Sideburn Update I am finding that women are increasingly interested in my sideburns. As I have previously passed through life largely unremarked by the fairer sex I am unused to this new somewhat specific attention.
My companion and I arrived at the London Art Fair after a brisk walk across London. The Tube at Monument had been at a standstill due to overcrowding on the platform. My companion’s delicate sensibilities precluded crushing ourselves into the maul of disgruntled Londoners so a thirty minute walk seemed by far the best solution. Waving our complimentary tickets we were ushered through the crowds at the entrance and onto an escalator which took us almost directly to the projects area. “Cosmic Mysteries” was the first stand and upon our approach I must admit more than a little pride at seeing my name in Lettraset. The sympathetic hang of my work, and the rest of the projects area, contrasted with the village fair approach of the rest of the hall. We had two tasks to complete. To thank Monika and to photagraph the stand of a gallery “B” which represents a dear friend of mine, a painter of some repute. B’s stand was to be found below in the more commercial part of the fair. We braced ourselves for a trial.
Cosmic Mysteries II – descent into hell
The lower levels of the London Art Fair were a bear pit of writhing bodies in bespoke suits. Tall and tanned, their faces stretched into grimaces of contentment it’s denizens stalked each other calling out with braying voices. My companion and I, small and scruffy, felt a bit like early mammals scurrying around the feet of the great dinosaurs. In the hothouse atmosphere we scuttled from stall to stall looking for “B” the gallery of our dear friend. Eventually after asking for directions we found it but were horrified to discover they had not one drawing, painting or print of his on their wall! A tall man, tanned and aloof, assured my companion in honeyed tones that not two feet away were stored prints and drawings by my dear friend. He seemed bemused at our sudden lack of interest. Unimpressed and overheated we moved quickly upstairs in search of cooler climes and much needed refreshment.
It was there at the event’s one and only watering hole that we spotted our first, and last, celebrity. We both recognised a woman standing at the bar talking animatedly to an older man. I recalled she was an actress from Holby City, my companion, more usefully, recalled her role as a vampire whore in the film adaptation of Anna Rice’s “An Interview with a Vampire”.
This was an exciting discovery and while I hid behind a pot plant my companion went over to get her autograph. What happened next though was even more exciting.
Last night my companion and I watched a film of Zizek doing an election speech for the Liberal Democratic Party in Slovenia. He said he wanted to get crosses and garlic and stakes and kill all the vampires. Later in the same film he lay in bed, the covers up to his chest, talking about Lacan. He looked a bit like an excitable, hirsute version of the innocent bed ridden victim from any number of vampire films. My companion tried to explain the battles between the Lacanians and Derridians over the word “truth” but I could only think that the Derridians must be blue all over with antennae sprouting from their heads and the Lacanians completely furry and constantly frothing at the mouth.
My companion has just sold several paintings to a werewolf called Russell Tovey.
In fact I am beginning to think I am surrounded by supernatural beings. Not least of these is my upstairs neighbour whose nocturnal habits of singing along to unending powerballads late into the night are getting beyond a joke. Her midnight movements are always concluded early the next morning by some sort of ritual which involves dragging a heavy weight across the floor above my head. Tonight, while I listen to a chanteuse who I am reliably informed is called Mariah Carey I am reading segments from Professor Sir Christopher Frayling’s “Vampyres”. He begins by describing to role of indigestion in the creation of fantastical literature. This is something I have an affinity with as my stomach is habitually somewhat dyspeptic. My own affliction is, however, not caused by eating raw meat but more usually by: travel, irregular dining or Dutch lager. Having avoided all three tonight I am enjoying a bed time snack of peanut butter. My Companion and I have just returned from viewing yet another vampire film at the local picture house. The film did nothing to dispel my idea that vampires are essentially quite boring creatures. Perhaps werewolves are more interesting
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Waiting for the snow I dipped into my Peter Cushing companion for the third time. Perversely I decided to read the foreword by Veronica Carlson, a fellow actor and friend. I have already expressed delight at the large number of photographs of Mr Cushing that are to be found in this volume, some of which are published below. However I was more than a little disappointed to note that the most impressive sideburns were reserved for his performances as Dr Frankenstein. Nevertheless it is a lovely present from my companion and Miss Carlson’s foreword contains some very moving tales. (transcribed below)
“The filming of one scene in particular is extremely difficult for me to recount. Daphne asks a question to which Doctor Lawrence replies ‘my wife is dead…’ The tone of utter finality in his voice was absolute. At this point Doctor Lawrence picked up a photograph of his late wife – in actual fact Peter had insisted on using a picture of Helen. This scene was shot about seven times, and each time Peter uttered that awful sentence he became more broken. Finally tears streaking down his face, he swiftly walked off the set. Freddie Francis simply turned and looked at the floor amid the horrible silence.”
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