A Collection of Writings
As Mark Twain once said, 'The report of my death was an exaggeration.' Whether or not he was spoiling a good walk with a game of golf at the time is not reported. But I know how he feels.
Rumours that I had fallen off the twig have reached me by various routes and I am happy to say that I am around to hear them. What or who sparked this classic bit of misreporting is irrelevant but obviously comes from the fact that I haven't been feeling myself recently. A bad sign but not necessarily fatal.
A couple of years ago I did a job down in South America for the BBC and picked up a mysterious bug. With all those rich and swarthy Latinos hanging around, all I picked up was a Bug! I'm obviously showing my age. Anyway, unlike the Latinos, the bug hung around. And became many. Back in England I at last went to see a doctor. I wish I had gone to Haiti and consulted a Witch Doctor. The one I saw over-dosed me on Steroids and a bloody great cataract formed on my eye. As well as numerous nastier side-effects which delicacy prompts me to gloss over.
Net result - an extended stay in the modern day equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition. It took me out of circulation for a couple of months and that was enough for some people to measure out a patch in the local cemetary for me. But I've now been released on parole and except for having the strength of the runt of the litter of an anorexic moggy, I'm fighting fit and as long as nobody incarcerates me in a wet paper bag, I'm out and about. Or have I become a part of the Undead and don't know it? Watch yourself next time we meet!
The major side effect of being in hospital is that you don't get about a lot. The world seems to have passed me by. The Summer certainly has. I had looked forward to going north to the Memorabilia show in Glasgow in August but I was advised against it. I also missed the tribute to that grand Goon, Sir Harry Secombe. The others didn't do much for me but Harry just had to appear to have me in stitches.
I remember at his daughter's wedding the time came to read out the telegrams from absent friends. A time when I usually wander off to study the plumbing in the bathroom. I'm glad I stayed on this occasion. Harry made reading 'Love and best wishes from Auntie Maud' hilarious without denigrating the sender or sentiment.
I also remember that other Goon, Spike Milligan at Caxton Hall. He turned up in scruffy denims and then completely upstaged the bride when it came to the time for taking photographs. The difference between the two Goons was that Spike had to work for laughs - Harry was just genuinely funny.
My being banged up hasn't spoiled the productivity of others - I'm happy to say. Spyder Curphey of the Compulsion Gallery has brought out a wonderful model of Pitt in hot water based on the bath scene from Vampire Lovers. It is finished in pewter and now joins a wonderful range of models which include Darth Vader, Frankenstein's monster in the guise of Boris Karloff, Freddie Mercury, Sir Stanley Matthews, C-3PO, a host of assorted nudes, as well as wonderfully detailed reproductions of classic race cars which includes my all time favourite, Juan Manuel Fangio in the beautiful Mercedes-Benz W196.
My publishers, Robinson Constable have also been busy. My new book, Vampire Stories by Women, hits the shelves in Britain on the 23rd. September and in America a month later. I've managed to snitch a few advance copies and they can be purchased through the store. Although I claim the book as "MY' book I must admit there are a few others involved. Ann Rice, for one. And Chelsea Quinn Yabro. And Poppy Z Brite. And....... The reason I call it mine is pure egotism and the fact that I hog the back and front cover, have written the foreword and also penned one of the stories. I insist that qualifies me to claim it as 'MY' book.
'Til next time may you breath in more times than you breath out?' (I read that on a poker-work plaque in Torquay. I wonder what it means?)