Lesley Douglas - in need of media advice

I am distressed that Radio 2 controller Lesley Douglas has fallen on her nail file over the Ross/Brand/Sachs/Voluptua farrago - the biggest load of nonsense I ever heard and all over the real fact that no one but crazed studio auds can stand Ross and his £18m BBC contract.

Douglas rather annoyed me some time back when I asked her whether it was true Chris Evans was being hauled aboard the Radio 2 cruiseliner. "No. Absolutely not," she said. "We are not even talking to him". He became a presenter 4 weeks later.

Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand posting for Google ranking purposes

In the wake of the Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand/Andrew Sachs/Georgina Baillie mega-fuss (ie career- enhancing contretemps), I have decided to join Georgina’s sex ‘n’ violence burlesque Goth thing, Satanic Sluts.

To do so one must send “pictures of yourself looking gorgeous in black, racy in red, tempting in latex or just plain filthy in the flesh to us here at Salvation Films …You must include your chosen nom de plume or saintly moniker (ie St Sinista or whatever sacrilegious title appeals to your virtuous mind) and, if you have one, your website /webcam address and we'll include a direct link to it with your pictures. "

I’ve been wondering what to call myself. Current favourites include: Mme Arcunty, Gossipa, or St Penetrata. Any thoughts here? My “looking gorgeous” look will blend trews and silk tunic with leather belts criss-crossing my thorax from neck and crotch ties (bowed). My brown ruched turban will bear a priapic Hitler crucifix to signal my inner desires. I am assuming Satanic Sluts is open to still self-lubricating 80-somethings. I hope we’re not dealing with yet another ageist organisation here.

As to Madame Arcati’s view on The Fuss and whether Ross and Brand should be tortured to death for making Mr Sachs marketable again for panto bookings etc, I would like to make this public statement: “I couldn’t give a buggery.” Satanic Sluts

Shena Mackay: A touch of the Atmospherics

I’ve asked the master short story writer and novelist Shena Mackay to talk to Madame Arcati on the occasion of the publication of her new collection: The Atmospheric Railway: New and Selected Stories. It’s out on November 6, here’s the Amazon link. Fingers crossed.

Fans of her work know her to be a hard-wired original: poetical, mischievous, funny; supremely peculiar; a little sly and certainly dark. Shabbiness seems to do something to her. Dreams of Dead Women’s Handbags has to be one of the oddest fiction titles ever – if you know odder let me know. Many of her stories lyricise the otherwise mundane and domestic. “A utopia in Croyden?” asks a review of her novel Heligoland. One character is described as having “the face of a cruel spoon.” Almost Dali-esque.

She loves cats.

Quantum of Solace: A most dreadful, ghastly film

Saw Quantum of Solace today, the new Bond film. What a load of dreadful, action-derivative rubbish. All the style of your average borstal. And Dame Judi Dench should do something about her teeth. Here, read this Jude. And Bond and his latest tart Olga have filthy fingernails and grimy cuticles. I nearly threw up over a veteran old fart film reviewer from one of our ancient newspapers, but showed self-restraint. Bond has expired as a franchise in my view. Barbara Broccoli should be executed. Daniel Craig is fit only for nude photography: Ancient Roman Emperor still-lifes. I like the theme toon by Alicia Keys and Jack White though - you can just listen to that at home on your thingy.

Duncan Fallowell berates British Museum

Duncan Fallowell has a rant in The Times today, here's the link. It's all about the British Museum and how it's a load of crap nowadays. "I decided to pop in during normal opening hours," he writes. "What an awful shock. Tickets for the Hadrian exhibition had sold out, and when I tried to visit the Reading Room it was shut — because the Hadrian exhibition was in there. When I asked when the Reading Room would be open again I was told perhaps in 2012." As I've said in another posting on another topic, bring back the death penalty. It's the only answer.

Julie Burchill: A few hours with a Brighton goddess

An extraordinary lunch with Julie Burchill at a Brighton restaurant today. In attendance: her husband Daniel Raven (he could only stay an hour or so: such a sweetheart: looks about 25), the Guardian writer Zoe Williams (atheist, feminist), the novelist John Niven (Kill Your Friends), Julie's vicar The Rev'd Canon Dr Gavin Ashenden ("Gavin") and Julie's long-term friend whose pen name is Gina McKinnon (a Leo with Moon in Gemini) ....

I'm afraid to say Julie Burchill and Madame Arcati bonded on sight. She has a hyper-developed social personality that beguiles and intrigues and which (I sense) probably does not accurately signal what she may end up thinking or writing: but it is a personality designed to be inclusive or collaborative and collusive in the moment. She is a seducer. I became part of a group concern about the plastic air-pressured contraption on one of her feet (not for gout after all: there's a 5% chance of amputation!), I was drawn into (but not persuaded by) her world view on Islam and Christianity (and she thinks a black Archbish of Canterbury would carry greater weight internationally than Old Beardie), I was touched by her adoration of my septum and chin dimple (her septum is well developed too: a sign of a high sex drive, I think) and I loved the way she tenderly rested her hand on mine while engaged in vigorous conversation with John: she wanted me to know I was not forgotten.

But it so happened I was talking to Gavin who fascinated me with a lecture on how Hollywood has somehow got North Moroccan Sufism all wrong: it's all to do with repetitive romance syndrome: movies just can't get out of the romantic loop in human relationships. People fall in love and then ... fin. It's a kind of cultural infantilism. I intend to persuade an intelligent magazine to get him to write on this topic: his theme incorporates celebrity and glamour and spirituality: I mean, think of the cover lines, cunties. To read him click here. Or read this.

Julie is a sensitive and probably psychic; certainly she's highly intuitive: she accurately named the sun signs of the three guests who asked her. It should be said that she appears to have little time for astrology or clairvoyance, as a late-life Protestant. "You shouldn't talk to the dead," she said to me when I mentioned a wonderful medium I have just discovered. She did not ask me idiotic questions about the real me. She did not probe too much. She intuited that the mask is a psychological component, not something to be ripped away. To my surprise she did not really gossip at all. She has done so much yet travels light as a personality. Few anecdotes, no boasting, no name-dropping. "I've just made the most of myself," she said simply when I pointed out she's one of the very few genuine stars of journalism.

After the lunch we got cabs to her apartment in Hove. She has drawers full of her many books, and DVDs of Sugar Rush. Her bookshelves have a disproportionate number of titles by (Julie's sometime co-writer) Chas Newkey-Burden, such as his Paris Hilton bio, among works of greater weight. She has even a rather good library in one of her washrooms. She has two cats, but have they ever been petted? I would love to be their petter.

"What's your blog about?" asked Gavin. Julie replied for me: "It's about righteousness." Not my word, but I like it.

Julie Burchill and Madame Arcati and a Brighton venue

Lunch with Julie Burchill and her husband tomorrow and some other people down in Brighton. What to wear? Which persona to adorn? My psychic suggested I shouldn't meet her right now - it didn't feel right - but I exercise my right to independent action and will honour my RSVP. Remote attraction is an interesting thing: what does one imagine will embody the alluring attribute? An idea morphs into 3D flesh and .... Well, we'll see.

Molly Parkin: George Melly's deathbed advice

Extract from a letter from Molly Parkin to Madame Arcati today about my last visit to the Green Carnation club ...

.... As to fancying all on a mammoth scale, I prefer to think that you give a succulent slice of your heart to all you meet, and then it is returned in full measure. We are both tarts, darling, and delight in it.

I promised dearest George Melly on his recent deathbed that I would never change. "Stay as mad as you are, Moll," he mouthed. "And tell the rest of the cunts to fuck off!"

See ya Tuesday?

Mollxx

Duncan Fallowell to make Divine: The Movie!

I hear of an exciting rumour - me and my rumours! - that the acclaimed writer and movie actor Duncan Fallowell and actress Jenny Runacre are to make an avant garde film about Divine for the 21st anniversary of (Harris) Glenn Milstead's death next year (March 7) - Milstead was the lady herself. Apparently meetings have taken place and the film will be about 35 minutes long, very amusing but strange and dreamy, too.

The ghost of Divvie is plainly drawn to me. Regular readers of my blog will recall my visit to the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore in June where I saw for the first time Andrew Logan's monster-sized statue of the silver screen's premier drag act, click here. In some ways it is more like Divine than Divine herself. She was a Libran (natch), just like Duncan, whom I owe a horoscope btw, and his (Divvie's) mummy is still alive as you'll see if you click the link.

I'm not quite sure how Duncan will deal with the shit-eating in Pink Flamingos so I'll ask him when I bump into him at the Groucho. But for Divvie, Hairspray would not have become the great franchise it's turning out to be (the sequel is in preparation); and John Travolta and the increasingly, er, "flamboyant" (doncha love the tabloid cunts?) Michael Ball would not now be celebrated Edna Turnblads of stage and screen (unrespectively).

Divvie owed everything to Dame Elizabeth Taylor whose beauty and incessant diva-dom tutored him-then-her in the dark arts of celebrity warfare and use of kohl.

Jonathan King and Vile Pervert: The Guardian Ad

I know Jonathan King excites all sorts of tabloidy views but I did enjoy his Vile Pervert: The Musical movie which he took to this year's Cannes, and do read my considered review, click here. The Guardian was happy enough to run the ad below last week, and what's good enough for the Guardian is good enough for me.

Oh, and I hear the Mail rejected the ad. Well, not quite its catchment innit.

Nicky Haslam: Gatsby parties in Roehampton, apparently (Oh, and see the film)

Awaiting my unpaid spy Fish to file her party report on Nicky Haslam's 69th birthday party at Parkstead House, I read Anne McElvoy's dispatch in the Standard: it doesn't sound as if she had the happiest of times. Normally a dry but shrewd political pundit, who says 'fesses up a lot to get down with the kids, all she can do here, below Warholy pics of Zhandra Rhodes, Paris Hilton, Bianca Jagger, Andrew Logan et al, is draw a comparison between the lavish decadence on display in Credit Crunched Roehampton and the Great Gatsby's West Egg party prequels, before the Great Depression.

I wonder if Anne wrote her piece (in her head) before or after she attended the do. I know what I think.

The only amusing thing she has culled from the bash is Nicky's response to her dull question about how he manages 800 personal friends. "Lists," he replied. And then, changing the subject, "Have you met Paris?"

On a final note for now, Madame Arcati is distressed that Nicky preferred the company of Norman Lamont - who "jitterbugged" (I hope he wore a chins bra) - to mine. I shall tackle him about this should I have the pleasure of encountering him at the Green Carnation.

See the Telegraph's film of the party .... click here. (See the Duchess of Ferg karate chopping Bob Geldof just after some nonsense talk about the children of the world not having a voice. Soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo Gatsby)

Nicky Haslam's having his party today

Yes. Click here. The stuff about the Queen appeared on Arcati a good month before Londoner's Diary's scoop.