As you may or may not have heard – and indeed, if the latter is true for you then I envy your ability to spirit yourself away from the grinding ubiquity of celebrity news in this information age – I have recently been lucky enough to be cast as an London publican in the BBC serial drama ‘EastEnders’. Regular readers will of course know that I am more accustomed to working as a freelancer on European art-house features and ‘gonzo’-style documentaries, and as such, the intense filming schedule has been doin’ my fackin’ nut in. Luckily, the start of this month marked a three- week break in filming for my character, giving me plenty of time to resume my main passions: cask ales, slaaaaaaaags, and the beautifully touching poetry of Geoffrey Hill.
One of the highlights of this much- appreciated period of gardening leave (alas, my chrysanthemums still leave a lot to be desired) was a spontaneous trip to a heritage railway in Northamptonshire with my dear friend Michael Portillo. To my surprise, Michael arrived clad in a novelty romper suit (he calls it a ‘onesie’… I had to pick him up after he tripped over the zeitgeist!), carrying a Dyer-sized spare! Of course, Mr P had good reason for this boyish affectation – he had arranged to travel thusly on the outward leg in order to raise funds for a local church youth group, and the fackin’ mug was in a ket hole deeper than Kilimanfackinjaro. When he came to collect our tickets, the conductor was understandably perturbed and offered us the child fare! He mustn’t have realised, however, that actin’ ‘ard and playin’ it tough is my bread and butta – we ended up kneecapping the cunt just in time for the end of the afternoon tea service at the terminus’ old station building, a faithful reproduction of the heyday of British steam railways and a great backdrop for snorting a few fat stripes off Portillo’s thigh. A great day had by all, and a reminder of the great work done by tireless volunteers on our restored railways, who give up their time to play Thomas the Wank Engine – the sad twats.
Next Month: I shall be celebrating the melancholic beauty of impermanence by pruning my azaleas, then getting plastered and glassin’ some poor cunt.