Grubby but great
Talu
rr here they were, two new books side by side, my welcoming presents. Paul Johnson's delightful childhood memoir next to Alistair Home's Friend or Foe, his Anglo-Saxon history of France, as good a reason to return to grubby old London as I can think of. Oh, yes, and Joseph Roth. Paul and Alistair are friends, and I somehow imagine that, were Roth around, he'd be one, too. Roth drank himself to death in Paris just in time. He was an Austrian Jew who loved the place enough not to leave once they started picking on people like him. He died in 1939. He wrote about the city in laconic, magical prose. His was a melancholic style, depicting sadness and pain, beauty, longing and a city's odours and noises like no other.
What is it about Paris that London ain't got? Is it the smells, the noises of the cobbled streets, the on-going drama? Why do get goose pimples every time I think about the place? Not London, mind you. Here's where all my good friends live, and yet I find the city a shithole. The oiks, the rude, aggressive cops, the sullen vendors, the grim, grey sky. The ghastly tabloids, the PC police .. I could go on. So why not move back to the City of Light? Not on your life, as they say in Beverly Hills.
Something to do with the French, They have been known to be constipated and in a bad mood most of the time, whereas the Brits, however spastic, with had teeth, horrible posture and plenty of dandruff, manage to laugh at everything, including funerals. Last week I went to Preston for Rob Hesketh's service, one I shan't soon forget because of his young children's courage while reading the Lessons. Afterwards, a Greek or an Italian, certainly a Spaniard, would have mistaken it for a celebration. John McEwen gave as good a eulogy as is possible, and the Guinness and Hesketh family conducted themselves with great dignity. That's what keeps me coming back.
I can no longer stand cheap sentimentality a la Grecque or Italienne. Not to mention a PEspagnol. Both on the way there and back on the train one could not help feeling it was a house party, and yet there was no lack of respect for the untimely death of a very nice man.
And speaking of the man in the white gown, Lady Colin Campbell should thank her lucky stars. I've never met this person, but happen to know lots of those 'It' people she writes about. Is it a coincidence that all her/his sources are dead, or is it me being bitchy? According to this bullshitter, Princess Di had an affair with King Juan Carlos. Yes, at exactly the same time as I
was having a quickie threesome with Ashley Judd and Renee Zellweger. What nonsense. Poor Oliver Hoare. He's an old friend whose wife I adore despite the fact she turned me down 30 years ago when I was at my cutest. Now 'Lady. Colin Campbell is dragging their names through the tabloids, and there is nothing they can do about it. As they used to say in Texas, there should be a law. There is one in Paris, by the way, and the place is far better for it.
Lady Colin Campbell must be a hell of a person. I am told she was a man who married some moronic twit by passing herself off as a woman. A good trick, if you can do it, although they say it only works on Brits.
But back to healthier subjects. Just as I predicted last week, my side won the debate on monogamy, but now I read that nine out of ten women have thought of having an affair. Of course, they have. Researchers are desperately trying to identify the infidelity gene, and Professor Spector insists that cheating is largely genetic, I couldn't agree more. Actually, it is elementary. If one were married to, say, Janet Street-Porter, one would be bound to cheat. Just as one would if one were married to, say, Robert Mugabe. Princess Di did not have half the affairs these scummy types are writing that she did, nor did she have an abortion.
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