Duncan Fallowell: Graham Greene and Goan ghosts; Patricia Highsmith and love

Two literary giants interviewed by Duncan Fallowell ...

Graham Greene - "There were ghosts [in Goa] ... "


Patricia Highsmith - Has she ever been in love? ...

Cheryl Cole consults Dustin Hoffman's psychic!

Jusstine Kenzer

Honestly, I don't know why I bother. A few weeks ago I advised Cheryl Cole and her promiscuous cock-cunting footballer husband Ashley to donate all their marriage bling to Haiti now their merger is on the rocks. It was PR Mark Borkowski's idea, bless him.

Now I see that instead of listening to my (and Mark's) good sense she has been consulting Hollywood psychic Jusstine [not Justine!] Kenzer about whether to dump her husband - is Cheryl into kinky emotional masochism or something? Oh well, her live burial.

Jusstine charges $200 for a half hour consultation (phone, IM, Morse, etc), $100 for a follow-up. You ask her the questions (eg "Should I leave Ashley?") and she gives you instant answers ("Well, actually he's your soulmate ..."). Among her clients are Dustin Hoffman and Ellen DeGeneres. She predicted all five Emmy category nominations one year for a US TV channel.

If atheist propagandist Derren Brown ever pulls off a similar trick, do let me know. Predictions, mind, not "telepathic" mind games in an auditorium full of gullible 30-something Guardian readers nurtured on Ian McEwan novels.

But talented as I'm sure Jusstine is (I may book her for a psychic party in London this summer hosted by Molly Parkin and me at the Chelsea Arts Club), she should listen to Madame Arcati: Donate your engagement ring to a worthy cause - don't let £100k go to waste on a bony digit.

PMQs and the hee-hees and the ha-has

I listened to Prime Minister's Questions yesterday - by accident. Nick Clegg had just got up and targeted both Brown and Cameron for an electioneering savaging, referring to them dismissively as "he and he". This provoked a flurry of "hee-hees" as both Tory and Labour MPs engaged in mock laughter at his presumption. This touched a Tudor memory.

To mark his marriage to Anne Boleyn in 1533, Henry VIII had their initials HA entwined on tapestries. Many Londoners were unimpressed and took the piss by crying "Ha! Ha!" at the much despised wedding pageant, in a manner reminiscent of the Commons. For a moment history came to life as politics suffered a concussion.

Mark McGowan's 10,000 prostrations to David Cameron

Mark McGowan plans to prostrate himself 10,000 times in front of a "large photographic image of Conservative leader David Cameron on (election day) May 6th, 2010, opposite number 10 Downing Street."

He explains: "The prostrations can be seen as a sign of reverence to a noble man, David Cameron, the man who can lead this country out of the problems we are in. It should take me about two-and-a-half days to complete, I will start at 10am on Thursday 6th May and finish on Saturday 8th May, by which time this country will see a new leader. Gordon Brown, the Labour party and champagne socialism is over."

So, over to champagne Toryism instead. Except of course you can't get into Downing St these days without an invitation and the police won't allow him to loiter about outside for long. I just hope Mark doesn't end up with sciatica.

Matt Smith and Doctor Who: Dildo head is inspired

How narrow is the new Doctor Who body type.

A perfect childbirth-friendly oblong makes up Matt Smith's head: no wonder his mum adores the poppet. She wouldn't have needed an epidural with a dildo bonce like that sliding out between her legs. And but for a sliver of nose bridge, he'd be cycloptic, or Prince Charles. The big hair forms a steeple that falls in compressive well cut waves, rendering a rubbery face trapped between exotic lift doors. The Tardis' interior has expanded into a 70s basement nightclub with railed galleries and dayglo mezzanine, drawing attention to the lack of horizontal space the new Who incarnation takes up.

In other words, Matt Smith is an inspired choice.

In addition he delivers us from the panto theatrics of his predecessor David Tennant, also narrow but not this narrow. Tennant is so peculiarly tall that his height compensated for lack of screen spread.

Smith's physical singularity complements a precocious gravitas. The good doctors are always old - in spirit if not body - and Smith pulls off the trick of fresh agedness: a 16 year-old going on 26 going on 906 with no sticky wet dream interlude. An oddity, then, but not an alienating freak: voice modulation speaks educated but celibate cock-cuntedness, as in the better cartoons about male loners (eg Bugs Bunny).

Madame Arcati is most enchanted. The last decent Doctor was of course Tom Baker. The ones in between were unfortunate errors.

Meow meow: A diary fragment from Brighton

A friend writes ...

To Brighton. The club was on the seafront and called Fragment [Volks] I think. I was comforting a 6ft 8in black gay guy who was weeping over his man. "It doesn't matter how many men I rim, I can't get him out of my head." "Stop rimming them" I said. "It only makes it worse." Weeping like a baby he was. Next minute he was up throwing himself on the dance floor with his best mate - who had polio. He was in a wheelchair and had a harelip. Ooh the characters in Brighton!

Meow Meow feels like a cross between coke and ecstasy but without the "edge". It was perfectly nice, made me talk nine to the dozen and love everyone. The guy in the wheelchair was a real ungrateful bastard. I put some meow meow on my finger and shoved some up his nose to cheer him up. His response? "You're a bit stingy with that aren't you?" Cheeky fucker.

 I was dancing to drum and bass (which I hate normally) dancing for four hours in four inch heels and I felt no pain! I went with my toyboy although he's my ex now. We didn't leave the club till 7am.

Is The Spectator a racist magazine?

I only ask because according to The Spectator, blogging is just a "conversational medium". So do please converse. The magazine mounted this defence of its blogger Rod Liddle to the Press Complaints Commission after he wrote that the "overwhelming majority" of violent crime in London was carried out by young African-Caribbean men. The Spectator lost, diddums. The magazine was unable to back Liddle's claim factually. NB: They did not retract the claim.

One assumes Liddle's comment was nodded through by editors sympathetic to the viewpoint. One assumes there are no young African-Caribbean men on the editorial staff to rein in the Empire-nostalgic Tory young Turks dreaming of an Etonian Westminster.

This is a particularly embarrassing outcome for the publication's immature editor, Andrew Neil's mini-me bitch, Fraser Nelson, who also whores his right-wing slob views for the News of the World. Only last year he ran a Spectator coverline which suggested racism in Britain is sooooo not very prevalent any more (Sample from body copy: "The less racist Britain is, the more popular this racist party [BNP] becomes.") Oops. Less racist?

Meanwhile, the new owner of the Independent, Alexander Lebedev owes me, Suzanne Moore and others for dissuading him from making Liddle the paper's editor. We're all heart.

The Large Hadron Collider: Madame Arcati's prediction

After the secular propaganda and excitement of this morning in our international media. a great silence shall descend upon the $10 billion manger of CERN, Geneva. Years will elapse and the multitude shall wonder, "What was that all about?" New theories of the "god particle" and "sooper-dooper partners" shall be bandied about, mainly by journalists proficient in synopsising press releases, yet no one will be any the wiser about the origins of the universe. But this won't stop ambitious particle physicists from locking horns in academic media about the significance of This and That, and the lay atheists shall take sides as at a football match, waving their flags and other partisan livery. In time Large Hadron Collider churches shall be built in the name of This or That and each of their clergy will bemoan the vicissisitudes of faith while some among them fuck the under-aged.

Joanna Lumley: Labour's last card against this goddess of AOL torture

The government is of course very foolish to upset Joanna - "Ayo Gurkhali!" - Lumley (again) over the Gurkhas. On Monday (or today if you're reading this on Monday; or yesterday if Tuesday, etc) she will single-handedly hammer the last nail into the Labour coffin. I had hoped Labour would scrape home but I see now all is lost, thanks to Joanna.

As I write she is, as Lady Penelope once was, an untouchable national treasure, the embodiment of the upper class geist that is about to repossess the Brits for the umpteenth time through the 19th Etonian PM (to-be) aka the half-wit former PR David Cameron.

Foreigners should understand that the Brits like the taste of upper class asshole: it's part of the ingrained cuisine (pause to spit out hair strands, inter alia, unsweetened by absence of bidet). They adore modulated vowels for it plays to the national Capricornian desire for hereditary privilege and power as expressed in sound and deportment and approved antecedents (cue: spires).

There is however one card left for Labour to play against the Nepalese goddess Joanna. It's called the AOL card. For years, Joanna's voice has been used to annoy AOL subscribers with an unwelcome welcoming message and the lie "You've got email". It's a lie because AOL users are blighted with this message whether they have email or not. Worse, she is the voice of "You've got company (bang)". It is another lie. The subscriber does not have any online company. It is just a noise-message intended to piss one off as the odd unfortunate ejaculates over the keyboard.

Somebody at AOL actually sat down one day and said, 'Oh, let's see how we can really piss off our customers. Great! Get Joanna Lumley to tell them over and over again that they have company (bang)'. It was marketing by irritation, as practised by those confuse.com TV ads, and others. The intention is to batter you into brand-recognition compliance through torture, a sort of extraordinary rendition for the sofa- (or swivel chaired-) bound.

Of course the goddess hadn't a clue she was just a tongue puppet for these wicked corporate shenanigans. She read the messages off a sheet and collected her substantial cheque. She gave no thought to the possibility that her voice would become one of the most detested sounds on the internet. Like the late Leni Riefenstahl, she is the creative incidental to the cultural foulness. For a goddess, Joanna is peculiarly stupid.

Joanna should be publicly reviled by Labour as a modern-day Lord Haw-Haw, as the expression of something noxious, whether witting or not. She should have foreseen this horror. There is not a day that passes by that I do not wish this ghastly woman some dreadful end for the earache and the headache and the ultimate heartache.

How to turn her off

Molly Parkin signs huge publishing deal with Beautiful Books

British publisher Beautiful Books has signed up writer/poet/eminent fashionista Molly Parkin as one of its authors in a comprehensive books and music deal. It will publish her memoirs Welcome To Mollywood on October 21, 2010.

In addition, BB will republish the first three of Molly's comic erotic novels – Love All, Up Tight and Full Up – and a first volume of her poetry. All ten novels will be published in the new format over the following 24 months.

Welcome To Mollywood - a title created by the House of Arcati - will be issued in a variety of simultaneous formats: initial hardback publication, audio, e-book and video – all digital versions being available as a SmartPhone application and internet download. Molly herself will be filmed reading the whole book and this version too will be available as a download.

And following on from her success last year as a DJ alongside her daughter Sophie and granddaughter Carson, Beautiful Books will also release an album of music, chosen by Molly – the soundtrack to an extraordinary life.

BB describes Mollywood as "both a memoir and a new artistic beginning for this much-loved writer and artist. There will be appearances from her famous lovers – James Robertson Justice, John Mortimer, George Melly, Bo Diddley; stories of her drinking days with Francis Bacon at the legendary Colony; accounts of her friendships with Barbara Hulanicki of BIBA fame and fashion designer Zandra Rhodes; and throughout, a strong and individual voice which will delight her many fans and introduce her to a whole new audience."

As Arcatistes know, Molly is my fiancee and I can't tell you how delighted I am for her. Congratulations, Moll! And Beautiful Books has demonstrated tremendous vision.

I never thought I'd say that of a commercial publisher.

The Molly Parkin interviews with Madame Arcati: cocks, spirituality, paternal abuse, lovers and ... David Cameron.
Part 1
Part 2

Greg Dyke to be next editor of The Independent

I hear on good authority that the BBC's former D-G Greg Dyke is about to be signed up as the next editor of the Independent. I wholly approve of this appointment if true. He has newspaper savvy and he is not pig ignorant.

New proprietor Alexander Lebedev has gone up in my estimation even if he toyed with Rod Liddle.

Dr Brian Cox and the Wonders of a Solar Smile

The latest sexy darling of atheists is particle physicist Dr Brian Cox, former rock star member of the band D:Ream. His current BBC2 show Wonders of the Solar System is wowing the so-called intelligentsia in the UK, for reasons beyond my understanding. It's telling us nothing we haven't heard already: the Sun is awfully hot, Mercury is hot, too, but gets very cold at night, Venus is Earth's carbon alter ego, and there are some helluva storms on Jupiter. True, I hadn't seen some of the pics of Titan's surface, but think of sand and stones and, presto, you have Saturn's Worthing.

What's tickling mental clits and dicks is Cox's ability to smile while talking. This is quite an achievement. Most people who smile while talking are probably planning to kill you; they're loons: but Coxy Babe couldn't drown a kitten. He's a cuddlesome, hard-geeing northerner geek in awe of the universe. His very orgasmic, transferable relish in repeating what his profs taught him at uni alchemises his commonplaces, with that toothy smile. That he sounds like a simpleton while parroting the number of air molecules in a pebble disarms because one knows he's a swot and make no mistake. We need to look down a bit first before we look up.

Cox is a man boy waggling his box of toys at us: he has nothing new to tell us, just a new way - thanks to his talking smile. At public expense he gets to fly at 60,000 ft to admire the dark blue of the sky, to drive over desert sand dunes to show us what Mars is like (air: thin), and he lights Chinese lanterns to demonstrate the effects of hot air. Oh, it rises.

No wonder he's smiling. I'd be laughing in his shoes.

PS:
(The Mail on Sunday columnist Suzanne Moore wrote me on Facebook after I said Cox was like a kid with toys: "Told Brian what you said. He said Tell them from me that they should stick to shaking their jowels and drinking Claret and leave science to the big boys and girls ;-) Oooooh x"