Will Self - a condom slug and a disturbing dildo

Novelist Will Self - who complicates the simplest thoughts with big or obscure words * - writes an entertainingly discursive diary for the London Review of Books (Feb 25 edition). In an appreciation of Melvyn Bragg's In Our Time on Radio 4, he sidetracks to his walk across London's Clapham Common with his doggy, Maglorian. And what an event it turns out to be.

He notes of the south side of the common: "The area around here is a notorious cruising ground for men in search of casual homosexual encounters, and often when I walk through it in the mornings I will spot a used condom, as if it were some strange kind of latex airborne slug that, having leaped for the skies, has ended up dangling from the brambles." This is a very fine, well described image, and we should be grateful to the cruisers for inspiring Will's natural outburst of creativity, certain to be recycled in one of his novels. A family picnic, with a plaid tablecloth spread of chicken sandwiches and Thermos tea, would perhaps not stir his imagination.

Further along in his peregrination he freezes at the sight of a 10"-long dildo on the path. It's "made of red, slightly translucent plastic, and fashioned artfully in the manner of an engorged penis, right down to its exposed dome and network of veins." He is distrubed by the "juxtaposition between the mechanical and the faked organic." Civic mindedly, he picks it up with the intention of bin disposal, but Maglorian mistakes the dildo for a play stick and begins "yapping frantically". Odd to handle it: I'd wonder where it's been.

Once again I found myself grateful to the shadowy al fresco nymphs and satyrs who gambol about our city parks at night: they can never know of their contribution to literature.

* Some big or obscure words from Will's piece for you to look up
Dehiscent
Therianthropes
Smirr

London Evening Standard relaunched: 78 year-old man in rescue mission

As a celebrant of elderliness, Madame Arcati has decided to reverse her previous toxic opinion of editor Geordie Greig in the light of his new London Evening Standard relaunched today.

For at the apex of the neo-goodies on display is Tom Wolfe, 78, messiah of the not-so-New Journalism, and author of a lengthy "world exclusive" for the paper titled The rich have feelings too... - a showcase of Wolfe's schtick - the italics, the capitals, the pastiche demotic, the love letter dressed up as satire - which doubtless has made many other fossils nostalgic for his brand of literary nattering on. The work, comic in intention if not effect, is all about fallen super-wealthy cunts divested of their private Lear Jets, now forced to use the Gatwicks and Heathrows of the world and queue with us commoners. Not quite Swiftian is all I'll say. But nice to see the old boy still in his white suit.

Complementing this heavy-weight contribution from Gotham is... Sam Leith in his Monday debut as a weekly columnist. I was recently less than impressed by his gossy colleague Sebastian Shakespeare. I now have reason to revise this opinion. Sam today loses his ES columnal cherry with this opening original piece of writing: "The devil, as a wise man said, is in the detail." I wonder how long it took him to think that one up. Shakespeare, you're rehired!

I thought the front page splash quite original: a news story all about a very rich man with a "secret common-law wife and child" reluctant to give his betrayed ex-wife £11m. While the rest of the UK media froth about MPs' expenses and other trifles, Mr Greig betrays his true love: the rich and their doings. Expect more long-winded soap on the loaded. What's Lord Linley up to these days ever since that other matter got covered up?

In other news, I learn that the let-go theatre critic Nicholas de Jongh was on a £120k contract and has a £38k pension pot. That's an extraordinary amount of money, all deserved I'm sure. A new theatre reviewer is sought. One can only hope that Sam Leith is on nothing like that amount, if only for the sake of the paper. Though I'm sure Wolfe's piece was VERY EXPENSIVE.

Sebastian Horsley: 'Obama's another white in the Black House'

Brothel-meister Sebastian Horsley delights me with his take on President Obama: "He's no more black than you or me. Everyone's coloured, or you wouldn't be able to see them. He's half-black half-white. Must be confusing for the cunt. Doesn't know whether to rob you or shoot you. Don't be fooled. Men who have greatness within them don't go in for politics. He's just another white at the Black House." For more of his especial dystopian perspective, click here at the excellent Spoonfed site. Sebastian's MySpace site: click here.

Only if Obama allows members of the CIA to be prosecuted for torture will I even begin to think he is substantively different from the anti-Christ Bush Jr.

Would you like to be Madame Arcati's guest-cunty?

Ever a slave to fashion, and what with Steven Spielberg guest-editing Empire next month and Alastair Campbell guest-godding at the New Statesman, I think it is time that this blog had its own guest-cunty to run things for a week. Here's my wish list (but feel free to apply for consideration of this prestigious placement via comments with your thematic proposals):

Sandi Toksvig: I think she should be everything really: Doctor Who, Fern Britton's replacement, even the next Superman. There is nothing this woman cannot do, and certainly Madame Arcati would be the beneficiary of her all-knowingness, her all-talentedness.
Sandi is my candy


Katie Price: She's great value because of her genius for feuds. Despite her best endeavours to fail, she succeeds at everything she tackles, even humbling the likes of the egregious Julie Myerson with her books sales. Plus she looks moist.

Jason Cowley: He'd be great because the first thing he'd do is find a guest-guest-cunty. This way Alastair Campbell might get his mitts on Madame Arcati and call for a new war against someone.

Kevin Spacey: A man of kwalli-tay for sure, as his current ad for American Airlines confirms. What that man doesn't know about the poshest seats isn't worth knowing, and of course he's a connoisseur of dynastic genius as well as of rich women with sexy chauffeurs. Him as guest-cunty would be like a delightful sip of absinthe over a leather bound copy of Debrett's. Keyser Saucy!

Sebastian Horsley: Readers would soon be up there on Seb's Best Brothels Guide and his etiquette rules on asking a prostitute for a 3 squirts for 2 discount. He's most amusing, most inflammatory.

Sebastian, my whore

Sharon Stone: A personal fave, she'd fill the blog with extracts from her unpublished short stories and red carpet pics of herself from the world's major film festivals - attendance of which being her principal career right now. But could I afford her and would she make special demands (such as daily deliveries of scented Interflora bouquets to her Madame Arcati Prose Suite at Claridge's)?

Verne Troyer: A wit, an observer, a philosopher. A naked pic would be compulsory. Erect.

Christopher Lee: A fund of thespian anecdotes, but never mind. This would be an opportunity for him to respond to the scandal of his missing knighthood and slag off the Queen and PM.
"Sir" Christopher

Will Self: Enlarge your vocabulary with one of the wisest men on the planet. And like Katie Price, he's quite carnivorous and gets into feuds. Will I ever forget what he once said about one of Julie Burchill's exes, the gun-loving he-man, Tony Parsons?

Julie Burchill: Speaking of whom, can you imagine? I can only dream....

Duncan all over

Duncan Fallowell: My darling would expose you to polymathy with comic edging. His would be a mystery tour of music, mayhem, literature, obscure art exhibitions in Auckland and torrid encounters with intense, attractive persons (in Russia).