Friday, 12 August 2011

Velvet Goldmine

I’ve been acquainted with novelists who’ve published several volumes of memoires in less time than I spend between blogs. But I suppose it is quality over quantity, which is a shame as that means me, and therefore you lose on both accounts.

So to what great honour does the planet owe the joy of an episode from the Godwin Chronicles?  Well I do have a lot to say, it’s just I'm very bad at getting around to saying it. It is my gift to you of course and I should give you one more often I know.

I’m drawn to the pen following a riotous week, a golden find, an absent friend and a great, great loss.


I was telling one of the neighbours (unmarried) the other night about the legendary evening Eartha Kitt touched my face - in Brixton, at the Daisy Chain. The reason I had Eartha and heady nights misspent in Brixton fresh in mind was because I had been delving deep into my velvet archive (I’m very supple these days) and had come across a most wonderful find.

A diary, and I’ve kept diaries on and off over the years, but this one had been kept over a number of very special years - 1995 (AD) to 2000. Now these years eagerly represent my first prime. The fall and decline of the much chronicled marriage to the second Mrs Godwin through to taking the keys to my first owner occupied garden duplex and the dawn of the noughties. What was as interesting as the gems within, were the pages of life I hadn't even bothered to crank up the solid state for at all. But what was there was golden – shocking at times, exhausting often, some upsetting, some enlightening, but all golden. A veritable velvet goldmine.

I had been spurred on by one of my dearest and most Gloriaous overseas correspondents who had been reviewing her own diaries in order to put some facts straight in a forthcoming Hollywood blockbuster she is writing for me to star in. I thought, well, I could give a few opening gambits worthy of a producers sniff - so let's see what I can find. And did I ever find.

I had to sit down in a darkened room for 36 hours with only Dolly fanning me for company and a bottle of Wincarnis zero for sustenance. But as I recovered and I re read, I laughed and I cried, and I blushed with shame and excitement.

Let's just say that I was amazed at the stamina the young have for intimacy and over exuberance. Most of it seems to revolve around getting drunk, snogging men, making bad decisions regarding men, getting over men, meeting more men, laughing (heads thrown back), drinking some more, going out with Ade, blagging our way into clubs and private views, moving house, hating my job, getting mentioned in autobiographies, going to Duckie, drinking, dashing between auditions, international singing sensations, espionage, more drink and the thing I was best at above all else - smoking, lots and lots of smoking. Smoking and red wine - like blood and air to me.

And the choices and decisions – oh my! The 42 (looks 32) year old me was screaming at the computer, exasperated at the judgements I made - about men. Nearly all of them were bad, but not all of them, and there was certainly lots of fun had making the mistakes and a few jewels in between. Every tale ended with 5 trademark words ‘And we were so drunk!’ But God bless Mr Hall though for entertaining and taking care of me through thick and thin.

So what else? Oh yes, well we’ve been plagued by the feral underclasses. There’s nothing to be said that hasn’t already apart from the fact that I did sleep with a bucket of water by the front door and a big stick by the bed! And I will be voting for whichever party agrees to bring back flogging the fastest.

Moving on.

Health and fitness as some of you already know, has been very close to my heart since the spring. I’ve been on this friggin’ diet but it has paid off. 1700 calories a day, and I’ve lots 35lbs, look 20 years (months) younger and can once again fit into my figure skating glitter and sash velcro combo. It feels like a minor miracle, and I am most pleased. But bigger than that, I’ve gone and given up the booze! You know I haven’t even noticed it, and have certainly not missed it, apart from the wine calories I’ve shed and the wine £s I’ve been able to divert to new wardrobe expenses. And not one single hangover for 4 and a half months – lovely.

So I do need some new vices, and some of my advisers have suggested I get back in the ‘swing of it’ but really at my age? My years of damp patches and missed periods are over, surely. So what then? Maybe I should make Sophia happy and finally write that novel! If I do, I promise you’ll all be in it, and we’ll all be played by much younger people in the biopic.

I thought I best try and get fit now that I’ve lost the poundage. So I dusted off my trusty Wii fit ™, recharged the batteries and slipped into a t-shirt and, well I was just in my pants actually – steady ladies. So I step on, and the cheeky fucker says it’s been 485 days since your last visit, but my, haven’t you lost weight! I didn’t know you were supposed to go on it more than once. Adrian says I should chuck it in the bin and have a wine, but I think I'll Percy Veer. Well I don't get out much.

Look, that’s quite enough of that; I’ve kept you all up long enough.

In other news – there’s still no word on my WI membership application! Men!


Michael Patrick McKinley said...

SO good to have you back on the blog block, Mr. Godwin. I do have a question for you. What is a WI membership?

Will said...

Women's Institute. They don't allow men. Yet! said...

team gloria is sure that there are some enlightened WI that allow "house-husbands" - they're all the rage in NYC, love. (house-husbands, not the WI - we think the Americans call it something different)

we were TICKLED PINK to see a new post.

write more.

we demand it (ever so prettily).

_tg. xx