Monday 1st November 2010
Just as I recover from the assaults, direct and indirect, of Robert Nevil and the Gay Mother, it appears that Anthony Mottram, supposedly my oldest and closest friend, is in London for his birthday. No doubt I will be excluded from the celebrations.
Poor Little Rich Gays crumple and are crushed just like that. But we reassemble, we resume. Flattened by a passing car, we unpeel from the road, and bound on, like Jerry (of Tom and Jerry).
We live at a pitch of drama, fear and brilliance that would kill any normal person in seconds.
Yesterday the Multis went to lunch at London’s cheapest restaurant: the Lahore Kebab House. See graph below.
At 11.30.
They were hungry then so drove out from the penthouse without question.
The clocks going back had passed them by. The bizarre thing is they had the right time. I suppose all their devices had re-set themselves automatically. But their personal body clocks had carried on as before and so did they.
The Multis' Table at the Lahore Kebab House, London's Cheapest Restaurant - It's Bring Your Own. Where Are the Other Customers?
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Given the amount of drink on the table – Bollinger with curry? well, novel, I grant you – I’m surprised their body clocks hadn’t stopped altogether.
I think you will find that that however much you are quailing beneath my own (lovingly administered) assaults, you are wrong about Mottram, who was safely back behind the Iron Curtain for his birthday. He merely slipped in and out of London on some secret business to do with his empire before returning to foreign soil for the natal day celebrations.
‘Loving and caring’ in the Dame Edna sense? Poor silly Mottram. How anyone takes him seriously as a spy, I don’t know!
Yes! ‘Iron Curtain’ – why did they ever let him out?