Amanda Eliasch: Fame, movie acclaim and cakes of sperm

Amanda Eliasch

I like my weirdos glam and clever. Weirdo? A person who manifests her or his organic interior in a fascinating, creative, non-homicidal way. This blog is peopled with natural weirdos - and now that I am back for a while, I've just noticed another one to add to the galère. 

Her name is Amanda Eliasch.

She's been under my nose for quite a while. Ages back she said I was her favourite blog (well, you won't confuse this site with anything by Toby Young) and I peeped at her biog and saw she is a photographer, and peripatetic fashion editor of Genlux Magazine in LA. She seems highly proactive. Always white-teeth smiling. And blonde. (Sort of sleb-ish herself - I mean, your average magazine person is pure subfusc with sniffs.) And about 25. Now I read she's 53 (Taurus - luxury lovers). For me, this is perfection. I cannot abide authentic youth. I will not have them in the house - except my new friend Lyndsy Spence (see interview here). There is nothing more vile than a human being in evolutionary transit who's dreaming over your shoulder. Why should I be bothered with this sort of fate-harlot?

But 53 is arrival time. 53 is about right.

Then recently I noticed Nicky Haslam ('Oh God, not him again!') pushing his latest heterosexuality-celebrating album of song, Midnight Matinee. And one of the tracks is called Amanda written by Amanda Eliasch. She assures me on Facebook that it is her voice. She sounds like a heavenly choirboy approaching the cusp of his first wet dream. Here listen (it's track 16 for a sample).

Recently, I noticed something about a movie. It's called The Gun, The Cake and the Butterfly. She wrote it, directed it and stars in it. This is auteurism at its most extreme. Don't call her Orson! She's won an award for it. I've not seen it. But apparently it's about her awfully glitzy, stars-strewn life. I am assured she has never had sex with Boris Johnson. But I believe she may have gone all the way with Sir Tim Rice. Lord Lloyd Webber will be well jel. At some point in her life she baked a cake containing the sperm of two fuckees. Well, that's what it says here.

Oh, here's the film trailer. I have a feeling I may say more about amazing Amanda.

Mary Beard outs Oliver Eric Rawlings over Twitter abuse

Cambridge classicist Mary Beard has once again been trolled on Twitter - this time by some bearded twat called Oliver Eric Rawlings. He looks the sort of man who scratches his scrotal sac in public places because he has no idea that he should not. I understand that after he mindlessly posted the message below, Mary outed the filthy swine, prompting the usual outcry followed by Rawlings' public apology. Will he sleep tonight? Or just replicate his tweeting behaviour in other areas of his life?

In happier news, Mary Beard's Caligula documentary is on BBC2 tonight at 9. Catch it if you can.

Lyndsy Spence & the magical Mitford guide to life, the universe and everything

Lyndsy Spence with first-ever copy of her new book

Adorable is one word to describe an author on the cusp of fame. Remembering Lyndsy Spence's name won't be hard - even if the Christian bit appears to be missing a vowel and the sur bit a consonant. These fateful omissions will help etch her on our memory. Her writings, persona and look will do the rest. Such is 21st century celebrity!

Lyndsy is about to reawaken our interest in the Mitford girls and the values and style of the 20s and 30s. I fear she has an altar at home upon which flapper idols swan figuratively on votive incense. She has written some sort of instruction manual based on the musings of all six granddaughters of the man who founded The Lady magazine, among other things. I have not read the book yet but I know a winner when I spot one. The papers and fashion mags will fall for Lyndsy because she's quite a Liz Taylor-ish looker - superficial I know, but then pulchritude played its part in the Mitfords myth, too - so let's not slip up and confuse authentic complaint with Suzanne Moore. 

Soon, the media will learn that Lyndsy lives on another, much more exotic planet and they will want to inhabit it, also. (Oh, and lest I forget, Lyndsy has a tribute site to the Mitfords called The Mitford Society).

Because I am a cruel, heartless beast, I decided to treat Ms Spence with the utmost tenderness, though perhaps I slipped up here and there in this her first proper interview.... 

Q: Darling Lyndsy Spence! I can't wait to read your new book The Mitford Girls' Guide To Life (out August 1). Is it your first tome? What inspired you to write it? What's its USP (that's unique selling point, a term I picked up when I used to hang out with commercial whores and vampires with no imagination).

LS: Yes, it is my first serious tome! I was inspired quite randomly when my friend and I started to imitate how they spoke to one another and I suddenly thought, wouldn't it be wondair [this is too modern! - MA] to adapt the Mitfords for modern life. I suppose you might say it was an etiquette book that just escalated into a full-on Mitford tribute. The unique selling point is that there is something for everybody. My agent always speaks about this and my own USP is writing about ladies from the 30s and 40s. 

Lyndsy's new book: out Aug 1

Q: Tell me something I'll learn from the book - for instance: I would like to totally destroy a certain journalist and make them wish they were never born. What would be the Mitford girls' advice be to me?

LS: Diana would most definitely look at you with her beautiful blue eyes and declare in her deadpan voice: "It is more painful to hate than to be hated." You will certainly learn how to undertake specific Mitford rituals i.e. Debo's guide to a Debutante Ball, Unity's Guide to Stalking (The Ostaria Bavaria, anyone?), Diana's Guide to Prison, Decca's Guide to Running Away, Nancy's Guide to Fashion and Pamela's Guide to throwing a Jubilee Party. You'll also learn how to be a terrific Honnish Hon whilst wearing your stoutest tweeds. 

Q: Do you think Unity enjoyed carnal relations with Hitler? Can you imagine? Them humping? I've always pitied Eva. I can scarcely believe Eva and Adolf used to do it, but they must have done something at night. Hitler had awful gas, I learn. Too much veggie soup.

LS: I'm lost for words. I think we should draw on Nancy's cruel comment: "Have you seen my sister?" Poor old Boud was almost 6ft tall and quite clueless. In today's society I think 4 of the Mitfords would be supermodels, so they were always destined to ride the coattails of those "media" jobs aristo people go into. 

Q: And have you ever met the legendary Debo [the dowager Duchess of Devonshire], still with us? Have you had any Mitford communication (or other aristocratic missives) that proved encouraging?

LS: No, I've not met Debo but I have a lovely postcard from her. I was in touch with some Mitty relations who were very nice. 

Q: I've looked at your horoscope (Pisces) and I see ruler Neptune next to Mars in your 5th gifts you a very attractive personality and inclines you to high glamour - and/or a rather pronouncedly idealistic approach to relationships. Are you in love with the world of the Mitfords - the style, the talk, the attitudes? Should we be concerned, Lyndsy?!

LS: Yes, lock me up and throw away the key!! I love the world of the Mitfords, everything about them. I love anyone who can do something spectacular, you know making something out of nothing. Let's face it, any girl from that era who did anything wonderful is worth talking about. I'm also enthralled with 20th century courtesans (not naming names!) and old movie stars. Margaret Lockwood is my favourite. Funny you should mention high glamour, I used to wear a fur coat to school! 

Q: Who's the wisest of the Mitford gels? And whom among the six do you regard as the most idiotic?

LS: Oh, I'd say perhaps old Pam was the wisest to quote Diana, "Pam was often right and seldom listened to." I don't like to refer to Unity as idiotic, but she was on another planet, but we all have a Unity character in our family. I don't know, there is something awfully Unity about Carol Thatcher, what do you think?

Q: Well, Carol is sleeping with a skiing instructor not Hitler! But anyway... Tell my tawdry, atheistic readership something about yourself. For instance, do you originate from a world not unadjacent to that of the Mitfords? Where do you live? Are you a vegetarian? Did you get an A Level in English Lit? Is there a photograph you would rather I did not publish?

LS: I suppose Nancy might find my background a bit Non-U. I live in N. Ireland but my grandmother is from California and her father came from a very interesting family: her grandfather was from a Cuban family who sold port wine and cigars. And her grandmother, although born in Texas, came from an aristo French family who were, in fact, linked to the Mitfords' Farrar cousins. 'Tis a small world. Decca would probably appreciate an ancestral grandfather of mine, John Greenwood, who tried to overthrow the Church of England. 

Q: I hear your dog tried to eat you and that your cat ran off during a thunderstorm. Please elaborate. Do you think the prospect of imminent fame could be traumatising the poor creatures as they seek a quieter life?

LS: Most definitely, I dedicated my book to them, "The Counter-Hons"...maybe they can't cope with the fame!

Q: Will you write more about the Mitfords or high glamour worlds? Perhaps one day you'll write a novel set in worlds set apart from tedious weather reports and Prof Brian Coxes. How do you see your future, poppet?

LS: I'm writing a book about Diana Mitford and Bryan Guinness, I cautiously call her "Diana Guinness" when referring to it! I've also written a biography of Margaret Lockwood which is lingering around in the first draft stages. I hope to write fiction, probably set in the 1930s or with a supernatural undercurrent. I dislike anything too mundane. 

Q: Describe the window scene outside from the room in which you find yourself right now.

LS: Well, there are a lot of trees and my bird houses are dangling from branches (rather scary in a storm). 

Q: And finally - have you ever had a supernatural encounter or psychic experience?

LS: Yes! When I was a little girl in Canada I awoke in our holiday cabin and spotted three Cherokee Indians sitting at the foot of my bed. Two grown-ups holding a baby. I was only 8 and I half wondered if I was on You've Been Framed (no idea why!), Too bizarre to admit!

The Mitford Girls' Guide To Life can be ordered here 

Duncan Fallowell: US literary triumph and his cock

US edition

Delighted to see that Duncan Fallowell's How to Disappear: A Memoir for Misfits debuted at No 1 in Amazon.com's bestseller chart for traveller cock-cockers/cunt-cunters (but these are not exclusive labels - please!). It's time the Americans made a fuss of him as he parades his peculiarities in a variety of clever, playful ways.

Oprah: "Get it down Mr Fallowell! - "
Duncan: "I beg your pardon?"

Naturally, Madame Arcati was among the first to recognise his book's singular brilliance. Eventually, the people who dole out the PEN/Ackerley Prize saw the light and plonked their literary laurel crown upon his still-luxuriant locks.

I reviewed the book in another age - here.

Now, there's a new US review which I think soul-links to the book. Here. I like the chance angle Garth has picked up on as an unspoken sub-theme. Who's Garth? Do some work you lazy darting fuckers.

Do you want to see Duncan's penis? Oh!

Alan Whicker at 91: Does the Daily Mail not read its own gossip star?

I love 'satirist' (quote marks should always be used for, er, 'sub-Homeric descriptions', as Quentin Letts might put it) Craig Brown, not least because we share a birthday, May 23. Joan Collins, too, is a May 23'er - a sharp-tongued social anthropologist if ever I saw one. It's a funny thing, birthdays. Makes you think.

But how disappointed I am today! In his well-remunerated Daily Mail column, Craig Brown writes of Hitler, blazers and Alan Whicker whom he ages at 87 at time of passing. Yet only the other day, the Mail's very own diarist, Richard Kay, revealed that Whicker was actually 91 - he had even dug up a Whicker birth certificate whose full content had failed to reach its destination in any known bio.

How distressing that neither Brown nor the subs had bothered to internalise Kay's exclusive info. It's the sort of thing that makes you think, in a wine bar usually, 'Why do I bother?'

The problem could be quality of staff, notwithstanding the presence of a May 23'er at the Mail's South Kensington  grotto. Or perhaps the problem is Kay himself whose notoriety falls a little short of that of his legendary predecessor, Nigel Dempster. To be a great success in print journalism, it really helps to be a foul-mouthed, social-climbing head-butter with the morals of... well, we won't go there.

Dear Alan Whicker. Quite the most boring interview I ever did.

Lifesurfing 2014: I listened to my public and felled a rainforest

Yes, the paperback

Not all my posts in this, my umpteenth blogging return, will take my new book as its subject. What new book? Oh dear, do keep up. But bear with me as I return to my topic du jour.

Today I extend my eternal gratitude to those preternaturally attractive people at Popbitch who do their bit for mankind by reminding us every week just how dreadfully whorish certain celebs can be. What won't these stars do to flog their, er, books? Popbitch has recommended my book in its latest sexy, exclusives-strewn and sleb-rich mailout.

What new book? Oh dear, do keep up.

There is nothing I won't do for Popbitch in return. Virtually. My head is nestled in their laps, so to speak. And do visit the Popbitch site and get on their mailing list - and learn how the tabs acquire their goss.

Now, in other news. About my new book. It's now out in paperback. Yes, I listened to my public. I heard that some of you cannot cope with e-books, iPhones, Kindles, Kobos and Christ-knows what else, even if we are in the 21st Century and God has been pronounced dead by stage magicians. So, a portion of rain forest was purchased and felled just so you can read my deathless horoscoping on the topic of 2014, on paper. So what if whole colonies of chimps or whatever's furry had to die or be captured for the Attenborough Zoo yet to be built. Don't worry about those cunts. Just buy my book.

You can order a paperback here. And it will be available on Amazon in the next few days. Or, if you wish to save another rain forest I have my eye on, buy the e-book edition: here.

I'm back! Like any media whore, I've an e-book to flog

Hello dearies, thought you'd heard the last of me, did you?

Well, I've got an e-book to flog so I'm back for a while now - and don't imagine that I've mellowed. It's true I'm probably the oldest blogger around these days, certainly a lot older than the cock-cunting indentured younglings who maintain 'blogs' for newspapers and magazines (and HuffPuffPo). But age before craven careerism, sweethearts.

'Age' is layered wisdom with thorns in these parts. Don't you doubt it.

So, my book. It's called Lifesurfing: Your Horoscope Forecast Guide 2014. As I write, it stands at No 1 in Amazon's Astrology bestseller chart of the top 100.

Aside from my inimitable astro-guidance, Molly Parkin - my permanent fiancee - has written a darling foreword in which friends and former lovers are rated by star-sign. I had no idea about Omar Sharif! Or Coco Chanel! I also look ahead into the future of Google, Hillary Clinton (2016 in particular), North Korean leader Kim Jong-un and, of course, Moll.

You can sample a few pages for free - just click the Amazon link here.

PS Kindle software can be downloaded onto your pc fast and free from my Amazon page if you haven't a device.

This blog is now closed

...But Madame Arcati has an after-life on Twitter - @Madame_Arcati. We're all micro-bloggers now.

Gerry Anderson: Was he jealous of Lady Penelope's success?

I'm sorry Gerry Anderson decided to leave us over Christmas. Generally I do not approve of this sort of untimeliness. But I must not be severe. The astral tunnel functions by its own timetable and it's not for the likes of me to waggle a timepiece at its insensitive operator.

But his death reminds me of my meeting with Sylvia Anderson, by then his ex-wife, of many years ago. She had been instrumental in the development of Thunderbirds and, in particular, in the rise of Lady Penelope: indeed, Sylvia was Her Ladyship's honeyed voice.

Lady P had all the airs and graces of an English aristocrat with Parker in tow ('m'lady'), but frankly the accent was more RADA-champagne-flute than yer actual cut glass. The Downton Abbey lot are generally clipped in speech and economical in display (social occasions excepted), so I'm afraid Sylvia's version of the hoity-toity was a little vulgar to say the least. And the pink Rolls Royce! Pure Barbara Cartland crossed with Jonathan King via Liberace. 

But anyway, in conversation with Sylvia I gathered a number of impressions. Chief among them being that Lady Penelope had played a part in the disintegration of the Anderson marriage. As Lady P's fame grew, moulded by the soignee aspirations of her ventriloquist, so did Sylvia's own sense of personal accomplishment - and rightly. This unexpected outgrowth, in some strange and inexplicable way, perhaps helped destabilise the Anderson union.

Did Lady Penelope/Sylvia's towering success become the object of Gerry's jealousy, as the earnest Tracy clan (embodying Gerry's heroic fantasies) found themselves upstaged?

Certainly it's a question worth exploring by a talented TV or movie dramatist. And Joanna Lumley, with sufficient slap, would make a marvellous Sylvia and Lady P, as alternates become one. 

Madame Arcati's Christmas message: The best way to dodge Stephen Fry

Santa Fry

Darlings, a merry festive time to you all - except those cunts I hate. 

Well, I'm being honest. You're like me really. Only on Facebook just now I spotted a very famous opinionist celebrating the accidental self-incineration of a terrorist-looking bearded person from the Middle East. That sums up the spirit of Christmas for me, as we merge with the TV screen and snuggle up in the warm dank 3D folds of Stephen Fry's chins (hopefully he's had a proper shave, for once). David Walliams - welcome to your future!

Let us hope that not all of us are swept away by the floods - except perhaps the dog next door that's howling because its pensioner owner is forever out. The present inundations were of course predicted over a year ago by the astrology annual Old Moore's Almanack 2012 - perhaps more than a year ago, as the editorial letter in this edition is dated October 2010.

Allow me to quote for December 2012: 'Heavy rains could cause serious flooding in the west. Storms early and late.' The seer who wrote this then rather ruins it all by adding: 'On the whole, close to the normal pattern.' And the prediction started sooooo promisingly. Yet as a hit-and-miss forecast, it beats the hopeless Met Office that only five minutes ago was getting the Express all excited with promises of Arctic conditions.

Will Madame Arcati prevail in 2013? Probably. The challenge now is that most of my original readers are bloggers themselves - what a fashion I started! There they are on Facebook and Twitter gracing us with their synaptic crackle and pop (and family photos) - plainly Madame's work is cut out in capturing a new generation of glancer. I promise not to find solace in right-wing politics or more PhotoShopped celebrity cock.

Should you find yourself at a loss this Christmas, marooned by the Fry deluge of his repeats, quizzes and folksy, marron glacé thespianism (adverts included), then revisit one of the most popular of my 2012 posts: my interview with Sophie Parkin about her splendid bestseller on The Colony Club. Click here. (If you are predisposed to being offended, then best not read it: Blogger was soooo appalled by the language and references to bodily secretions in the piece, that Google adverts were pulled from this site.)

The Times and Sunday Times have raved over her book; more acclaim is due. And she published the book herself. Further proof that one's literary fate need no longer be decided by some privileged twat in an office.

Enjoy!

Molly Parkin reinvention at 80: Welcome to her blue period

Molly Parkin by Rankin
Hair by John Vial and Tracy Hayes at Fudge
Ponystep magazine

I may be her permanent fiancee but even I exclaimed (yes, I'm not usually an exclaimer; but exclaimed is the correct word): 'Who dat?'

This vision of the creative reinvention of Molly Parkin appears in the latest (4th) edition of the biannual fabulous fashion magazine Ponystep. To buy a copy or a subscription, click here. Its war against the apostrophe (by refusing to acknowledge its existence) will surely secure the affections of a generation.

 Moll's decision to ditch the turban is a bit like hearing of the split of Brad and Jen or Depp and that French singer whose name forever slips from memory's talon. I didn't think it possible. But there you go. Just proves once again that you can spot a prehistoric bug in amber, but not a living, breathing duo.

Accompanying Rankin's gorgeous portrait is an interview with Moll by the magazine's editor Richard Mortimer. I cannot commend it enough. Among other things she talks about our unique relationship. No, I'm not going to quote. Treat yourself to an orgy of celebrities beautified or beauties celebrated.

And while I'm here, there's still time to gift Molly's re-issued erotic novel Love All to anyone in your life in need of comic Viagra this Christmush. Click here to buy the e-book - it's only £1.66 for fuck's sake. Or, as Ponystep would put it, for fucks sake.

Jonathan King's whopping 'Christmas card': A review

I'd assumed that the physics-driven vogue for the atheistic faith would result in fewer festive communications. So many apparent friends have now replaced the Star of Bethlehem with Prof Brian Cox's inter-stellar Lego-like imaginings - which at least offer welcome savings in the winter fest family budget. 

But I was wrong. If anything, the Christmas greeting has become much more ambitious.

I first noticed this with writer Roger Lewis. Not content with just sending me (and dozens others) a card bearing glittery-cute Santa bears, he enclosed a round-robin, four-page account (single-spaced, A4) of his 2012 (lesbian porn sites being a feature).

Now Jonathan King has gone one better. Instead of a card, he has dispatched a fully illustrated, 227-page book. It's titled Three Months: 100 Glorious Sunny Days In the Summer of 2012: a 'snapshot' of his life largely abroad when he's not here addressing the Leveson Inquiry and dismissing it presciently as a 'waste of space'.

Three Months falls well within the Katie Price definition of biography - ie diary (with distinct serial possibilities). On p22 we learn that he's had lovers 'much prettier' than Brad Pitt (this memory arises over coffee and petits pains at the Carlton in Cannes), some time after his dear friend, the veteran newspaper interviewer Lynn Barber, has called him an 'egocentric bore' to his face. 

JK has of course weathered much greater insult and is still grinning as Britain's panto 'vile pervert'. A knighthood cannot be that far away. After all, April Ashley, who was once dismissed herself as a deviant monstrosity by our upstanding red-tops, is now an icon of transgender equality with her MBE ribboned in pink and grey. The ghost of John Profumo must surely concur.

Three Months is of course a relentless deluge of name-dropping - but King's en passant goss is worth all the ego-coddling. We learn, for instance, that he's working on a TV format for Simon Fuller (that'll please Cowell) and that he's not given up hopes of getting his hands on The Brits and Eurovision once again - the UK last won the latter under his ministration. Whenever he pops abroad he first has to tell the Marylebone cop shop whose boneheads are always 'nice and helpful'.

And his story on Peter Mandelson is so deliciously wicked that I delight in not repeating it.

JK's intellectual life is sustained by a bookishness that may surprise the tut-tutters of tabloid tat. Paul Bowles and Graham Greene share his journeys; and I was astonished to learn that he actually ploughs through the Booker finalist tomes. Frankly, I'd rather have anal sex with a traffic cone.

I could go on. But I have to remind myself. Three Months is meant only to be a Christmas card!