Finding myself under Nicholas Parsons was a dream come true
I’m in Edinburgh but – get this – I’m here as part of the book festival. No raucous, drunken punters baying at me for the usual filth, just an audience of fragrant, white-haired literary types, keen to hear me read from my novel, Murder Most Fab. It’s a sad fact, however, that the novel is full of the aforementioned filth.
They listen politely as JD, the hero of my novel, explains why he was born to be a male prostitute: "My enormous, proud and ever-ready member could twitch and throb." You can take the dingy man out of the comedy club, but you can't take the dingy comedy out of the man.
After my reading I was interviewed by the crime writer Peter Guttridge. "Is writing fiction very different to writing comedy material?" he asked. "Different from would be correct English," I said. Dear, oh dear. I've only been published five minutes and I think I'm Lynne Truss.
Happy to see punters strolling about Charlotte Square clutching copies of my book, I indulged in a glass of cheap white wine, which proved rather moreish. Luckily the teetotal boyfriend was on hand to watch over me. It's alleged I climbed the stairs to our hotel room on my hands and knees, but we only have his word for that. Quite frankly I could have spent the night getting down and dirty with Greyfriars Bobby, for all I remember.
Next day, delicate but determined, I dived into the festival to see some shows. I was in no mood for heavy drama, and decided some gentle singing would be the order of the day. First I went to see the fabulous Bob Downe (son of Ida Downe) in Live and Swingin'. Then it was off to see the amazing Barb Jungr sing Dylan like the enigmatic diva she is.
Ploughing through the Fringe programme isn't easy, but I squealed with excitement when I saw that Dana Gillespie was here. I first saw her when I was 14, and it was watching her sing the innuendo-laden blues that sparked my interest in such matters.
Thirty-four years later, here she was, standing before me in a cloud of jasmine perfume singing: "Give me power steering/Feel the thrust, lubrication and anti-rust/Push your pedal to the floor,/Come on baby, I'll open the door." Heaven.
By then my hangover was getting the better of me and we took a taxi home. The driver said: "You're the second-most famous person I've had in the back of my taxi." "Who's number one, then?" I asked. "Nicholas Parsons." I'm more than happy to find myself under Nicholas Parsons. In fact, it's a dream come true.
My mother isn’t pleased. I told the Daily Express that I would pose naked for Peta for its campaign to persuade the Queen’s Guards to make their hats out of synthetic fur, thus saving grizzly bears the inconvenience of being killed.
"You don't have my permission to take your clothes off," she said. "Anyway, I expect the Queen will cave in, just to save the nation from having to look at you in the buff."
I like the idea of blackmail being cross-pollinated with aesthetic displeasure. There's mileage in this. It has legs, as they say in television. Gay folk have always thought along these lines. If only there were more homosexuals in the world there would be no need to kidnap, behead, bomb or invade. Less drastic measures would pay dividends.
I'm firmly convinced that if a gay George Bush had told a gay Saddam Hussein that unless he relinquished power he'd have the floor of the Oval Office laminated, there'd have been no need for all that unpleasantness with a rope. "We can't have that," Saddam would have said, possibly with an attractive lisp. "When would you like me to leave, girlfriend?"
Still, it's too late now. Heterosexuals predominate, and I guess that's something to do with the survival of the species, even if it does mean badly co-ordinated soft furnishings. Whether that is a price worth paying is a matter for debate.
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