High life
Stars and bars
Taki
Toby's Caroline I hardly know. At his goodbye party she challenged me to a box- ing match, but I refused. How on earth can a woman be as naive to think she could fight on equal terms against a man? She might have a chance against a wimp like Mandelson, even Tony Blair, but I'm afraid the poor little Greek boy is not in her league. And speaking of minor leaguers, someone sent me an article about 'one of America's most influential couples . . . the Sunday Times. James Rubin and Chris- tiane Amanpour are described as glam- orous, influential, legendary, impeccably dressed ... Arse licking par excellence, says poor little me. Amanpour I'm sure is a brave woman and a good reporter, but she's no Betty Grable. Rubin is a man who has served the greatest liar ever to inhabit the White House. The ST predict a great future for this golden couple in London town. I ain't so sure. Rubin looks like a cheeky wait- er in the type of Italian restaurant favoured by low-lifers like Jack Straw and Robin Cook. With typical English hypocrisy, I wish them the best of British luck.
And now for the good news. Nothing to Declare, the greatest prison opus since Oscar's Ballad, has been bought by a film company. Billy Zane, the rich baddie in Titanic is supposed to play young Taki in Pentonville. I was under the impression that Zane was a terrific poofter, but now I am told he's just as girl-crazy as I am. My info comes from Nicky Haslam, who knows about such matters. The mother of my chil- dren is not over the moon about it because it might traumatise the children all over again'. She obviously does not want the film to be made in case some young and beautiful girl sees it and falls for the pro- tagonist, and I don't mean Zane.
I was planning to ask my hero, Sir Tom Stoppard, to help me write the screenplay, but then I went to see The Real Thing and quickly changed my mind. In the play, Annie asks her hubby Henry (a playwright) to 'cut and shape' a prisoner's play which she hopes will get the jailbird released. Henry: `Cut it and shape it. Henry of May- fair. Look — he can't write, I would have to write it for him.' Annie: `Well, write it for him: Sir Tom wrote the play just about the time I was going into Pentonville, 16 years ago. He may have had me in mind when he wrote that Brodie, the jailbird, couldn't write. But not to worry, Tom. I already owe You for what you did for my little girl. There is a hunchback already hard at work on it. And on the subject of hunchbacks, when Quasimodo died, the biggies of Notre Dame had a terrible time finding a replace- ment. No one could duplicate Quasimodo's bell-ringing. Then a poor wretch without arms came to the archbishop and asked for the job. 'But how will you manage it, my son?' asked his eminence. The cripple motioned for the priest to follow him, then took a long run and hit the bell at full speed with his forehead. A heavenly sound. Maybe it was blind luck, thought the archbishop. He asked the cripple to do it again. Same thing. A flying start, and dingggggg 5 u , ongggg; a crowd started to gather below. 'Quasimodo lives!' someone Fried. 'You've got the job,' said the priest. Hooray!' shouted the cripple and began to Jump with joy. So much so he fell off the steeple and crashed sickeningly below. The archbishop, horrified, went down to give Inni the last rites. `Did you know the poor man?' asked the people. 'No, but his face rings a bell,' answered his eminence.
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