The Digested Twenty-first Century

by John Crace

  5 January–17 July 2004: The six months of Othello are far too big a story to tell here. I will publish my diaries on this later.

  18 July 2004: Rehearsals start today. The Levi estate adore my script and Nick H promised me the Cottesloe, yet I feel flat. Is The Fear returning?

  27 July 2004: Richard has suggested some punishment exercises to try to access Primo’s psyche within the concentration camp. I am deeply apprehensive.

  30 July 2004: I haven’t been able to write about myself for several days. Richard forbade it. That was my punishment. It may not be quite the same as Auschwitz, but I have been shaking with terror. I can almost sense Primo talking to me.

  18 August 2004: First costume fitting and my shoes from Harrods are perfect. Richard wants me to be more restrained. It feels strange not to over-emote.

  23 August 2004: The day started badly with Greg spilling my champagne but ended well after a session with my therapist. We were talking about The Fear when I said, ‘It wasn’t Auschwitz that made Primo commit suicide: it was his depression.’ ‘You’re so wise,’ she smiled.

  15 September 2004: I have started writing letters to Primo. Dear Primo, I hope you like my play. Love, Tony.

  29 September 2004: A red light came on in the dress rehearsal. How can I work with such distractions?

  30 September 2004: The first night. Everyone thinks I’m marvellous. If only Primo would write back to me ...

  Digested read, digested: If This is an Actor.

  The Letters of Noël Coward

  (2007)

  1915

  Dear Darling old Mummy-snooks,

  You are SUCH a DARLING and I know you don’t love Daddy and Erik nearly as much as me.

  It really is heavenly here and I was a great success in Charley’s Aunt. I just know the West End beckons. I will write every week.

  Your ever ever ever loving Noël

  1921

  Dear Ackie Wackie Weeza,

  Thank heavens the beastly war is over. It played havoc with my nerves. It’s wonderful to be here in New York and I’ve just met Lynn Fontanne. Do you remember her? She played some small parts in London but now she’s become a huge star with her fiancé, Alfred Lunt.

  All my love, you wicked, grasping old bitch,

  Noëlie Wolie Polie

  1925

  Darling lamb,

  GBS has been a little tart with me, but I think Hay Fever and The Vortex will show I have talent. Have met Joyce Carey and Gladys Calthrop; they really are terribly gay even though Paris at this time of a year can be a little de trop

  Your darlingest Snoop

  1928

  Dear Virginia Woolf,

  I am hot and glowing after reading Orlando and I am completely at your feet. It is the finest book de nos jours and if I continue to flatter you like this will you agree to become another of my top 500 bestest chums?

  Yours, Noël Coward

  1935

  Darling Marlene, or should that be Darling Achtung? How are you my Prussian cow?

  The Baybay has been managing my accounts very badly and I fear I am in danger of developing a German sense of humour about it all.

  Love and kisses, Noël

  1941

  Darling Stoj,

  It’s just too, too horrid. Everyone is being nasty, accusing me of doing nothing for the war effort and I’m not allowed to speak out and say that I’m one of the government’s top-secret agents.

  Don’t they realise that getting the Americans onside by writing Don’t Let’s be Beastly to the Germans has shortened the conflict by several years?

  Your miserable Poj

  1947

  Dearest Toley Coley,

  So glad to be back in New York with Marlene. London is so fearfully drab at the moment and no one seems to want my work anymore. I’ve dug out a few plays from the bottom drawer and bashed out some numbers for a revue, but the critics are determined to hate me. Ecris-moi often, ma petite Tolette

  Le Maître

  1952

  Darlingest Queenie,

  When I heard the news that the king had died I thought of your loss and cried and cried. But even though your husband is dead I’d be willing to bet you live to a hundred.

  Your humble servant,

  Noël Coward

  1958

  Dear dear Larryboy,

  Did you not think that Johnny Gielgud was completely underwhelming in Nude with Violin? I hate to be a bitch but it’s a shame to see even a moderate talent wasted.

  I am also involved in a nasty squabble with John Osborne and Ken Tynan. How can they imagine that people want to see the great unwashed on stage? Isn’t it obvious that what the world needs now is a revival of Blithe Spirit? So how about it, Larrikins? Kisses to Vivien,

  The Master

  1966

  Darlings,

  Switzerland and Jamaica do pall, I’m coughing myself into a Firenze.

  But how things change! It seems that in my dotage I have become a national treasure. Everywhere I go I am feted and CBS have offered me $450,000 for three 90-minute specials. I sense it is time to dust off a few more old manuscripts. But most of all, how I long for a gossip.

  Noëllie

  Digested read, digested: His Master’s Voice.

  Ever, Dirk: The Bogarde Letters

  (2008)

  Clermont 1969–1987

  Cadogan Gdns 1987–97

  Darling Josie Posie, Patreeecia, Dilys, Luchino, Penny Lope, Norah and Kathleen,

  Pleese excuse the nastie Basildon Bond Paper and my terribul speling. Tote and I are quite ALOAN here ... we had to leeve all our possesshuns (Is that rite?) in London apart from the Rolls. I’ts so boring that peepul just want the Doctor films. But I will not do that rubbish any moore.

  Do’nt be grumpy Josie Posie*. I was meening to be funny when I told a journlist that you were hideiously pissed most dayz and I have never been the slytest bit upset that you never asked me to do Death in Venice ... Espeshally as I’m now doing the fillum with Luchino. SO THEIR! (Tha’ts ment to be funnie two). You know I LOVE you reely. Luchino, sweetie, I NEVER, EVER said that I was miscast or that you coul’dnt direct me ... Does one want to be a Burton or O’Tool? One must have some self-respect. Everything is terribley expensive here ... I do’nt know how wheel manidge.

  I’m feeling rather mouldy today ... Do’nt menshun another word about the unspeakable Redgrave or Two-Inch Todd. The reviews for The Night Porter have been dissappointing. They were cleerly hopping for some Pekenpaish violence. I DO’NT CARE. We made that fillum for ourselves, not the great UNWASHED. I’ve bored you stiff again. Tote is in the garden and I’m starting to write something.

  I do hope it does’nt turn out like that ghastly Evelyn War.

  The MOST IMPORTUNT DAY of my life ... A Postillion Struck by Lightening is published and it was onederfull to see so many cueing to meetme at Hatchards ... Reiner* dearest, how lucky you are to share your tallent with me. Your lether gang is tres amusant. How I hate the Jappunnese. Their voices still terrify me†.

  Lord Next-Door‡ has been shatturd by the critics reaction to A Bridge Too Far. Do you think I am becuming a littul mannered? I certainly look middle-aged ... Went to an awards do wear Ustinov was talking ... H’es quite funny, I suppose, if you hav’ent hurd the patter befour. Agent sent me a Michael Winner script. Coul’dnt possibly do it. Its AWASH with sperm. The Connaught has become ridiculously expensive. I do’nt know if Tote and I can visit London again.

  I was very good in Despair ... This is not conceit, merely a statement of fact. Had to appeare at nasty Cannes Festivul ... I do detest Americans and Australians ... but it is luvvly to know one is ADORED. Tote’s tests are costing me a fortune ... I fear we’ll have to move back to London. It will feel like an amputation ... But as long as its not Kentish Town.

  Tote’s chemio therepy is hard to bare ... I suppose it must be for him two. So the Patient is dead ... And Ive had a stroke. FUCK, FUCK. But wun must go on. Am stuck on chapter
8 of my leightest book. My others are on the bestseller lists so I must be doing something rite! I hate this new typewritur ... It tries to correct ure speling. Penny Lope, we are not estranged ... Im just not riting to you much. Its me Im interested in, not you. BUT I STILL LOVE YOU. John, Did you read Penelope’s latest book? It’s awefull.

  I am not at all unhappy. I want to get pissed and my charitee work talking about the Holocaust is very demanding. Why is their so much hate in the world? A Chinese familee has moved in downstairs ... I wish they’d go back to Singapore. What’s so good about being 70? No one can act any more. No wun CARES about my ground-breaking work. But at least Penguin want some more of my recycled memoirs ...

  Love and Love, Dirk

  Digested read, digested: I wus Mwahvellous, darling.

  The Pursuit of Laughter:

  Essays, Articles, Reviews & Diary

  by Diana Mosley (2008)

  In as much as we had a home, I suppose it was a small estate called Gloucestershire. My father often used to tell us we were ruined. At times we wondered anxiously where the next party was coming from. ‘You realise that, unlike me, you children are going to have to work,’ he told us. Our blood ran cold; we’d rather marry a duke or a Nazi. (Sunday Times)

  Evelyn Waugh was a much misunderstood man. People say he was a snob, but he was happy talking to anyone, from royalty to landed gentry. The reforms of Pope John XXIII were a great sorrow to him; he couldn’t bear the idea of sharing his Catholicism with the lower orders. This is a very good book. (Letters of Evelyn Waugh, Evening Standard)

  Mr Wildeblood’s book about Lord Montagu’s indecency trial reminds me not just that I once spent a very enjoyable summer at Beaulieu but also that I was unlawfully detained during the 1940s. Prison was horrid; the toilets were revolting and the staff were extremely surly, seldom observing the everyday niceties of please and thank you. This book is very good. (Against the Law, Books & Bookmen)

  With the shooting of the (I do so hate the word fascist) slightly-right-of-centre Dutch politician, Pim Fortuyn, some socialists have suggested that all people who oppose immigration are queers. Not so. A great many sensible people oppose immigration and even though Hitler and that great orator, Sir Oswald Mosley, were both keen on dressing up and homoerotic activities, there was nothing queer about them. (Spectator)

  Many people enjoy porn and the Marquis de Sade was just a flamboyant eccentric who liked orgies and whipping prostitutes. Had he been alive today he would have made a fortune. He may even be head of formula one. This book is very good. (Marquis de Sade, Evening Standard)

  The last time I was in London, some foreigners asked me the way to Harrods. Why does that store say it is in Knightsbridge when it is in fact in the Brompton Road? (Diaries)

  Typically, the Observer censored my letter about how beastly we were to imprison Sir Oswald Mosley during the war for being a patriot by siding with Hitler. We should have a national day to celebrate Britishness. Perhaps it should be on the feast of St Oswald. (Diaries)

  I note that I have chosen not to publish any diaries of my wonderfully happy time in Germany in the 1930s. What a curious oversight. (Diaries)

  Hugh Trevor-Roper makes a number of errors editing Goebbel’s diaries. He describes his villa as palatial. It wasn’t. Unity and I stayed there. This lack of attention to detail perpetuates the misconception that the Nazis were wrong. Otherwise, it’s a good book. (Goebbel’s Diaries, Evening Standard)

  Michael Bloch has written a silly book about Wallis Simpson. She was a great friend and everyone knows her first marriage only failed because of her husband’s drinking. Her love for King Edward VIII was one of the great events of the 20th century and had he not been forced to abdicate, Britain would not have entered a ruinous war with Germany. Not a good book. (Wallis Simpson, Evening Standard)

  AN Wilson is a fearful snob, which is why he always asks me to review books for him in the Evening Standard. He has now given me biographies of Ibsen and Mann, both of whom I have never met. So I will do what I always do under these circumstances; summarise the main points and say they are good books. (Ibsen and Mann, Evening Standard)

  There is an error in the biography of Georgiana. She wasn’t the fifth Duchess of Devonshire. Some might say this is only a small slip, but these things do matter. Especially to my sister, who wrote the foreword to my book. (The Two Duchesses, Evening Standard)

  Digested read, digested: We are family, I got all my sisters with me.

  God Bless America

  by Piers Morgan (2009)

  October 2008, sorry, I mean October 2006. My editor suggests we doctor the ‘diary’ to make it look like I was the first person to spot Barack Obama’s potential. ‘It’ll make you look even more of a heavyweight,’ he says. Who is he calling fat? I still don’t see what was wrong with my original fascinating entry about having lunch at the Ivy with Cheryl Cole and Jason Donovan.

  December 2006 Simon Cowell phones. He’s looking for a not very bright, attention-seeking brown-noser with no self-awareness whatsoever to join him on the judging panel for America’s Got Talent. I look through my Rolodex and shake my head. ‘Can’t think of anyone,’ I reply. ‘You’ve got the job,’ he smirks.

  February 2007 I have been asked to appear on Celebrity Apprentice with Sir Alan Sugar. Alastair Campbell is also a contestant so it’s clearly an A-list event. Alastair and I bond with some competitive arm-wrestling and boasting. These charity events are great for the career. Shame about the viewers.

  April 2007 Ever since I opposed the Iraq war, some people have confused me with a serious political commentator. Gordon Brown is one of them. He invites me to Downing Street to ask what his first move should be when Tony Blair steps down. I tell him he should appear on Strictly Come Dancing and bomb Zimbabwe. I can see he’s taking it seriously.

  June 2007 A nightmare journey to LA. I was dozing in first class when I was pestered by the Duchess of York, Shania Twain, Naomi Campbell, Sharon Osbourne, Fern Britton and Peaches Geldof – all desperate to give me a blow job. Then I woke up. Celia wasn’t best pleased that I had dribbled on her black PVC jeans. Still, it was nice that the TV company had sent a stretch limo to collect me at the airport, though it was the first time anyone had spelled my name Pierce Brosnan on the noticeboard.

  Get to the Beverly Wilshire hotel and phone my agent for the viewing figures for my landmark TV series on Sandbanks. ‘I can’t find them anywhere,’ he says. ‘Then ring ITV,’ I reply. ‘I meant I can’t find any viewers.’

  August 2007 Hillary Clinton has thrown her hat into the presidential ring. I’ve always been a great admirer of hers, unless she doesn’t win the nomination, in which case I will say I’ve always had my misgivings. Tonight is the grand finale of America’s Celebrity Apprentice, the TV show with famous nonentities that no one in the UK has ever heard of. And I win after getting myself filmed next to some crippled war veterans! This is the proudest day of my life.

  October 2007 The government is having to bail out Northern Rock. I always said the financial system was inherently corrupt, ever since two Mirror journalists were done for share-price fixing. Brown phones to say he should have made me chancellor of the exchequer. I tell him he couldn’t afford me and put a block on his calls. His stock is falling and I can’t be associated with failure.

  February 2008 My divorce with Marion is turning nasty. I hoped we would be able to split amicably, but now I’m making loads of cash her lawyers inexplicably feel she is entitled to a share. No way am I parting with the mid-life Maserati.

  June 2008 An invite from Sir Alan Sugar to his 40th wedding anniversary party. No one seems to notice me, so I heckle the speeches. ‘Oh look, it’s that twat Morgan,’ Simon Cowell says. Everyone stares at me. Result! My boys ask if I can bring along some celebrities to their prep school. I pull out all the stops and turn up with Amanda Holden and Gordon Ramsay. ‘We said celebrities, Dad,’ they moan.

  August 2008 I’m disgusted that Jonathan Ross has been leaving vi
le messages on an answerphone. He’s the worst kind of sycophantic sleazeball. He should be doing cutting-edge interviews for GQ, like asking Nick Clegg how many birds he’s shagged.

  November 2008 Gordon’s ratings are up. I might start taking his calls again. And Barack Obama’s been elected president. I’d better ring Sly Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Lily Allen to remind them I said he’d do it.

  Digested read, digested: Piers of the Brain Dead.

  Letters to Monica

  by Philip Larkin (2010)

  My dearest Monica,

  Your letter arrived while I was eating breca in Rabbithampton. I have spent the past three months thinking about a poem I haven’t written and I am utterly disinclined to work. What did you think of the Test squad? I am furious the selectors have left out Laker. Increasingly I find that Thomas Hardy and DHL are the only writers worth reading. I am due to meet E.M. Forster tonight. The only thing I really want to ask him is whether he is a homo. Do you think he cares about rabbits as much as we do? I found the pessimism in your last letter totally inspiring, though I’m sorry you were upset when we last met. I’ve never been very good at the sex thing. If it’s any consolation I was just as bad at it with Patsy.

  How lovely to get your letter when I was alone at home. I’m sorry you were so upset about me and Patsy. It’s just that I found myself in an embarrassing situation for several years in wch it would have been rude to say no and you wouldn’t want Mr Pussy to be rude. Read Lucky Jim. I can’t believe Kingsley has got away with it. The dialogue is awful and all the best gags have been lifted straight from me. I doubt he will ever see fit to recompense me. I suppose I shall have to make do with a flithy bottle of Bo-Jo and a pittance from the Spectator. Tried to write another line of Wedding-Wind and failed. I’d be better off listening to The Archers. Don’t you think Walter Gabriel would be happier if he killed himself?

  I am sorry to hear your mother and father died within a couple of months of one another. Still, it could have been worse. I have had a terrible haddock for a couple of days and the coal man hasn’t delivered so I am freezing to death. Count yourself lucky. I do find you quite attractive even though I rarely pay you any attention and am uninterested in the sex thing. You can blame my Mum. Bob Conquest came round; he’s basically a cheerful idiot. I can’t read another word of Jane Austen or CP Snow. Give me Beatrix Potter any day.