a beautiful pony-tailed man with droopy wing collars and a baroque waistcoat gliding into his office and exuding a carnation scent. The camp exterior belied a serious and determined temperament – later demonstrated in many high comic celebrity pieces that were marked by great attention to telling detail.

Robert had an unusual talent to befriend his interview subjects. Beryl Bainbridge adored him as did the curious and late Master of the Queen’s Music, Malcolm Williamson, who would phone the offices of The People in attempts to contact Robert – he was shifting at the paper along with Hoare back in the early ‘90s.

For some reason the actress Joely Richardson became one of his best friends and exotics such as Lady Colin “Georgie” Campbell doted on him. John Major’s biographer Nesta Wyn Ellis was also a close pal: on one occasion she asked him to house-sit her duplex in Montagu Square while she was away. This became an opportunity for a debauch with one of his lovers and both delighted in disporting in her expensive lingerie before the many mirrors in her boudoir.

Even Lord Snowden was the subject of an anecdote. Robert encountered him at a London party and recalled how on leaving the venue all he could hear was the rapid thud of Snowden’s walking stick on the ground as the viscount seemed to hurry after his new young friend. At the other end of the starry spectrum was his encounter with Lionel Blair at yet another party – a chaste encounter it should be said though not for want of Blair’s obvious enthusiasm.

Had Robert lived he would have written more travel books of innovation and controversy, travel books comparable with or better than Bruce Chatwin's. He would have written comic romans a clef based on his unique journeys through London society and would have himself become the subject of media interest – somewhere in a TV vault there’s a documentary in which he took part, on the subject of … handbags.

Instead, his journey on this planet was brief but rich in incident. Too brief.

PS A reader asks how do you pronounce Tewdwr. Answer Tudor.

Robert Tewdwr Moss (2)

I said I'd post some more thoughts on Robert Tewdwr Moss - see entry below - as the 10th anniversary of his murder approaches.
I heard of his death from a friend. She phoned to say had I heard about Robert? From the tone of her voice I sensed the news was terrible. He had been found dead in his flat in Paddington, near St Mary's Church (where he would be later remembered). My cousin shortly afterwards phoned to say he had seen a report about his death on a London TV news show. Robert had been bound and gagged and he bore the signs of a beating. We learned in the subsequent weeks that he had suffocated from the gag or drowned in his own blood, I'm still uncertain. Whichever way he had put up a struggle.
Because he was a gay "promiscuous" man, a lot of people (journalists especially) assumed he was the victim of an S&M bondage session gone wrong, though he had no interest in violent sex so far as I knew; and I would have known.
In fact two homophobic opportunists - one of whom privately called Robert "Mr Pink" - thought he had money, probably because of his baroque clothes, and decided to rob him. Their murder convictions followed in 1997 and I think both were jailed for life. So perhaps they are due for release as I write.
There's much more I could say but the point of this posting is twofold - both about fatalism.
The first is that in the year prior to his passing Robert and I saw each other maybe only once - though we talked on the phone almost every week. Three weeks before he died I got it into my head that he should come with me as my guest to my cousin's summer party in Essex: it was a completely out of character thing for me to do as I hardly ever mix friends and family. And I thought Robert would never accept because he was about as non-suburbanite as you could imagine. Yet he was a huge success at the do and he loved it.
At the party he suddenly said something to me that changed my whole view of a life situation. I can't talk about it, it doesn't matter here in any case. He said it out of the blue, it just erupted from him with an amazing and uncharacteristic conviction, about something we'd never talked about before. It was a piece of instant good sense I lacked.
Retrospectively I am inclined to see this as his unconscious parting gift to me. In hindsight one can't help but see or imagine significances in all this.
The second thing - a morbid conversation. I had this with one of his very close friends before the trial of the two killers. Afseneh, a Persian woman he'd lived with for years and had met at university, told me that about a year before his death, he had visited a medium in New York: she had told him he would be murdered. Robert knew of my interests in the afterlife, but he had never confided this horror story.
The immoral irresponsibility of the psychic shocked me; the fact of the prophecy hardly registered at the time. I think about it a lot but still can make no sense of it. I wonder to what extent it played on his mind in the last year, and the most successful part, of his life.

Robert Tewdwr Moss murder: 13 years ago

August 24 marked the 13th anniversary of the murder of writer Robert Tewdwr Moss - a close friend whose life was taken just as he finished his travel book Cleopatra's Wedding Present: Travels Through Syria that would make his posthumous name. A day does not pass that I do not think of him. For my memories of him click here.

Cleopatra's Wedding Present: click here. To order a copy click here.

Philip Hoare's obituary of Robert in the Independent: click here
Philip Hensher's bedside reading: click here
Chroma review: click here

First line from Cleopatra's Wedding Present:
The hot wind that had carried the early heat wave into town was laden with fine brown dust and clotted with diesel fumes, so that when it abated the suffocating heat laced with dirt hung like a cloak around us and grey clouds loomed above the chaos of the streets. First few pages click here

Some reviews of Cleopatra's:

‘The book’s series of entertaining vignettes is testimony not only to the author’s literary skills but to his courage, curiosity and happy knack of befriending anyone he met’
— Mail on Sunday

‘This elegant work stands comparison with early Evelyn Waugh’
— Independent

‘A work with the potential to become a cult classic’
— Observer

‘A small masterpiece and a delicate work of English whimsy’
— Sunday Times

Details of Robert's death and of his killers: click here

Robert's killers may be free in 2 years' time - still young men:
Isa Abdul Aziz can apply for parole in September 2011: click here
Rondell Karl Pereira can apply for parole in October 2011: click here

Some comfort: "Even once their tariffs expire, neither man will be released until they can persuade the Parole Board they pose no serious public danger. When freed, they will remain on perpetual life licence, subject to prison recall if they get into trouble with the law again." This Is Chesire

Robert Tewdwr Moss. Book 'reissued'. And a séance

Regular Arcatistes will know of Robert Tewdwr Moss - see labels if you don't. I now learn that his classic travel book about Syria, Cleopatra's Wedding Present, has just been reissued by Duckworth. Amazon says it's out of stock.

A spokesperson for Duckworth tells me: "Yes, we have recently reissued Cleopatra's Wedding Present. It was published at the end of July and there are plenty of copies available to order through bookshops or directly through our distributor, Grantham Book Services. Amazon.co.uk are out of stock at the moment. From my database I can see that they have ordered copies recently (on Tuesday) and it will no doubt be shortly available to order through them."

Incidentally, in mid-May of this year, I had a remarkable séance with a clairvoyante medium called Lealah Kay, at the Spiritualist Association of Great Britain in Belgrave Square, in which she purportedly brought through the spirit of Robert (described, not named). Kay did not know me and I booked her only 90 minutes before the sitting. I asked her no questions about Robert; indeed I asked her only one question at the end of the session, on another topic. Nonetheless she communicated information supposedly from Robert to me that I find highly evidential of survival. I may run the transcript. I'll see how I feel.

The book

Robert Tewdwr Moss (1)

The 10th anniversary of the death of Robert Tewdwr Moss fast approaches: his life was taken on Aug 26 1996. If you've never heard of him then you're in the most people club. He was murdered just as he finished his one and only work that would be sufficient to make his name: a travel book called Cleopatra's Wedding Present. It's a transgressive, beautifully written, often funny account of his few months in Syria in 1995 - it is, among other things, a gay love story in an Islamic mystery-land. His very sexual nature was an affront to the moral establishment of this country, a spiritual and emotional desert to him you might think, yet here he found riches of many different kinds - the comic and common humanity beneath the distracting illusions of religion and tradition (he was, after all, a quality secular gossip). Here he found the romantic love of his life in a life teeming with lovers. And, just as importantly, he found a subject to showcase all his great qualities, literary and personal, in one stunning final blast.
I am not the first to note the irony that it was in anything-goes London and not Syria - where he courted death by being who he was - that he lost his life. The second version of the book that he'd just completed was not found at the crime scene: it was the first draft - which had been rejected by his editor as not salacious enough - that got printed. God knows what the missing second draft contained. Yet despite or because of that, the book has enjoyed international critical success and been reprinted a number of times here and abroad.
Like many other people I loved Robert very much and was not always a very good friend to him. Over the next few weeks I shall write more about him. And if you want to read a travel book like no other, and make you a new friend in the author (albeit posthumously), find a copy of Cleopatra's Wedding Present.

Gay Girl In Damascus, Tewdwr Moss and 'his' Moon Child: A letter from a visitor to Syria

Dearest Madame,

Your blog on the inequities of reporting between the disappearance of Gay Girl in Damascus and the fate of Robert Tewdwr Moss piqued my interest as always, but for a couple of reasons. [See posting below this to catch up]

Gay Girl in Damascus, as an internet text, is an inspiring document, but also very zeitgeisty. The author, a US-educated woman who made a conscious decision to return to Damascus knowing that she would face oppression, is a middlebrow American movie heroine in the making. In fact I'm waiting for someone to option the blog for a film in which Megan Fox will play said Damascus Gay Girl in a dead-eyed bid for an Oscar.

I rather fear that while Gay Girl from Damascus faces torture and rape at the hands of the Syrian secret police we will be turning what she left behind into the new Kite Runner.

Secondly, I was in Syria for nearly three weeks last year, and spent five days in Hama, where a lot of the political unrest is centred (this is nothing new - it was the stronghold of the Muslim Brotherhood many years ago and al-Assad levelled all but a single street of what must have been a beautiful old town to get rid of dissent). We also spent four days in Aleppo, where Tewdwr Moss recounts [in Cleopatra's Wedding Present] meeting a young gay man whom he named "The Moon Child" on account of his wide round face and startling green eyes.

I'm happy to report that Moon Child is very much still with us and working with his brothers in the souks of Aleppo, which have as yet not quite been turned over to the tourists and remain somewhere you can buy the polyester bedspreads, coffee whitener and pleather mules that form the backbone of commerce across the Islamic world. Just don't, if you ever go there, buy the macaroons, as they taste of the diesel on which the baker runs his oven.

Ever yours, C

Robert Tewdwr Moss - 12 years on

Today marks the 12th anniversary of the murder of writer Robert Tewdwr Moss - his Syria travel book Cleopatra's Wedding Present is just out again; check Amazon. Follow labels for my pieces on him. It's a pity the new edition of the book is minus an essay on him: I am sure people would want to know something of his life and death. And whatever happened to the literary prize that was to have been set up in his name? I am writing to his estate to find out - money was given by many after his memorial service. What's to stop me setting up the prize?

Philip Hoare: I am so jealous of this seasoned fag hag

When I heard that Philip Hoare had won the £20,000 Samuel Johnson Prize for Leviathan a little bit of me went into a coma (I have since recovered: leave grapes at the door). It was that evil, low, green-eyed feeling you get when someone you know enjoys a great succes d'estime: to rub it in, Leviathan is a marvellous disquisition on whales: mankind's spiritual ink with the beasts and our disgraceful exploitation of them. So if I offer my congratulations to Philip please note the above. Do not be entirely taken in by my remote mwahing. Imagine how my face slips back into a scowl as it turns away and sips sour wine (white).

I first met Philip many years ago through my late friend Robert Tewdwr Moss. Arcatistes will know about Robert: follow the links below if not. He took me to a council flat, I think somewhere in north London. Before the front door was an iron security gate which may have last seen service at Alcatraz. The Philip I first met looked very much like the Philip of today at 51: slight and lean. Not overly friendly, but courteous and brisk. One felt he had been dragged from his work. This was a party at Philip's pad and I was Robert's unexpected, uninvited guest.

Later, I was to give Philip work on a Sunday tabloid: he was a dream. He'd turn up, hardly talk to anyone but smiled a lot and was amiable and distant, do the work without fuss - whatever the theme - then make his exit. He'd already written his Stephen Tennant book and Noel Coward was ahead of him. I learnt he was a son of Southampton and born Patrick Moore. Wisely he reinvented himself literarily so as to avoid association with the right-wing astronomer who has the wonky monocled eye and who refuses to die. Philip interviewed me for one of Robert's obits and misspelled my name: and people wonder why they get murdered.

In all the time I saw him I never worked out anything much about him. Sexually he struck me as neuter but there's no such thing as neuter so that couldn't be right. He's a seasoned celebrity fag hag: Neil Tennant's a close friend of his - I believe Philip toured abroad with the Pet Shop Boys - and it's reported that the Hairspray director John Waters talked him into writing Leviathan. About four years ago I saw him at a Janet Street-Porter London birthday party. He pretended not to see me so I just barged up to him and introduced him to my companion: Philip gave me that odd squeal of his (delight? horror at effrontery? a squashed toe?) and behaved himself. On my way out I cut him dead.

Never mind. Buy Leviathan. I may be an old bitch but here's the link. Here's his site.

Trailer for Philip's TV doc In Search of Moby-Dick. Click image once to play

Dan Farson exhibition: The late Soho and its bohemian habitués

Sailors in Fitzroy by Farson

The photographs of Francis Bacon's whipping boy, Dan Farson, can ve viewed and bought at Blacks Club at London's 67 Dean Street, W1, until March 12th. Don't miss the Private View on Feb 23, 6.30-8.30pm: at 7.15pm., there will be a brief talk by the artist, writer and Soho DJ (and my fiancée) Molly Parkin, and Soho based bespoke tailor Mark Powell (both pictured below by Benjamin Maggs, a Pisces), who is currently working on an outfit for the modfather himself, Paul Weller. They will talk about their Soho experiences past and present, and their memories of Dan Farson.

The flyer reads: "Through the lens of Dan Farson, Soho scenes and its bohemian habitués of the 1950's come to life. Several of the photographs are featured in the remarkable book by Farson Soho in the Fifties, with an introduction by jazz legend and author the late George Melly."

Apparently Farson was also a gifted writer and broadcaster. The first I heard of him was from the late Robert Tewdwr Moss who met him in a Syrian hotel in the mid-90s. Robert describes the encounters in his travel book Cleopatra's Wedding Present. From memory, Farson - drunken and shambolic by this time - took against him, launching into ferocious, froth-flecked tirades. Robert's crimes appeared to be that he was handsome, gay and sexually active. I can't recall if Robert actually names Farson in the book.

As I write I can't find my copy to check. Perhaps Farson's ghost has hidden it.

Farson's autobiography Never a Normal Man

The death penalty: I have run out of excuses

Novelist and publisher Susan Hill has responded to this posting in comments.

After life-long opposition to the death penalty I am now drawn to the idea that it is possible to forfeit your right to life at the hands of the state. Even when my close friend, the writer Robert Tewdwr Moss was murdered back in '96 I did not think his two killers should be executed: the state should never be given such power, and I thought of the spiritual repercussions - which either you believe in or you don't. Every day it is possible to read of yet another criminal outrage here and abroad. But the recent pornographic murder of the two French students in London persuades me that in very, very rare circumstances convicted killers ought to die at our hands.

It would be for the prosecution to bring a special application for the death penalty after conviction - the onus would be on it to adduce peculiarly cruel and obscene factors in the case: it must be for lawyers to define what amounts to peculiar cruelty and obscenity since the premeditated taking of life in the first place is the ultimate cruelty. Such factors would tend to reflect on the nature of the killer - on whether, for example, he or she demonstrated an especial malignancy, an enduring hostility beyond psychiatric treatment. The argument that we should not countenance execution for fear of a miscarriage of justice does not work for me anymore: no system is infallible; justice never was. We do not cease to fly because of the very rare plane disaster.

Against this, some will point out that Barry George is currently appealing his conviction for the murder of Jill Dando. Would he not now be hanged if I had my way? Under my proposal he would not face execution: it would not be enough to show that he acted in cold blood or that the victim was a much-loved TV personality. But my view might be different if Dando's killer was a serial professional one, as I suspect. (Incidentally, have you noticed how the press made a big deal of the appeal case against him - front-page headlines about what was found at his home - a loner - the usual crap - but now relegate his side of things to a few paragraphs? That's the press for you, hanging judges all, always prejudiced)

Robert's killers will be out in 2011, probably. He was beaten up for no good reason, tied up and gagged, and left to die slowly by choking. No doubt the psychos' loving families are counting the days.

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.

Charles Lambert ... on murdered friends ...

The writer Charles Lambert writes from Italy in response to my Robert Tewdwr Moss postings ...

It's small comfort, I know, but at least the murderers were arrested and convicted. A dear friend of mine - an American writer called Lou Inturrisi - was killed in a similar fashion some years ago in Rome and the murderer was never identified, although it's believed that he fled to Spain. The murderers of two other people I knew were arrested but played the 'he tried it on' card and saw their sentences reduced.

See Charles' site click here

Madame Arcati gets on her bike. Bye bye

This is my 1005th post and my last for now. I am sure there is a counselling service somewhere for those bereaved by the resting of a blog, but take heart: like a silent volcano, Madame Arcati is not necessarily dead but could be dormant. Just think Krakatoa or Vesuvius: you never know when either may erupt again. An innocent goatherd loitering about this site may yet find him/herself blown into the sky as Mt Arcati suddenly spews out her magma-poison in response to another hypocrite editor or dodgy showbiz dahling ...

Of course the site remains here, her cinder cone a monstrous phallic silhouette at dusk. Think of all those posts to read or re-read! Kevin Spacey, Duncan Fallowell, Molly Parkin, Stephanie Mastini, Jonathan King, Susan Hill, Ms Baroque, Rupert Murdoch, Fish and Nicky Haslam, Robert Tewdwr Moss, Allison Pearson, Rupert Everett, Precious Williams and Jon Snow, celebrity cocks ... so many more - frenemies and all - topics and contributors. And thousands of glorious comments from the likes of the mysterious Duralex and other masked smarties -fresh comments will go up indefinitely, and you can write to me privately if you wish or need to.

In the two-plus years of my existence, from July 4, 2006 to now, this site had 1,033,081 pageviews and 468,079 visits, with most callers from the US and then the UK, followed by Canada, Australia, Germany, France, Italy, Netherlands, Ireland and Spain. People from 197 countries visited the site - though I assume the one visit from Vatican City was a papal accident. I think I can safely say that Madame Arcati has proven to be more popular than certain mainstream publications and their websites.

And on that happy note, bye bye. For now.

(And as if to sum up Madame Arcati's cock-cocking, cunt-cunting preoccupations, I am indebted to Stella Polari for bringing to my attention The Maccabees' delightful Toothpaste Kisses - a polysexual frolic)

And my thanks to the incomparable Margaret Rutherford whose Madame Arcati in Coward's Blithe Spirit (1945) changed my life. Why wasn't she made a dame? (Where's Christopher Lee's knighthood btw?) Rutherford was all the things I love - deeply gifted, ugly, always old and one of the avatars of the peculiar. Even as a teen I had a fetish for creped skin. If you don't know her, here's an intro ....