Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Saturday, 24 January 2015
I never forget a face
For some reason, soon-to-be superstar John Gray always casts John Hurt in the role of me, and I always think that Frank Kelly (above) would be so much more suitable. I think that I am pretty much in touch with my feminine side, but not as much as the wand salesman.
All I would need to do to play Father Jack would be to put on a few pounds and wear a white contact lens - everything else is up, running and ready to shoot, including the dark stain on the sofa.
I occasionally give myself a nasty shock by accidentally hitting the Photo Booth button on this machine, and am instantly faced with a non mirror-image of myself in full, unforgiving daylight.
When I was young and handsome, I was walking down a street when I turned a corner and came into view of what I thought was another person, but was - in fact - me, reflected in a large shop window.
I don't know about you, but I have always been one for making instant, snap judgements about people based on their physical appearance, and because these judgements are made inside my head (at the moment) I do not hold back for fear of hurting the feelings of others.
In the split second I saw the reflection of myself in that window, I thought, 'what a twat' before realising it was me a second later. That was a very sobering experience. Heaven knows what I would think of myself now if I could conjure up that sort of detachment.
They (I think it was an ancient Greek philosopher) say you have the face you deserve by the time you are 40, and I think they are right.
I would probably be a lot better looking without all those fags and booze, but I'm not sure I would be any richer without being the sort of tight-arsed, handsome man of the sort I secretly - and sometimes openly - despise. I like spending money when I have it. It's always burned a hole in my pocket and I am of a generous disposition.
John cast Juliette Stephenson (no relation) as Rachel, and this produced mixed emotions in me.
I used to really fancy Juliette Stephenson about 30 years ago, but somehow she has morphed into an illustration of The Duchess in Alice in Wonderland - her features have grown disproportionately to her age, in the reverse of a puppy's paws.
I watched Maureen Lipman in the re-run of 'Smiley's People' the other night, and remembered how I was - and still am - attracted to dark-haired, very Jewish women. It is a shame that us men are not gifted with the ability to find white-haired, Jewish grandmothers just as attractive when we reach a similar age. It's worse than a shame, it's a curse - a punishment for past deeds, probably.
I am not bragging when I say that over the last 40 years or so, I have shagged a hell of a lot of women, but all that seems to be in the distant past now. Bath - being an overgrown village - means that I occasionally run into some of them, and many of them are still not talking to me.
I was once sitting in the pub when a good-looking woman of about 35 came over and asked me how I was. I replied politely and then made the mistake of saying that although her face was familiar, I couldn't quite place where we had met. She stepped up a little closer, told me that we had slept together six weeks ago, then slapped me hard, full in the face before leaving. I haven't seen her since.
I sometimes am out walking with H.I. when I see one of these old flames, and I helpfully tell H.I. that - in 1976, say - I had my wicked way with the rotund, elderly woman as she walks past, ignoring me.
"That?!" H.I. will comment with a subtle hint of jealousy in her voice.
"Well she didn't look like that in 1976," I say in my own defence, "and I was drunk at the time."
Maybe they ignore me because they don't recognise me?