Thursday, 28 February 2008


Jonathan: Yeah the war between the sexes is certainly real, and its certainly sad.

And I, for one, Jonathan, should like to be able to add the conciliatory note that my take on the female revolution was not actively anti-feminist. That it was an addition to global female well-being which I massively welcomed. But I would be lying. My own spirit is profoundly anti-feminist. I know, I know. It is not PC. Some might call me sexist. But, after years of bleak and arid minimalism, I absolutely adore diaphanous knickers, claw-footed baths and squishy beds, and am definitely going to oppose it very determinedly.

Mutley: Well I am up for a shag anytime Selena - if that is what you were getting at....

Shush... Mutley - but what about female authors?

Are female authors better than male authors? Are they different? Aristotle, be it noted, held that women were incapable of full rational thought. Cross my heart, I take this information straight from The Sunday Times. Alfred Kinsey, Harvard educated zoology professor, even believed that women were less sexually responsive than men.

Imagine that!

And this from a man whose primary qualification was the study of bees and

Fact is, of course, that promiscuity tends to authenticate men’s gender whilst it disparages the female’s. Nor can I see any grounds for either hope or optimism in the controversy surrounding remarks once made by Lawrence Summers, president of Harvard University, about whether women were quite as suited as men to such a multi-disciplinary subject as science (and I am not about to diminish the affability of my entire post by claiming they are not).

His talk about issues of “intrinsic aptitude” and “variability” based on gender, apparently, made toes curl among Harvard’s radical leftists, feminists and student stalwarts of the form. And I, for one, am now compelled to speculate whether common sense has ever existed or, indeed, can ever prevail.

Sex and the City was an experience I’d rather forget, but it was nothing, if it was not a piece of maximum male fantasy. In creating the mistaken belief that women in pursuit of the perfect orgasm were in full control of their own sexuality, the joke, in point of fact, was on the women who fell for it. Far from believing that they were singularly independent, it seems to me, that they were moved profoundly and unmistakably by the implacable example of men.

Everything they did evolved around men!

Feminists kill me. They really do.

Bryan Appleyard: As it happens, I'm pro- (feminist).

Of course, of course, Bryan. Indeed, isn’t there a suspicion somewhere that women can’t tell left from right? Nobody at Harvard could inform me, but I took the problem to my dear friend Alice. “Right is where the thumb is left,” she said, “and left is where the thumb is right.”


“Well having done more than my fair share of test driving," Richard Havers said, “ at one point in my life I'm firmly of the view that it's about even on the who has the superiority debate.”

“So why aren’t there any female drivers in Formula One?” I also demanded to know.
“Don’t be silly, Sweetie,” said Alice, “women have better things to do.”

Precisely. And now for the matter of erectile dysfunction...

Ooooops....methinks I’m out of space!


Tuesday, 26 February 2008


I have a suspicion.

In fact, I firmly believe that at this moment in time, men and women detest one another to an unprecedented degree. Honestly, I don’t even know how this race of humans has ever managed to propagate. Whether you like it or not, humanity is split into two contradictory halves. The female resents the male as much as he resents the female because both believe that preferentiality is given to one half of humanity at the expense of the other. The prime weapon, inevitably, is sex. And personally, I am just as ready for war as for peace. But because I am not in favour of promoting solitary self-sufficiency in the face of growing female alienation, I sincerely believe that the only honourable and well-intentioned thing that a man can do for a woman is to make a pass at her. It may be pathetic, but at least it’s helpful (- and can you imagine the uproar if men ceased to be so “helpful“?). So, gentlemen, why not just get one with it?

And there’s the paradox.

Those who reduce the complexity of courtship to certain simple formulas will have to concede that between the forces of nature and the desires of men there is also the force which is called female intransigence. My own impression is that men are the victims, not the masters, of the weaker sex. Of course, there are some surprisingly compliant females. But largely, they are the infamous minority you'll never meet, and they owe their reputation in no small part to a sit-com called Sex and the City. The truth of the matter is that, on the contrary, a woman likes the feeling of being indulged, especially by a man who can unite the manners of a perfect gentleman with the utmost attention to the G-spot (which, incidentally, doesn‘t exist). I don’t even know how we got to the point where being promiscuous is valued above, say, virtue or intelligence? But got there we have. We all know that men are sexually predatory. The male is after all the principal procreative member, the predatory master phallus par excellence.

And that, surely, is how women love to hate him.

Personally, I don't even want sex unless it is unconditionally given. What I want is enchanted hours of deferred gratification with my adorable soul-mate and, ultimately, a coming together in a massive electrical charge. I want a lovable hero who has the power to induce my compliance with one enthralling kiss from his lips. Romance is libido on the wing! Infatuation an intellectual twister - an extreme, head-spinning boost waiting to take wings. It is a meeting of minds, a time of almost idiotic rapture, but it is also an acknowledgement of personal value — and that can be a very desirable emotional prize.


Saturday, 23 February 2008


It all began with an accidental meeting in our local churchyard. We measured one another from a distance. Tutsman and I. He looked like the old-timer he was, with grey whiskers and a mangy flee-ridden pelt, staying rigid, and tensely flicking his tail. It was I who blinked first. Pretending we were old acquaintances, and lowering myself into an amiable squat.

And that’s how we became friends.

You see, Tutsman had lost one eye - looking much like the then President of Croatia (- a sinister looking individual, after whom I’d decided to name him). But he was in truth a tramp, a feral or stray, because little trace, if any whatever, remained of his more domestic past. Try as he might, Tutsman could never live down the taint that went with this name, and his motives were always suspect. As soon as he felt a carpet or a rug under his bottom, he needed to crap, making clear the distinction between personal feelings of friendship and affairs of the stomach. So the ham was always a priority, and the smoked mackerel his main concern. But once I had his attention, he was a tomcat of the most affectionate kind. His gruff exterior belied a rough-hewn tenderness. He purred so loud, I thought the house might come down. I liked, too, the way in which he sustained such a crackpot purr. He virtually had no measure for knowing when enough was enough. It would go on for hours. His personal hygiene and salivating habits that ensued need not detain us here, but he also enjoyed head-butting me, first with one ear, and than the other, and for all the saliva, I endured it, enraptured.

Dogs - no matter how well-appointed - are simply not the same.

When I took the sun-lounger on to the lawn, Tutsman would roll over on his back, shadow-boxing the buzz-flies which tended to dive-bomb him. He brought me fortitude, humour and affection, jumping up onto my lap whenever I was dozing in the grass, pounding my thighs with his silky paws and butting me on the chin.

I never remember an exchange between us that did not suggest deep mutual affection, humour and warmth.Having regained his fighting-weight, Tutsman also decided that the time had come to redesign the laws of nature. Ignoring the odds, he would climb on to the garage roof and set out to look for love on the battlefield, holding three or four junior toms at bay whilst displaying his prowess to a lady favourite. But even in his moments of triumph he allowed himself no complacency. Fact is, he further distinguished himself by impregnating half the local’s cats, including a Persian pedigree. There were perhaps a dozen varieties of tomcats in the vicinity and representatives from every conceivable type, but Tutsman’s took the biscuit. I was impressed, not to say awed. Here he was, the leader of the gang, a one-eyed, punk-pirate fresh from the wild, with saber, shades and buccaneer-bandanna - metaphorically speaking - calling himself Number One.

When I had to go to abroad, Tutsman was to stay behind. It made me miserable, but I had no choice. So I arranged for him to be fed twice a day, and the last I saw of him, was curled up in his rubber-tire on the log-woods in my garden-shed.

Tutsman wouldn’t even acknowledge me, after I returned - pretending he’d never been introduced. Call it Tutsman’s revenge, but subsequent to being left indoors - as a conciliatory gesture, no less - he crapped on the carpet in three places, decapitated the cactus-flower, savaged the bay-leaf tree, urinated in the fire-place, and ripped the curtains off the rail. He also left his signature, in what turned out to be musk, all over the bookshelf, and then brought proceedings to a stunned and belated conclusion by getting his tail stuck in the toaster. The effect, to say the least, was stupefying. There was also a sense of expiation on my part, needless to say, and a feeling that I’d paid my due. For with that, it seems, the incident was closed and we were fast friends again.

My departure, though, represented a turning-point. The inevitable happened. Tutsman could not tolerate anything that was enclosed, confined, or took place indoors instead of in the light of the sun. So with the coming of winter, he caught a chill. He then developed pneumonia and refused all food. There was nothing even the vet could do.

That’s when I wept.

I buried Tutsman under the apple-tree, his favourite spot - where he’d boxed the flies in the dappled sunlight. And remembering those sunny summer afternoons a full decade later, my feelings are unchanged. Love is beautiful. Sometimes it is beyond words. And ours was pretty near perfect.


Thursday, 21 February 2008


Fame can be such a fickle bride.

One day the public can’t get enough of you, the next day you’re history. Nor is this to ignore the many fellow bloggers who have been cordial, online and otherwise. But sadly, I discerned a recent habituation to my blog, having come away from my latest posts with a marked decline in popularity.

As the astute Anonymous remarked: “You ought to be locked up.” Or the even more astute Galileo Galilei: “You cannot teach a man anything; you can only help him to find it for himself.”


One transitory lapse in concentration and you’re dead meat.
I am not offended.
Hollywood is full of people who are unhappy (or soon will be). Worse - they’ve got nothing to say.

I live and learn.

Currying gratuitous favours, obviously, is not the answer. A women may perjure herself as a matter of expediency, to salvage her honour. She ought not, however, jeopardize her integrity for such a reason. So my programme to solve the riddle of creation and spare humanity the fate all things transient, has to be put on hold for the present. Obviously, I seem destined to bear every burden alone. What’s more, I am going to have to start trying harder. Accordingly, having spent three days in preparation, committing the whole thing to paper and rehearsing semantic techniques, my next post will be delivered in Latin.

And here’s a choice of available topics of which, I very much hope, you will be able to agree on one.

1.) Is Richard Madeley the reincarnation of the notorious Lord Byron?
2.) Is Mutleythedog the reincarnation of my tomcat Tutsman?
3.) How to avoid global warming without even trying.
4.) My true encounter with a Flying Saucer!
5.) How to solve the Riddle of Creation - by guest-blogger Stephen Hawking (subject to availability)
6.) How I got seduced by a man in a fedora and large sunglasses, who was pretending to be Mr Big, and got me to meet him at the SpearmintRhino.

Please state your preference, and, in return, receive a signed copy of my best-selling autobiography plus £ 2.00 for the most favourable answer (- both subject to availability).


Tuesday, 19 February 2008

I am writing for generations to come...

Anonymous: "Didn't really follow the rest of your missive."

Nor did anybody else, it seems!

So, my last post - Freddy and the Pope - was a regretful - and I sincerely anticipate - momentary lapse in my otherwise flawless literary concentration. Frankly, to try and explain my real understanding of the world and its conundrums would be impossible since I really do not understand myself. Even if I described it minutely to everyone of you, I still wouldn't succeed in reproducing the phenomenon of personal ratiocination precisely. I feel, on the other hand, perfectly justified in interpreting problems and proposing solutions with that part of my brain which makes me different from the ordinary mortal. It is not, after all, as if I were bound by the old rules of decorum that used to constrain the female sex. On the contrary, it seems almost as if it could dispense with problems and solutions and exist on a plane of pure perception. Truth to tell, an equivalent to my own cerebral computing power - which is roughly one million billion calculations per second - has to date only been achieved by harnessing nearly 700,000 Sony PlayStations 3s, and it appears to me a matter of perfect poignancy, that, though opulent, affluent, elegant and attractive, I am still unclaimed, uncommitted, unconquered and love walking on fuck-me-stilettos!

Anonymous: "you should be locked up.........."

So I should, and I will not introduce mitigating circumstances. If people had their way, I’d be in a 21st-century courtroom being tried for witchcraft.

It is not, however, a matter that affects me greatly. I have committed myself to a much more ambitious enterprise. I am writing for generations to come. It is a tough decision, but I’m up for it. No doubt, that is my proper place in history. Indeed, will anyone believe me if I assert with a perfectly straight face, that, today, we are but culturally conditioned clones, performing functions which are known to be predetermined. We commonly suppose that a writer’s scope and talent is a psychological ‘given,’ something innate, a vocation rather than a profession - but far from it. For one thing, mere escapism has superseded hard-edged introspection. For another, writers of books may no longer please themselves. They first need to please the editor or indeed, the agent, rather than the prospective reader. As a result, they are obsessed with the need to draw attention to themselves. They write in a different way, in a way that proves disastrous. As in quantum-electrodynamics, the smallest change in the rule of the game affects the overall outcome. This is the quantum literary principle and the key to understanding contemporary mass-psychology - with a particular scepticism reserved for those who are at the bottom of it all:

Bloggers rather than authors!


Sunday, 17 February 2008


The English astrophysicist Sir Frederick Hoyle once calculated that if the present rate of demographic expansion continues, ‘within 5,000 years the total mass of humanity will exceed the mass of all planets, stars and galaxies visible with the 200-inch telescope on Mount Palomar,’ It was in character for Hoyle to be offended, first by universal distortions of wishful thinking, and then by the mathematics of an economic system which promises its own destruction.

He sent the Pope a letter.

It accused the economists rather than God of cruelty in deceiving the world that absolute growth in a finite system is absolutely unsustainable.

“No doubt,” Hoyle wrote, “you will immediately take all such contraceptive measures as the situation requires?”

“Look,” the Pope replied, “I’m infallible. I’m constitutionally incapable of making anything but the correct decisions.” (Which, incidentally, is the only witty comment I’ve ever heard attributed to the man).

So here’s the thing:

There are, annually, seventy million net arrivals on Earth. And the Pope saw no reason why this satisfactory state of affairs should not be made to continue. His own contribution had been to bring the methods of a midwife to the deal. A craft he practised with prolific zeal. Not only was it sane, apparently, to go forth and multiply ad infinitum but it would be detrimental to the Divine Imperative, he said, to do anything else. He then instructed Sir Freddy to meet him at Loch Fyne, home to the finest maritime cuisine, and e-mailed his specific requirements for an extensive lunch.

There, then, they requested the menu and a fine Chateau Latour 1987.

“These are near-genocidal tendencies!” Sir Freddy said.

The Pope declined to contest the issue. “The roast potatoes are not crispy,” he said, “they’re plainly soggy.”
But he accepted implicitly that this planet had been engaged in senseless slaughter ever since the dawn of creation - a Malthusian contraceptive, so to speak. The reasons were obvious, he added, and obviously perpetuated.
“But what about abolishing weapons of mass destruction?” The Pope waved his fish-knife magnanimously.

“Fiddlesticks,” Sir Freddy said. “In Rwanda, April 1994, an entire swath of humanity was delivered to the machete. Proof, if proof were needed, that the weapon is only a component of war. In Srebrenica, July 1995, up to 8000 men and boys were summarily rounded up for execution.”

“There was a remarkable atmosphere of fraternity and goodwill,” the Pope recalled. “The Dutch UN contingent stepped aside without a single word of protest."

“Dutch courage,” Sir Freddy said.

Since the Pope drinks a fairly good Chablis, they switched to LabourĂ© Roi, Premier Cru, which at £ 88.40, the Pope thought was very advantageously priced. He was a dear fellow, John Paul II - to say nothing of the 12% service charge - and immensely gifted. But then, of course, he never got stuck with the bill.

“Whether you like it or not,” Sir Freddy said, “it is virtually impossible for cravings so gluttonous to be satiated within the global confines of peace on earth and good will to all men.”

The Pope refused to stir in the matter. “Some truths we hold to be self-evident!” he said. “And among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

“The power of wishful thinking is the most undemanding intellectual faculty known to man,” Sir Freddy replied.
Had Sir Freddy got the solution, the Pope permitted himself to wonder?
“Half the beauty of the thing is,” Prof. Hoyle said, “it‘s entirely up to you.”

The major d’ came over. “Two coffees,” the Pope said, “with sugar and double cream, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Unlike Tony Blair, who’s nearly always offered a free lunch, Sir Freddy picked up the tab. Asparagus risotto, fried squid and scampi, grilled red snapper, coquilles Saint-jacques, lobster salad, candied cherry tomatoes, that sort of thing. The Pope had the Sevruga caviar on buttered toast. You could say £ 85 for 50g was pushing it. But he ate it off his knife. The foie gras on a brioche, he said, was a notch below par. Freddy tasted it. No shit, John P., it was delicious. The Pope was particularly impressed when they brought a complimentary bowl of Turkish delight.

He gained 3lb in two hours.

So what should my last words be? Well, perhaps it’s just me, but what I am critical about is an open-ended doctrine that involves mass-manipulation, urban indoctrination, spiritual zoning and contraceptive prohibition on a universal scale. And its all down to one man! Personally I believe such types are entitled to be locked up, out of harms way, in a very secure residential institution at Novosibirskyeostrova (also known as New Siberian Islands). There are scheduled beach walks and yoga classes, including a weekly session with a shaman and an astrologer. Or, failing that, if anyone wishes to farm out a lucrative contract, send your money to Jesus. He might well be interested. An excess of evil sometimes works its own cure.


Friday, 15 February 2008


So, there I was, still at my desk last night, preparing to leave for the SpearmintRhino, when I decided to phone J. McDoe, literary agent with Black, Hood & Scythe Ltd, where I’m known to the point of considerable notoriety.

McDoe’s tone of voice did not express unmitigated joy. Particularly when I told him who I was. But he reluctantly conceded that he remembered me. He said he also remembered that I had writing skills that would surely have been more profitably employed if I had adapted them to the composition of alchemical conundrums.

I forgave him, of course. He was boasting.
He then admitted to having read my latest.
Which was another boast he pulled off frequently.
“I am preparing a new one,” I said, and explained to him that I had begun accumulating material for a book to be called The Evolutionary Inevitability Trap.
“I won’t comprehend it,” he said.
I deftly added that the book was to be a ruthless exercise in intellectual detachment.
“Is it an anti-war book?”
“No,” I said, “it abominates peace.”
“Such a convoluted mind,” he said.
“You know what is ultimately going to kill the human species?” I asked.
He was unconcerned. He said he didn’t care.
“Indifference,” I said.
“I’m glad it’s that painless,” said McDoe. “But abominating peace isn’t much of a selling point when it comes to books.”
“That’s the appealing thing about my book,” I said, “virtually everyone has a stake in it.”
“Has what in it?” he said.
“Contrary to popular belief,” I explained, “constant culling keeps the species alive. It’s a fallacy,” I added, “that we are facing war as an avoidable alternative to peace. It repudiates all sense of logic.”
“I am at no loss to decide,” McDoe conceded expansively, “that that scenario is pure fantasy.”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s bound to be much more persuasive in print.”
“It could hardly be less so,” he said.
There was a pause while McDoe cracked open a can of peanuts, shoving a handful into his mouth.
“My dear Selena,” he then inveigled, “plainly you’re over-qualified.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“But don’t let anything discourage you. You’re immensely capable.”
“Rub it in,” I reiterated.
“No doubt, you have a brilliant career ahead of you...”
“Be adamant!” said I.
“...but not with me.” McDoe said with the mournful tone of a man who’s been caught out time and again by his own incurable compassion...


Wednesday, 13 February 2008


Continued from yesterday:

...This one was really into mind games. Carnally, it was always fantasy-time. Latin looking, gracefully-lashed, almond shaped eyes, the twenty-something had the physical allure of a da Vinci painting, the creamiest of skin tones, and a full and perfect-sized penis. He was a watcher, nevertheless. Usually under the influence of an unknown substance. So I just lay down and opened my legs very gradually, which is the way he liked them opened. I won't tell you what I did then. But an effect is the measure of its cause. It had the most uplifting result. I have never actually known his full name, and believed him to be who he claimed to be, attached to the Solicitor-General’s Department. My sexual promiscuity wasn't of much interest to him, my virginity was.

We call that versatile in the business...

And here's a picture you never expected to see.

“How do you feel about being sodomized.” I hear you ask.

My lips are sealed. Frankly, I didn’t figure out what he was doing until it was over. Thankfully, the dosh was worth it. I think premature ejaculation got to him first. Lucky, in a way. It might have been a bit embarrassing if he’d set me on fire. It might have made me look as if I were actually enjoying all that nonsense, which I definitely did not.

Besides, I never said I was the Mother Theresa. It is burdensome to be considered perfect. Pussy is as pussy does. Or in the words of the author, who so eloquently described me - and I wish I was at liberty to disclose the link: “Selena Dreamy has all the connotations of romantic femininity, and particularly of its association with one predominant type. The type that looks perfectly at home in a late-night bar, but is naturally removed from the tedium of domestic life. The sort of female, in other words, all enlightened men dream about: sensual, sultry, seductive, enigmatic, loving, stimulating and yet, compassionate and undemanding.”

Now, how cool is that?

Driving home, I managed 110mph anti-clockwise on the M25, blowing off the Solicitor General’s life-style troopers at about Junction 23. My mother always assumes I am staying with Richard. She will say so in court!

Interestingly, Vera Baird, the Solicitor General, “praised local papers for identifying men who have been convicted of using prostitutes...”

...So will I get a commendation for identifying the head of an international financial conglomerate who asked me to do an after-dinner lap-dance for the executive board? You will not have heard of him. He's not a footballer. We sup together once or twice a year, to give him a chance to sodomize me.

It is in fact essential that the Vera Baird, the Solicitor General has some advice in these matters. Indeed, to judge by past form, supporters of radical change will be severely disenchanted. For even though no sentiment is more firmly rooted in the English national character than a distrust of sex, the habit possessed by eminent Englishmen of specifically indulging in paid for fornication, is an inevitable derivative of British cultural history, notorious in its time for sodomy, flogging and fagging. To which characteristics certain eccentric personalities would add a strong taste for flashing and bondage, of which Ms Baird, may take a less disruptive view, though few of them would be expressing delight if sodomy was not included. Nor does the original sado-mitic mix get any the less pleasurable or entertaining with frequent repetition. And if you do happen to be a member of parliament, let me inform you that any expense less than £ 250 does not require a receipt. Besides, you can always acquire one of Miss Dreamy’s more expensive services and recoup the cost through a series of claims for less than the £ 250 threshold. But I guess, you know that already.

All offers gratefully received (Silky panties by request).

Dreamy xxx

P.S. Clinton? I never saw or heard from him again - but I did get the clap!

Tuesday, 12 February 2008


MINISTERS want to block the phone numbers of prostitutes who advertise their
services in newspapers and telephone booths in an attempt to stifle the illegal
sex trade. Police forces would identify suspected prostitutes to the telephone
companies, which would be required to cut off their numbers. The proposal has
emerged in a six-month review of prostitution laws by ministers from three
government departments. They are also considering making it illegal to pay for

The hard-line view is that delinquency finds its origin in prostitution, the truth of the matter is that the potential for the abuse of “illegal sex” is absolutely horrendous!


And so I caught sight of my bottom the other day. I can’t remember the last time I inspected it. But it looks fabulous! My cheeks are beautiful (and have the added advantage of being British). Indeed, the last time I saw a gynaecologist, he was clearly enthralled. Not with me necessarily, but with bottoms in general.
“They motivate men more than anything else in the world,” he said, (somewhat flustered).
“They appeal to suckers like mangos to flies." I retorted.

Men are unbelievable. If the worst problem in the life an a junkie is no dope, the most terrible affliction in the life of any man is no sex. Men will fornicate with anything that is soft, warm, and has anything like a perceptible pulse. A daily shag, to most of them, provides everything you could possible want out of life. It's as enticing as snorting coke and as physical as a game of rugby. It's also pleasurable, environmentally sustainable and something you can do at home.

As a social entrepreneur, I, of course, always looking adorably feminine in diaphanous knickers around the house, or in those little see-through hot pants from Agent Provocateur, throwing elegant not-working dinners to boost my career. I also spend my free time trying out fluffy little cashmere numbers. And perfumes. That's something I do understand. But how can I go out without looking like a load of soft porn. I mean, I don’t want to seem like a pushover.

Little late in the day, you might think.

Red lips, bright eyes, faux-tanned skin. I always make sure I look the height of seasonal glamour. You have to understand that the accessories are an integral part of whoring. They tend to be part of the retail deal. Let’s face it, as a general rule, you can be sexy and still have class. And I, as a matter of principle, am all for guaranteeing savour, bloom, charisma and the carnal allure of my gender, but it’s impossible for me to be cool, stylish and fashionable, and not look like every man’s favourite fantasy. Sometimes I feel like the biggest C in town; rather like a West-End production, with everybody wanting a part in it. Which is why I get laid a lot. And I do recognize the needs of the penis, needless to say, except, I’m not so sure that male and female libidos are not altogether mismatched. For every man you jerk off, there’s two dozen priming their barrels. Unless, of course, they already have their dicks up each other’s ass.

Most important, men simply adore me. And I love men. Not all of them, but the majority of them. Love, after all, is not a power to be ignored. Women - no matter how luxurious - are not my first choice. Don't get the wrong impression. I love a pert pair of breasts. In fact, I often receive girls' appreciations of my ass. And, of course, I love it when chicks rub my boobs or explain to me why Guerlain’s Divinora eye-liner is best laid on with gently overlapping strokes (because of a needle-thin brush, since you ask). Indeed, the affection I hold for them is all the sweeter because such advances have been rather tantalizing up to now.

Or let me put it this way, I’m in need of no rest!

As you can see, I have plenty of spirit and am not averse to a little luxury. Blonde is definitely not the colour of submission. So, when I got to my client last night, a crimson Ferrari 355 GTS was parked in the drive. Then the front door opened. This guy made Brad Pitt look like a fruitcake. I glanced at him and felt horny. He ushered me into a black-and-white tiled lobby and a barrage of slavering kisses. Then the deal was closed by him groping me and handing me a cheque for five-hundred pounds! (I think he was glad to see me.)

I was mush! I fancied it, in fact, more than just a little....!

To be continued....

Watch this space, for your very personal instalment tomorrow: MIND GAMES

Sunday, 10 February 2008


Readers of this blog know well that I'm one of the world's most virtuous females, and I am perfectly of the Government‘s opinion concerning whoring and fornication which, though extremely fashionable at all times, I think is potentially very demeaning. But we might, in the meantime, try to keep things in perspective: Rather than abolishing escorts and call-girls, we should strive, in my opinion, to reinstate the old tradition of whorehouses furnished, supplied and decorated with no expenses spared.

Miss Dreamy is pleased to announce her forthcoming reminiscence on the art of whoring. Anyone - above the age of 21 - is invited, indeed, urged to

Friday, 8 February 2008


During the first moments of looking at Ms Baroque in Hackney, I had an experience reminiscent of finding John Milton in Paradise or - allowing for the great differences in climate and topography - like sighting Dante in Hell. Hackney is fashionable and blissed out precisely because it's ugly, miserable and poor - and her blog is a chiaroscuro shading and realistic rendering of the contrasting elements! A reflection of the era in which she lives, and, presumably, of every wonder and predicament it ever attracted.

Last year in Hackney, police recorded a 10% rise in crimes to 2,715, including 580 violent assaults, 112 muggings and seven rapes.

The reality of the statistics can not be denied, but Ms Baroque’s own view - drawn up in terms no less haughty than misleading - is that there is no need for any heavy-handed reminder. That all situations involve adaptation, and sharing a toothbrush is no big deal. To some, admiration of politically correct multiculturalism is almost religious dogma. And while it is possible to disagree with the rationale there is no arguing with her courage. Indeed, you can always ignore a problem by pretending it doesn’t exist. But because crime does not fit into her model of Hackney, she denies its reality as a social obstruction:

‘I'm afraid the Home Secretary is reminding me of a man I once knew in Canton, CT, who would only let his teenage daughter drive into Hartford if she locked all the car doors - "and don't talk to anybody.”’

So, is this pygmy-minded giant-slaying or the honest, heart-rending truth? An irresistible, if equally irresponsible, agenda to win back control of the streets? Or the promptings of a mind inebriated with an unedited torrent of opinions, impressions and images. It seems neither! Baroque in Hackney is an encoded autobiography of the most potently unadorned kind, its focus small-scale and almost haphazard. Hackney is everything that Baroque isn’t: hooded, mean, flashy, trite, Ă¼ber-trendy and chemically blissed out. And in this dismal, idyllic setting, Ms Baroque converses about matters more trivial than profound...

“...about doing admin and paying bills and buying the right kinds of light bulbs and generally trying to become a more practical person around the home”

And this is apparent to anyone who looks at it in detail. The range of vision is very introspective. But it is also of considerably greater penetration, disclosing, at its most inward recession, a universe constituted not of massive proportions and vast dimension, but of inverse magnitudes. A universe which is functional rather than delusional, the world of minute scales, of the micro-cosmos in which everything is balanced by its opposite, is held together by tension rather than harmony.

“I’ve always loved printers... they can do anything. I also love the smell of ink”

Ms Baroque, I waited until the last, hoping that you might have a little passion and a little presumption. You are a poet, critic, copywriter, editor, conversationalist, style consultant, personal shopper, siren, and - I have no doubt - a socially aspirational and sexually famished housemaid. But I am reluctant to rank you among history's most humdrum literary bloggers.

For this hardly concludes the matter.

Your pleading for life and poetry is a very intense and real entreaty. It is reserved and restrained, with barely a rhetorical flourish. Nor does it come bitterly or with torture from the heart. I was looking for someone trembling with a terrible nostalgia, for the ruins of an Italian Baroque palazzo, for traces of a turbulent storm, for the inner discontent which finds no phrasing in your calm and untouched prose. But I never expected to find a woman so unprepossessed by spiritual grandeur. At the same time I found myself deeply offended by this proof that small things can bring happiness. Hackney neatly encapsulates the Baroque persona - political and irreproachably correct, but far from being lavishly proportioned.

It is not so much what she says, or how she says it, but what she conveys through some personal distinction of her own that sets her apart from her rivals. Ask me what makes a lousy blogger and I can give you chapter and verse, but I am powerless to form an opinion on her dramatic motivation. There is no room for argument as to the efficacy of her allure, though. The logical, unemotional part of her blog is performed excellently. She seems less concerned with contributing to a manufactured image than capturing a real person.

Count her in as one who cares!

I find this profoundly heartening. Her scope is not broad. Yet, she never grows exasperating, even in irksome Hackney, no doubt, because unlike the majority of bloggers, she gets her effect from herself. There are vestiges of Ms Baroque’s confidential persona scattered throughout. Mixing brocade and velvet, poetry and T. S. Eliot with an ornate and heartfelt venom, she has personality and intelligence, as well as feminine exquisiteness.


Thursday, 7 February 2008


Miss Selena Dreamy is pleased to announce her forthcoming attraction:

BAROQUE IN HACKNEY - THE MEMORANDUM....soon in this theatre!

Tuesday, 5 February 2008


Online chatrooms are natural laboratories for the observation of private illusions and public pretensions. Anonymity is the greatest uninhibitor known to man. You never exactly know, moreover, what the conversion is all about. You see bizarre words without apparent meaning; the simple enjoyment of a term defying its function and turning into a thing apart. I wonder, in fact, whether it is possible for anyone to absorb the codex of chatroom expressions, or to fathom their meanings by any reasonable processes of thought.

So you might think that internet chatrooms are not worthy of proper cultural analysis? You’d be wrong. No accusation could be less justified. Given the versatility of the medium, chatroom doublespeak makes an obscure but peculiarly cultural vernacular. Not unlike the way expressionists employed allegory in a pattern of artistically and emotionally encoded metaphors, the mind loves to forge connecting links. As an asinine pursuit of a gratification universally celebrated, chatroom mania has, in fact, swept the world.

Nor am I against nonsense as such. Though it was with a sense of premonition that I logged on to chatroom T*********, on Friday February 1st at 5:45 P.M. Within minutes of arriving I wanted to leave. But as I began monitoring fragments of the online conversation - and working on my second Martini, incidentally - the screen with the IMs flipped on.

Hotmale 197: ‘Hi Dreamy!’

I watched them for a while. Online, there are no inhibitions. To say that art emulates life is stating the obvious. But something in this process reminded me of biological propagation, of spermatozoa, in a spasm of passionate frenzy, gagging for the ovarian egg. The results were totally gratifying. I wouldn’t give much for the serialization rights, but the following I thought was the way for a symbol of sinfulness to respond (should anyone wish to emulate me):

Hotmale197: tell me what u r like
Selenadreamy: I’m lustful all the time
Hotmale197: 10 out of 10 in my book
Selenadreamy: is it a big book?
Hotmale197: a hardback, folio
Selenadreamy: I wouldn’t have it otherwise
Hotmale197: send me a pic and I’ll turn into a poet
Selenadreamy: give me your best line first
Hotmale197: I don’t have lines, I’m not an advert
Selenadreamy: that will do
Hotmale197: lol - describe yourself
Selenadreamy: words would be inadequate
Hotmale197: try a little...
Selenadreamy: ...tenderness?
Hotmale197: hair colour will do
Selenadreamy: blonde
Hotmale197: long?
Selenadreamy: and natural!
Hotmale197: height?
Selenadreamy: tall enough to reach for the stars
Hotmale197: u work 4 Disney?
Selenadreamy: DreamWorks!
Hotmale197: u talk like that in real life?
Selenadreamy: always word perfect
Hotmale197: r u quite human?
Selenadreamy: I have the most perfect figure
Hotmale197: truly incredible
Selenadreamy: few can match me
Hotmale197: what a drag
Selenadreamy: my very own sentiment
Hotmale197: erm...I must go
Selenadreamy: better luck next time!

There went a disappointed suitor (I always like to take them out in the first round). After that it got much less interesting:

Starky269: Any pics, babe?
MrSmoochy: Hi, cuty how’s it going?
Macdafy566: I love u hun...
Hermit2205: Dreamy don’t go...

Men are unbelievable. More like pre-pubescent boys. In fact, what was scary is just how successful this experiment was. Like Rome under Messalina! The astonishing effect of that carnal drive: male libido! In less than five minutes after logging on, the IMs came pouring in like lemmings over the cliff.

The concept of the superiority of the female over the male has never for one moment been in doubt. In fact, I have suspected for some time that one half of the species is being held in thrall by the other. Women just sit there. But men come on again and again, as if driven by some indomitable demon which I could not even begin to explain. What is it they are trying to exorcise? What the thing that renders their libido so matchlessly abject? Gosh, it really scares the hell out of me. I’ll say that again, it’s horrifying. Abysmal. End of conversation!


Sunday, 3 February 2008


“Today there are, by one count, more than 100 million blogs in the world, with
about 15 million of them active...”There are political blogs, confessional
blogs, gossip blogs, sex blogs, mommy blogs, science blogs, soldier blogs,
gadget blogs, fiction blogs, video blogs, photo blogs, and cartoon blogs, to
name a few. Some people blog alone and some in groups. Every self-respecting
newspaper and magazine has some reporters and critics blogging...” the artist creation is elementary. But I wonder whether generations to come will appreciate that the history of western literature in the 21st century is essentially one of plagiarism. By which I do not mean breach of copyright (the greatest writers have pawned off other men’s ideas). But semantically indoctrinating people to become mere followers of hyper-link-connectivity, is like announcing the end of personal ambition. It’s a mass derailment measure. A prelude to literary genocide. You may have your own views on this, but something in this process reminds me of The Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. I can see no escape from it. Nothing to oppose it. Global conditioning is all but complete.

It has led to the creation of a world of self-obsessed, withdrawn individuals communicating only with their hypertexts and exceeds, unless I am mistaken, the force of the human intellect. Billed as a “visual and auditory cue”, it more accurately represents a death knell for the idea that intelligent life might one day exist on the planet Earth. The meaning of schizophrenia is a broad one and interpreted with great flexibility by psychiatrists and medics alike, but the problem was as well stated by the Sunday Times correspondent who wrote:

“There's something, technically speaking, poetic about links.”

Though I can't vouch for the truth of it, some scientists who have studied religious experience also claim that closely monitored brain activity reveals what is going on during the experience of hyper-connectivity. Such research apparently shows that the brain deactivates the networks used for critical social assessment and negative emotions while it bonds viewers through the chemical reward circuitry.

“I find myself itching to insert a link.”

Just which neurochemical suppressants are responsible for neutralizing the critical faculties of the brain is not clear, albeit that Serotonin has been mentioned. I am not a medic, but your fears have been verified: You become deranged and lose your ability to reason. It is difficult for me to describe adequately the horrors of the technological revolution. But there are in fact one 100 million potential psychos out there. I should know, I happen to be one of them.

(My 'Hmmm' at the beginning of this post is a good example.)

Some bloggers, of course, merely have loss of concentration. Others, as you well know, hallucinate - whereas possible side-effects can range from acne and personality changes to headaches, tinnitus and red lumps on the face. It’s quite mad, admittedly, since some of these symptoms are more usually associated with dengue fever, the West Nile virus or PMS. More significantly - and I will say at once that the submission I am about to make is not covered by any express authority - I’ve received startling information that the US Defense Advanced Projects Research Agency (Darpa), considers the collective suppression of critical judgment one of the most brilliant political strokes of the age.

That’s how well informed I am (unauthorized link withheld).

So I cannot help thinking, with my limited grasp of social engineering, that every successful blog is of necessity a part of mass population management. For no matter where you are on this planet (with the exception of the occasional South Sea island, perhaps) a way is always found to beam a link into your home. Maybe I was not supposed to reveal this, but I cannot, in all decency, withhold from literary history what has not been concealed from myself. How otherwise am I to explain to my future readers why the world went into acute anaphylactic shock, chronic intellectual recession and permanent academic decline. And don’t post any comments rebuking my excess of large-scale vision. Your own future as well as the welfare of our culture is at stake. You might feel irritated now, but one day you’ll thank me. And that’s what keeps me blogging...


Friday, 1 February 2008


Well, I have completed my social satire now. It’s out and available on AMAZON. I shall spare you the details. Rumours that I’m in discussion with a New York literary agent for a deal that could be worth $ 1.5, are, I’m afraid, precipitous. But I am obviously hoping for a sycophantic reception. There is much that I never imagined I would submit to paper. It should in my view create the worst possible outrage. Will it be read as much as Alice in Wonderland? I certainly hope so. But I must give my full attention now to the subsequent endeavour. The Moonshine Memoranda, amongst other things, part of a critical survey of the decrepit blogosphere. Which is chiefly interesting to me as an antidote to literary convention. So it’s going to be fun.

First, though, some history.

I came across my first literary agent some years ago, when he was an editor and I was a fashion model with one of the top West End agencies. My image then, was one of teenage innocence. I was so wholesome you could have wrapped me up in pink and produce me as a chick-lit cover. My enthusiasm for the man was undiminished by the fact that he had rejected every MS I ever submitted. I will not mention his name, but if he’d spotted my talent he might by now be one of the plenipotentiaries in the publishing division of Time Warner rather than endure the agonies of a literary shyster.

I have written frequently to this thoughtless man.

I even accepted I might have lunch with him. He begged to be excused.
I tried every angle, including massive elasticity about rates of commission. What was his response to that?
To put the phone down, if you must know.
“Are you going to read my book?” I demanded at my next opportunity.
“It’s too intellectual for me.”
I made no attempt to argue.
“It’s an outstanding script!” I wrote the following day. And clearly, I meant it. But his retort, conveyed to me with none of the restraint which one would expect from a person so sublimely entitled, left no doubt as to my error.
“You’re the only one who thinks so.”
I hung my head.
Here is another gambit I used unsuccessfully.
“I understand you’ve placed a lot of very successful authors,” I said.
“No,” the reply went, “good authors place themselves.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” I said.

Then I met a milk-faced agent. My name meant nothing to him. I gathered that he had yet to place his very first client. He was as doubtful about his role in the literary business as I was certain of mine. More startlingly to me, there was a nice reverence in his matter, as though there was every possibility that I were the women of letters and he was the neophyte.

“Excellent manuscript!” he said.

I was flattered, even surprised. I’d never had anybody say that to me before, least of all a literary agent. I wanted him to expand more upon the secrets of sinuous, sub-claused prose, technical competence, purple prose style and an opulent vocabulary, but he changed the subject right back to sex (He sure knew a lot about it). It could not have surprised me more if he had been a recruitment pimp.

I am concerned. Perhaps he was!

Agents are not, of course, either divine or inhuman; it is, however, worth remarking that we are the people who invented them. The real trouble is, of course, that nobody has the time anymore or the emotional energy to sit down and write a great book. Everybody wants to get published, have great reviews, win awards, and even give lectures. So the result is that agents are perceived as pompous, self-centred, arrogant by expediency and imbued with a sublime sense of entitlement, whereas authors, staggering aimlessly around the literary circuit in search of representation, have little more than creative writing seminars or workshops on synopses as their literary heritage.

Personally I have never felt the need to follow protocol. For me, the charm of writing lies in its freedom from convention. Indeed, I have to admit to a certain dereliction in never even having enquired as to academic procedure. But then again, I am a vociferous supporter of laissez faire and sex in the afternoon (which imposes little in the way of procedural constraint). It is only gradually that I changed the issue into one of literary freedom. And that, to me, is twice as compelling as any manager menace or editorial emergency room.

Write and be damned!