Day 1

Fuckety Fuckety Fuckfuck Dame and Blast

13 April

08.15 Fucking Terrified
Subject: I Rather Think I Fucked Up

Dearest Darling Forsythia,

Oh fuck! I’m sorry I was unable to attend your party commemorating The Forthcoming Event. I know how much you treasure your fecundity (isn’t it a bit soon after the last one? Has it become a permanent condition? Surely, in this overcrowded world, one might consider a little self-restraint), but because we love each other dearly and passionately, I have set aside my scruples and purchased a new shirt, bespoke and ridiculously expensive, but which should be divine when paired with the Galliano suit you like so much. I never much cared for it, but it does make you moan and “PHWOARRR,” and anything that causes you to express anything at all is worth the price of admission. UNFORTUNATELY, before I could actually put damned thing on, I had the most appalling accident, and now my life is ruined.

You know those little slots on your computer? The ones claiming to be for discs but which are, in fact, placed there for more nefarious purposes, such as claiming one’s soul? Well, whilst admiring the cut of my jib prior to dressing, I happened to switch over to an old Marx Brothers film, the one where they go to war. Duck Soup, I believe it is (God, how Margaret Dumont reminds me of the first woman with whom I truly disgraced myself! I go blind just thinking about her). Anyway, halfway through, I heard an unaccustomed sound coming from a room that should, for all intents and purposes, have been empty. Naturally, being me, I had been drinking rather too much pastis, and in a condition where my hearing is more than usually acute, and in which my curiosity never fails to get the better of me. So anyway, with ears a-tingling, all brave and stupid and drunk as a newt, I followed these horrible noises right to their source. And guess what? There really was a noise, and what’s more, it seemed to be emanating from my new PC – you know, the posh one with the evil disposition I won at the new Museum of Gypsy Art’s fundraising lottery last month.

You checked it out, I hear you scream. What a fucking moron! Don’t you ever learn anything?

It is true. Every accusation. Every word. You see, I do not possess your level judgment, your intuitive grasp of the natural world, or any other safeguard that has elevated you to the rarefied heights of the of the Ministry of Justice while I am left where I’ve always been. A fool (although a handsome one, if I may say so, and gifted in my own way) doomed to thrash about in the phlegm of society. Were I not so delightfully and obscenely rich, I’d be in for it, wouldn’t I? Anyway, as I was saying before my concentration slipped like bowels following a bowl of prunes, I – lacking your subtle machinations and forever wobbling on the edge of a cruel and malevolent precipice – am merely me. Hélas! I neither learn nor can learn from past mistakes, but what can I say? I still trust. I still believe in whatever it is that keeps me going and fills me with joy. And, of course, in Faeries – hélas, yet another subject on which you hold extreme views (extremely pompous, slightly unctuous ones at that, if I may be so bold).

But before I get you sidetracked into one of your snits, may I say I do not hold you responsible for my present state. True, the tiniest bit of sympathy over the years might have encouraged me to live a more fruitful existence, but neither of us can really help who we are. Our physical selves – as we both know – have been greatly improved by the best surgeons and physiotherapists and trainers and hairdressers (and on and on), but let’s face it, no amount of psychiatry or psychology or Zen or Sartre or mumbo-jumbo is ever going to displace a lifetime’s worth of emotional shit and baggage, is it? I mean, to be honest, no one’s ever going to make you a nicer person, are they – no more than Bedales and Le Rosay and the Sorbonne and The Slade made me any more intelligent or interesting that I already was. Of course, I am extremely dumb, but it’s part of my charm, isn’t it? And then, I’ve always got you to fall back on, haven’t I?

But where was I? Oh, yes… my being dumb – or, at the very least, somewhat thick. I’ve got this incorrigible curiosity, as well, which might be why, when my computer gives off a vile flatulence, I immediately poke my nose into those regions better off left unexplored. Cauldrons of death and unforgetting. Chambers of utter decay. In other words, the nether regions of my accursed PC, my gift from the Gypsies.

To cut a long story short, I peered into the slot – the one so useless when it comes to online purchases. And yes, no matter how much you howl, that is and must be what the fucking slots are good for – for inserting one’s black credit card - otherwise why are they that particular shape and size? And lest you point out that, by the same logic, a vagina is also the perfect shape and size for a cuttlefish, ergo…. I shall point out that this is not the time for one of your ‘voice of reason’ harangues. Not when I poked my nose into the slot in order to see what was going on, and got sucked in. And now? Well, no two ways about it, I am well and truly fucked. Inside my computer and not, as I should be, inside my lovely home (although, technically, since my PC is in the house, I am at home – but you know what I mean). My dearest Forsythia, it is dark in here and forbidding in its shadowy aspect. It is also totally unacceptable, comfort-wise. And I lost one very essential Hedi Slimane bottine in the bargain!

You’ve no idea how much I miss my torn and broken chair, my table with the wibbly leg and missing parquetry, and my cracked Lalique lamp with the soiled shade! Of course, I doubt very much if you remember them, although you should – at least as far as the lamp is concerned. On your eighteenth birthday, I scorched it badly while attempting to make Crêpes Suzette while drunk, and nearly set you alight. At least, I think it was you. Perhaps not. Could it have been someone else’s party and you either weren’t invited or you were in one of your moods and didn’t bother to come? In those days I attended far too many parties for my own good, remembering none of them for more than a minute, and, of course, so many of them were of a nature that placed them beyond the pale - at least as far as your shining innocence was concerned. Ah, to be young and foolish and filled with reckless abandon!

But where am I? Ah… within my Gypsy computer. Well and truly stuck within the cauldron of my beautiful, shiny (well, not really, it’s got more of a matt finish) machine. And the thing is, no one outside of myself knows of my plight. And if by some miracle they should, if – par example – you took the trouble of heaving your whale-bellied self off your delivery room bed and alerting at least one competent person about my circumstance, would it make any difference? Will anyone even care? I suppose I will find out soon or later, but only if and when I hear a great thundering crash – the sign of some sweaty hulk in the employ of the pompiers entering my humble abode to undertake my rescue. And if I hear nothing? If there is never to be that blessed sound, then I shall find some way. Just you wait. Vengeance shall be mine!

I’m very hungry. For some reason not worth mentioning, I dismissed all opportunities to indulge my palate both yesterday and today. There’d been this hint of love handles, you see, and I can bear almost any iniquity save that. So I drank nothing but pastis and three sips of consommé and am feeling like a supermodel at the end of the season. Not only that, but my one bare foot is decidedly cold. One would have thought, what with all the electronic shit lying about, that the abundance of electricity might have heated the room. But no! Apparently, I’m to be denied all the benefits of the twenty-first century. You always did tell me I had much to learn about life.

For wont of anything better to do, I’ve decided to investigate my new surroundings. But first, I’ve simply got to deal with my stomach, which is squealing and making the most absurd sucking sounds. Would you be good enough to send me, in an email attachment, a beautiful hamper of cold poussin and charcuterie and tomatoes and a bottle of red wine and an espresso machine and decent coffee. For fuck sake, don’t forget the fucking coffee, as well as lemon zest, cardamom seeds and three morceaux of sugar. Write it down - you know how you forget things. Remember, I’m in no position to run out to the shops). Also, while you re about it, a bottle of mineral water would be nice, as well, and also a flannel, soap, and something to keep me smelling sweet. Something preferably by Miyake or Gaultier. No Paco Robanne please. Everyone’s grandfather wears that, and you feel like you’re on the metro on a Saturday night. And nothing even remotely American. Wear anything American, and before you know it, you’ll be circumcised and invading third world countries. Remember! Gaultier or Miyake, and send it now. This place is very cramped and I don’t want to offend anyone.

Did I tell you to send them in an attachment? Or two or three, if your computer is rinky-dink. Or you might even drive ZIP files? I realise you are almost as stupid as I am with these things, but do try and get it right. It’s up to you, you see. I doubt very much if the post office will be of much help. They wouldn’t know where to deliver the parcel and, in any case, might not get round to it until after I am dead.

Again, I am mortified not to have attended your little soirée, especially after I went to so much trouble buying matching Robert Cavalli underwear for you and the baby. Forgive me forgive me forgive me, even if you do so against your will and better judgment. - Laurent