Rupert Everett mocks 'tasteless romcom flops' queen Jennifer Aniston

Rupert Everett: Reduced to drag

Rupert Everett put Jennifer Aniston in her cosmic place this morning in an interview on BBC Radio 4's Today show. He named her as one of a number of stars who, despite movie turkeys galore, are regarded by showbiz movers as the "right people for their business" - ie heterosexually alluring - "and will stick by them for quite a while."

He explained: "OK, something will go wrong, like Jennifer Aniston will have one too many total flops but she's still a member of that club, like a star forming in the universe; a whole lot of things swirling around and suddenly solidifying into yet another vital tasteless romcom: a little glitter next to the Crab Nebula."

Rupes was moaning again about Hollywood homopobia and how gay actors are better off in the closet - a view echoed by Richard Clamberlain today who, incidentally, has yet to publicly acknowledge that he was the love of the life of the late astrologer Patric Walker. Because straight male actors like Colin Firth are now landing the yummy queer parts, gay stars like Rupes are reduced to "drag". Blissfully he described himself as "marooned on St Trinian's."

A leading British producer had told Ed Victor, Rupes' sleb-hag literary agent, that he'd love to cast Everett in a movie but... "there is nothing for him." He thinks of Rupes as just a "muscly queen".

Thank God for Hollywood homophobia. But for that and Rupert Everett would just be another Hugh Grant or Colin Firth, cling-filmed mumblers out of the DNA style manuals. The grate of prejudice has sharpened Rupes' wits, replaced a sense of entitlement with edge. One of the results is a splendid diversity of work, not just movie titles selling recycled cock-cuntery plots. Arise Lord Rupes of Chipping Sodbury!

Listen to Rupes' interview here while it lasts.

David Litchfield interview: 'Ritz, Ms Nicky Haslam and other lewd acts'

David Litchfield

If you don't know of Ritz then just fuck off. Ritz was the best British magazine ever, the magazine that ushered the antichrists of celebrity journalism and the paparazzi into our modern UK media with its pioneering Q'n'As, swaggering photography and total respect for the uncorrected hiccups of A-listers - their burps, farts and slip-ups. It was co-founded in 1976 by David Bailey and ... its editor David Litchfield.

Mr Litchfield is a shadowy coolish figure, a bold name phantom of murky European blue blood - [my] "step-great-grandmother was a Hungarian Countess, Ottilie von Schosberger" - and for more bio click here. Ritz was the size of a newspaper and had the heft of a glossy: it dazzled with its range and bitchery - speaking personally, its daubed logo alone prompted dilation, pupil or otherwise, as if a sculpted buttock in a WH Smith pew. Ritz roamed as an invited member of the slebby party circuit, and repaid the best canapés with delicious copy for the kleptomaniac stay-at-home broadsheets. It made you feel so-not-up-there.

Mr Litchfield and Madame Arcati interacted ....

David Litchfield! My God! I mean, you are a God. You co-founded with David Bailey the most glamorous magazine Britain ever had, Ritz. I guzzled on its celebrity teats before its closure in the early 90s. George Michael cites it as a major influence, even Jordan appeared in it. EVEN Nicholas Coleridge with all his umms and errs. He's so inarticulate. Why David, why? (did you close it down?)

Not ‘that’ Jordan! The World’s End Jordan. Michael Roberts’ Jordan. ‘The Dyke from the Deep’. Coleridge only ‘umms’ and ‘errs’ when he hasn’t had enough Retsina. After fifteen years of partying, I needed some fresh air.

Ooops, if you've seen one Jordan you've seen them all. Ritz was modelled on Warhol's Interview, was it not?

Yes, but only enough to annoy Bob Colacello. We had fashion and girls, for God’s sake. Andy loved it because Ritz had gossip. He never understood why Interview didn’t. Did you know Andy and I had the same mother?

Er, really ....You are to blame for our celebrity-obsessed culture just as Lichfield brought the paparazzi to Britain? Defend yourself. Are you to blame for .... OK!?

Celebrity is ‘fame without talent’. We only did people who did things. We did gossip, bitch and parties so that we didn’t have to pay for our own champagne and cocaine. We used to travel by taxi, singing ‘Cocaine, Cocaine, The Musical Fruit’ to the tune of ‘Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam’. How was it all going to end?

Photo: Mr L, by John Swannell, National Portrait Gallery

Is it true stars like Brando, De Niro and Her Serene Highness Grace Kelly used to pop into your office for a booze up with Bailey, photographer Richard Young and yourself?

Yes, it’s true. It’s all true. But rarely in the office. Usually at Langans’ or Eleven Park Walk or Bailey’s place. And never Grace, or the Bagel Snapper. He was busy convincing Bubbles Harmsworth that he worked for the Daily Mail. I did Princess Stephanie at her hotel.

Name a few of the favourite celebrity pieces you ran, and least favourite. And name one star cunt. Lord Lichfield said when you interviewed him, "Now, let's get this straight. Why don't I get paid when I work for you?"

My favourite interview was with Orson Welles, who only said: ‘NO’. Nothing else. My second favourite interview was with The Queen. I said: ‘Oh, Hi’. She smiled and said: ‘Oh, Hello’, and then security arrived. My third favourite interview was with Jack Nicholson. One whole night at Blakes, with every organic chemical known to man.

My favourite introduction to an interview was by Francis Wyndham, who introduced Tony Snowdon to me by saying ‘David, have you met the Queen’s sister?’. Some of my favourite quotes included Elton asking Bailey if he still flew from aerodromes and listened to the wireless.

Bailey saying to Bob Marley: ‘What do you put on your hair, Bob?’

Harrison Ford saying to Bailey: ‘Is that my shit or your dog’s shit?’

Tennessee Williams saying to me that he was just a sad old queen and to Lyndall Scott Ellis that he didn’t like niggers. She was one. And probably still is. You know Lyndall? She was the one who, when asked by a TV-interviewer what were her interests, said in that wonderful drawling voice of hers: ‘Canine atrocities and infanticide’.

Our highest selling front cover, by the way, was a picture of ‘Clive’, Clint Eastwood’s Orang Utang. I can’t remember who did hair and make-up.

My favourite star cunt was Kelly Lebrock, Yum! [Who? - MA]

In response to Patrick Lichfield’s question, I told him what Helmut Newton told me, we should only pay the photographers we rejected. And he never asked again.

And Nicky Haslam. He roamed party-land for you along with Frances Lynn ("Bitchiest gossip writer..."), Amanda Lear. What was Nicky like to work with? Did he come into the office? Are your memories fond? He's nice about Ritz in his memoir Redeeming Features ...

Ms Haslam [pictured left] was a nightmare. She used to ‘blub’ all the time. I only used her as a favour to Bailey, because she couldn’t get any other work apart from walking Princess Michael and Mick Jagger. She was such a snob. And now we discover her father was in trade. Isn’t it wonderful? D for divine.

Amanda Lear only stayed long enough to polish her whip. I was the only one who stayed until the end of the party.

Clive James and Peter York worked for you. What's happened to Clive? And I spotted lots of Ambre Solaire on York's collar once: face dyeing is an understated art, doncha think?
 
Poor Clive. He never recovered from my refusing to sell him shares in Ritz. Peter York never worked for us. I tried to warn him about face-painting. I told him what it had done to George Hamilton. But then I also warned him ‘If you are going to perform a lewd act with a vacuum cleaner, do it at home, rather than at the car wash’. But you know Peter, he never listens.

Is there anything like Ritz today? And what do you think of the "professionalising" of titles like Tatler and Harpers & Queen (now dreary Harper's Bazaar minus Jennifer's Diary). Wouldn't you say Ritz was the forerunner of Hello! after its brain and teeth were taken out?

No, I don’t think [there's anything like Ritz today]. Harper’s should have kept Jennifer’s Diary and thrown away the rest. Tatler needs more Retsina.

No. No. No. Ritz was about ‘vanity, avarice and malice’. Hello! is about ‘shag-pile carpets and ranch-style homes’.

Now David, tell us about your life today. Where do you live? And where do you party? Do you still see Bailey? Oh, and your brand of toothpaste.

Cowes, Shepherd’s Market, Müllheim/Baden, Havana and Castellane.

And Heinz Schumi still does my hair.

No, I don’t see Bailey, ever since he stopped drinking and started going out with Damien Hirst. It’s so sad.

Would you ever bring Ritz back? How much money would you need? Or a website ... ?

Yes, but only as a very expensive newspaper. And all for the same money it cost me the first time around. Sealed bids, please! I’d just love to get Frances Lynn back with the headline: ‘The Bitch Is Back’. Fran really was the bitchiest bitch. She taught me all I know about libel. Bless her!

Have you thought to write a book about Ritz? Or if you have, reissuing it?

Yes, with my daughter, Summer Lee.

And what's this about a film script, Hannibal, The Legend?

Isn’t it wonderful? Van Cleef and Arpels is playing the lead.

Have you ever consulted a psychic?

Yes, and they were both right: I am of Gods and Kings.

And finally, David, is there one decent gossip writer or site left in the world?

Oh, come on, Mary!

David! Thank you so much. I'd get on my knees but I'd never get up again. xx

You should talk to The Queen. She’s got this wonderful tilting throne.

David Litchfield's website

*****

Oh, and here's an extra bit. Frances Lynn recalls working with David ...

David Litchfield was the best editor I've ever had. I always obeyed him even when he warned me to write even bitchier stuff about my then friends, most of whom I thankfully lost.

I was the only one on Ritz who got paid. I would go to the office dressed in rotting rags, begging Litchfield for money. After I gave him a generous glug from my hip flask, he would sign a cheque with a shaking hand, so traumatised that each time I thought he would have to check into the Maudsley.

Litchfield was psychotically mean about money, but I have to hand it to the vicious old sod that he managed to con hacks like Clive James to write for Ritz for free. Litchfield is the only editor I’ve had who didn't edit my stuff, not even when I wrote something libellous shortly after Ritz started. Although I sobbed for forgiveness, I was secretly praying the rag would get closed down because I was exhausted from going OUT twenty four hours a day. Litchfield might have been vindictive towards his victims, but he told me not to worry and found the whole thing amusing.

During the late Seventies, Litchfield was my Svengali and I shall be eternally grateful to him for making me realise what a talented old bitch I used to be!

Rupert Everett, Byron and well hung Brazilians

Photo/C4

Brazilians have the biggest cocks, a Spanish prostitute told Rupert Everett in his fabby C4 doc series The Scandalous Adventures of Lord Byron. Is this true? Perhaps pan-sexualists will get in touch with their rough guide.

After a lifetime of cock-cunting TV talking faces boring us around the world - Alan Whicker and Michael Pailin come straight to mind (as well as the cunt-cocking Gloria Hunniford) - the cock-cocking-cunting Rupert Everett is a fizzy blast of irreverence in snoozy Sofaland.

He salivated at the prospect of sherbert and sodomy in Turkey, and grew dreamy at the thought of Bryon fucking his 17-year-old Greek boy lover 200 times in a monastery. I had no idea Byron had frolicked with a brutal, long-fingered warlord in Albania who grew hard at the sight of the poet's little white hands: while in Albania, Rupes appeared on a TV talk show and confirmed Madonna sweats. The bits of Bryronic poetry recited were a small price to pay.

Rupes gave us a strip show in an embassy and revealed his arse on at least three other occasions. His biceps are troublingly bloated: big enough to contain wombs for lucrative surrogacy. And he's looking good again, especially now he has a stubbly, astroturfy dark beard.

Other persons whose steps he should follow in include Lord Alfred Douglas, Ted Heath, Tallulah Bankhead and Noel Coward. I envisage a collection of cunt-cocking-cunting, cock-cunting-cocking (or just cock-cocking, cock-pseudo-cocking, cunt-cunting) permutations complete with tasteful royal or upperclass anecdotes and delightful scenery. According to Rupes, Queen Elizabeth II is "well hung".

Graydon Carter Short Story: God's Big Bang

Graydon Carter's Lothario reputation has inspired me to write a piece of fiction, titled God's Big Bang, based on his legendary hotel fucking, as reported by Rupert Everett.

Graydon Carter took in a deep breath and lost three of his five bellies - just enough to catch sight of his vast manhood from a vertical perspective, standing to attention the way Toby Young didn't in Graydon's presence when the little scamp was researching his book at Vanity Fair.

"That goddam son-of-a-bitch," growled Graydon thinking of Toby as he let out a vast gale of air and lost sight of his organ. For a moment his enormity quivered at the fear of deflation.

"Oh Graydon, Graydon, look at it! Bring it over here before you lose it," bellowed the awed blonde in the hotel four-poster, usually purple-shiny with the latest Eva Mendes De-luxe Duvet which had been carelessly cast to the floor.

"My God! Who's that?" barked the mighty editor-in-chief as he caught sight of a strange looking man in the bedroom. "What the - ?"

"There's no one there but you, honeybunch" said Blondie lightly. "It's just you're looking in the mirror."

For a moment he thought he had spotted the ectoplasmic effusion of a ghost, all cottoned up about the head. Then he realised it was just his own hair, a vast, proud luxuriance, the like of which once dreamt about by elderly periwigged gentlemen grandees of Louis XIV's court.

"Oh, Graydon, it's gone!"

He breathed in again, losing an impressive four bellies this time. But, alas, the combination of Toby Young and the imagined ghost had caused his blood to surge from his cock to his cheeks. All he could see now was the rolling result of one too many dinners at Gotham's finest restaurants. He knew choler was bad for the blood pressure.

"Ah, fuck it," shouted the man who had written diatribes against George W Bush every month in his women's magazine for eight years with no discernible effect. "Come over here and give it a rub."

Blondie sighed a little, and then spun out of bed on her pert naked buttocks. A scream followed and then the poor girl lay unconscious on the carpet. She had landed on the Eva Mendes De-luxe Duvet which proved slippery underfoot.

"That's great," said Graydon to himself. He swaggered over to the lifeless form of his inamorata and couldn't feel a pulse. "Fuck!" He began banging her chest with his fist, like they did in ER, causing the floor to tremble with each blow. The actor in the room below lay in his bed wondering how the old boy upstairs could keep up such a pace - the thought stirred him and he started thinking again of another man who had once lost his dental crown on the actor's cockring.

Mercifully, Blondie came round in Graydon's arms - he had mistakenly felt her Cartier Love Collection watch, not her pulse - "Hello God, I must be dead," she whispered, struck by Graydon's resemblance to the image of the Old Testament sky god she'd seen on a biscuit tin once. Graydon scowled, "Don't ever fucking say that in front of Hitchens - he's crazy about his atheism," he snarled.

"Oh, Graydon, it's up again," she whinnied. "Come here and do me."

The actor in his bed could only marvel at the resumption of banging above. "It must be Viagra," he bitched as he stroked his cockring. "It takes me at least an hour to recover."

Blithe Spirit: Madame Arcati saves Rupert Everett!

Coo-ee, it's me.

I am delighted that Blithe Spirit is such a Broadway triumph. Regular bloggees will know that I have been unstinting in my promotion of Rupert Everett, and naturally I had a fateful hand in pushing this Cowardy production in his direction. His future is now assured. Google will confirm that the names Rupert Everett and Madame Arcati are recurringly intertwined both in life and now in art. This confusion is doing nothing but good for my visitor figures.

Angela Lansbury, 83, is I suppose an adequate substitute for me as Madame Arcati though I can't help but wonder whether she sometimes muddles her lines and thinks she's still in Murder She Wrote. No one can improve on Margaret Rutherford as me: she brought to Arcati that essential ambiguity that runs through her person in all sorts of ways, a woman misunderstood even in these broad-minded times. The turban doesn't help.

Watchmen: Dr Manhattan's glowing blue penis! The review

Yes! See this fascist, graphic novel adaptation at a cinema near you! And Dr M's schlong. (Click image for enhanced experience)

Watchmen review: Dr Manhattan's cock
It is soon apparent that quasi-CGI superhero Dr Manhattan's blue appendage serves no purpose other than to underscore his awesome masculinity. It will pass no urine or jizz, it will never rise to attention: it is just there, an emblem of Dr M's unearthly mightiness, a sentinel of manly authority. When one of his doppelgangers makes love to his loyal assistant and girlfriend, Laurie Jupiter, he does so not through the agency of his glowing schlong but by stimulating her with electrical charges from his hands. It's as if he is pressing her with an iron that's prone to cutting out in a shower of sparks. The camera shyly averts its gaze from his groin area, one that requires no showering or waxing incidentally; but you may be assured that there can be no tumescence, which is just as well because even the space of an Odeon big screen is finite.

Nor does Dr M's cock sway pendulously as a trunk of its proportion would do during movement, such as walking: rather it just hangs down like one of those oblong bird feeders one finds in the better maintained garden, rather inertly. Happily, no blue tit or other feathered friend is ever likely to be drawn to Dr M's ambiguous, rather screwed-up nuts.

Filmgoers who are not fanboys/girls of Alan Moore's creation may wonder why Dr M does not simply wear a loincloth or a fetching thong. This is a good question. After all, he does put on a suit for a talk show. So he is cognisant of human decency. One can only conclude that though Dr M sees no difference between a live or a dead person, and meditates on Mars, he is a naturist at best or a filthy exhibitionist and flashing perv at worst. If the latter, saddos who cream themselves on comic novels should be treated with especial caution.

Oh, and then there's the movie ...

Veritas: Life, times and Rupert Everett's cockring: An interview

Is that Veritas next to the statuesque April Ashley?

One of the stars of Madame Arcati is a mystery man called Veritas. He came to my attention when he revealed here that he had lost a crown to Rupert Everett's cockring: some doubted his story, but I tended to believe it. So, I asked Veritas to cough up more details of his intriguing life - one that has been inhabited by the likes of Andy Warhol, Boy George, Diana Dors, Kirk Douglas (and Kirk's encounter with 80s drag popsinger Marilyn is (D)divine) and many other stars. A movie beckons, the spirit world is manifest. Read on and embrace celebrity culture and the afterlife you godless goatherds ...

Veritas! Mystery man! Well, I assume you're male ... do you dress left or right?

Left. When I was 13/14 I was slightly confused as I lived with an aunt who loved to dress me in drag. She owned a pub so I tended to look rather tarty. The pub was a favourite with the local coppers who came in for payoffs and free drinks. Can't imagine what they thought seeing this young drag queen hanging about the place.

You first came to Arcatistes' attention when you told us of your encounter with Rupert Everett and how you'd lost a crown on his cockring. What were the circumstances of the encounter? And did you find that Rupes is a noisy cummer or whatever?

I had been at a dinner party given by Lady Edith Foxwell at the Embassy Club for some of her movie pals. Norma Heyman, Richard Johnson and guest of honour Zsa Zsa Gabor who Edith stayed with in LA. Edith had a young black boyfriend, Winston, at the time and Zsa Zsa said during conversation that there was no way Edith could bring him to stay. Edith threw a bread roll at Zsa Zsa and the dinner party sort of broke up after Zsa Zsa stormed out.

I was giving a French friend a lift home and we saw this tall, leather-clad boy hanging around out the front of the Embassy. We thought he was a hustler and asked him to get into the car - he did and invited us to his flat just off the King's Road (in the basement of his parents’ house). I didn't really fancy him but my friend did but Rupert preferred me so the French friend pissed off. Rupert was very wham-bam-thankyou-mam! And then kicked me out to sleep in another room although I was awoken for an early morning encounter and then booted out into the street as he had to go to a fencing lesson.

Now why the nom de plume? And tell us a little bit about yourself past and present - I understand you travel a lot ....

I'm anonymous at present because of some work I'm doing which would take too long to explain. I was rejected for the first 2 jobs I went for when I was 15 which I found paralysing as I'm very shy so since I've only ever taken jobs people have offered me.

It's meant I've been a short order cook in a Soho Bar, written a social/gossip column for a major newspaper, a PR agent for some stars, promoted films and records, worked on films as a gofer and acted in one, spent a few months putting up business cards in phone booths around Bayswater for a house full of hookers, waited in restaurants, run a King's Road shop, run a porn shop, worked for the Sultan of Oman and I was the official photographer on Princess Diana's final charity event shortly before she died. I can't remember all the jobs I've had. It's also meant I've travelled the world at someone else’s expense- to New York to promote a band or Monte Carlo for a party on the Kashoggi yacht, etc.

Clairvoyantly, the word "toyboy" comes to mind. Am I on the right lines about you?

My ex-wife was the first one to use the word "toyboy" when she was planning a photographic book on pretty boys. The (distinguished London) publisher John Blake wrote a story about it years ago - it was the first mention of the term. Even the Guardian took it very seriously. It was way ahead of its time but it didn't happen. Years later her friend Germaine Greer channelled her with "The Beautiful Boy". Then I was featured in a Sunday tabloid in a spread called "A Toyboy Tells All" - scurrilous but harmless tales about some celebrities. But I was paid well.

In one message you said that you're planning to make a movie of your life. Could you tell us more? Would it be a Brit or US movie?

Not about me but someone else who was well known who I worked with. I've been working on it for 20 years and had put it away in a drawer. Then, as so often happens, I was approached by a well known music figure who knew I had the project and within weeks we had a successful Hollywood producer interested. He loves it and the wheels are in motion.

Would you say you've lived with or worked around celebs all your adult life? Could you name-drop a few more with any stories ...?

I seem to have encounters with celebrities without seeking them out. I was Diana Dors’ publicist for a record she made. I once lived in Dodi Fayed's flat for 6 months, long before he met Diana.

He had a reputation then as not being able to get it up because of his cocaine habit. One night I was there with her, a friend and a very famous film star who began to choke on some peanuts after a heavy coke session. I saved her life with the Heimlich manoeuvre. She never thanked me!

Peter Allen (Liza Minnelli's ex) was a great friend and took me to a New Year’s Eve party at Studio 54 in New York (he was a huge star in the US). We were sitting in a booth with a group of friends - Andy Warhol, Diana Ross, etc. A girl came up and slumped against my then wife who was applying eyeliner. We were all covered in glitter that was an inch thick on the floor. Suddenly cameras started flashing and Peter said, "Quick move away." The poor girl was dead from an overdose (one of 2 that night). "You don’t want to spend all night at a police station" said Peter. A month later Women’s Wear Daily did a front page feature on what was In and Out. They said staying home watching telly was in and going out was out! Illustrating this was a big photo of my wife in a hot pink dress putting on make-up whilst slumped on her shoulder is this dead girl. "Out" was right !

I remember you mentioned living with the 80s singer Marilyn and his encounter with Kirk Douglas - please, don't hold back. How close were you to the Boy George and the Blitz crowd?

I had a small mews flat in Notting Hill for 15 years and after each Tuesday night at the Blitz loads of kids used to flop on my floor, including Boy George, Marilyn, Steve Strange, Billy Idol - none were famous then.

I had a friend staying who was transport captain on a film being made at Pinewood starring Kirk Douglas and Farrah Fawcett Majors (before drugs took their toll). I was working as Kirk's gofer which entailed things like picking up fish'n'chips for him, taking it to his hotel and charging him 20 times the price. We both slept in one Wednesday morning and there was loud banging on the door. It was Farrah's driver who said, "I've got Farrah and Kirk downstairs - Kirk's furious because you forgot to pick him up." We were dressed and downstairs in a flash. All the neighbours were now out and pointing at Farrah who was admiring the little houses and signing autographs – a grumpy Kirk leaned against his limo. As we all piled in the 2 cars and backed out of the Mews, out of my front door came a screaming Marilyn Monroe pounding on the car window screaming "Kirk, Farrah, I love you!" Kirk was mortified. He didn't speak to me for 2 days. Christopher Logue from Private Eye who lived at the end of the street later said, "I can't believe you people - you not only have Hollywood movie stars visiting you in the morning you have dead ones as well!"

Would I be right in thinking you're in your mid-late-40s now?

39- have been for a few years.

Tell us about the clairvoyant(e) who predicted you'd live a champagne life on beer money, or something like that. What else did s/he say? Do you believe in an afterlife?

My mother was a Spiritualist so I was brought up around them and have always believed. I think I attended services at the Notting Hill Spiritualist Church every week for 15 years. My ex-wife is a clairvoyante. I've seen things in séances that are simply extraordinary - materialisations and such. Naturally I believe in the afterlife - I've been there and been re-born many times. I've been told so many times to never worry about money when I have none so I don't - and something always turns up!

Where’s the movie now? Aside from Rupes, any other names who'd have anything to worry about?

The film script is in its third draft - no-one has been cast. I'll be an extra. Actually there is a great role Rupert would be ideal for.

How do agents/producers et al react to your story?

I have an agent and publisher for the book of the film - that came first. But it's Hollywood - who knows? My friend Stephan Elliot who made Priscilla, Queen of the Desert went there after he got an Oscar and hated everyone in the business. They offered him the next Bond film.

Where do you live?

Sydney, Bangkok and 2 months of the year in London.

What's your brand of toothpaste? And do you wax or gel your hair?

Bigger Brand - you get it in Thailand. Where I get my teeth fixed.

Don't you think cockrings are bad manners?

I'd never seen one before I encountered Rupert's . I thought it was a prosthetic device so didn't ask him about it. Whatever turns you on!

Veritas, I wish you all the best fortune with your project and please stay in touch MA x

Duncan Fallowell, Holly Woodlawn and Marilyn

Veritas - who lost a crown on Rupert Everett's cockring - writes of Holly Woodlawn, Duncan Fallowell and Marilyn ...

Dear Madame
I fear the great Duncan Fallowell is slightly mistaken - it was actually Madisons at Camden Lock where Holly Woodlawn appeared. I know because I worked there as a handsome waiter (with a shiny new tooth) for its entire life and got quite pally with Holly. She was good fun. One night after the show I took her to El Sombrero where no-one had a clue who she was - except the terryifing one-time singer Marylin who looked liked Monroe at the time. They hated each other's guts on sight.

Duncan does remind me though - the truly wonderful (but I fear late?) Christopher Hunter owes me a week's wages from Country Cousins.

Veritas

(Duncan wrote earlier ... I remember seeing Holly Woodlawn on stage at Country Cousins in the 1970s and rushing backstage into her dressing-room after the performance and exclaiming 'Holly, you must stop this! What are you doing to yourself?' I can't remember why I did it but I do recall Ms Woodlawn looking very surprised and asking very nicely for my ejection. Best, Duncan Fallowell)

And in case you're wondering, Marilyn's website.

'I may sell "Rupert" on eBay', says Everett's ex-lover

Rupert Everett's former lover Veritas, who sadly lost a crown on Rupie's cock-ring, writes of Arcati's 2008 awards ...

How wonderful! Is Madame Arcati back then? I thought we had lost you for a while. I had hoped there may be a "molar of the year" category and therefore my crown christened "Rupert" would have won (you know..the one chipped during an early close encounter with Mr Everett). It's been replaced by a insert but I have saved "Rupert" in a little box. Perhaps I'll sell it on eBay.
Cheers, Veritas.

Dear Veritas
I only went away for a day or two before a flood of complaints shooed me back onto the blogosphere. How much do you think your Rupert will get you on eBay? And how will you tag it? "Tooth crown lost to Rupert Everett's cock-ring"? Bit of a mouthful, er, isn't it?
MAx