How did you get into journalism? Slogged my
way through local papers from the age of 21, sleeping with
anybody who could help me (I was beautiful then, of course) until
I enjoyed overnight success at the age of 47. You can meet anyone living or dead. Who do you chose?
Well, if I had to meet somebody who was dead, I would prefer it
to be somebody who had corpsed at least 150 years ago, because
there would be no chance that they were still reeking of
putrefaction. Oh, I see what you mean; for entirely immoral
reasons Marilyn Monroe before Arthur Miller got to her. How would you advise a woman to respond to the
advances of a potential ‘microwave man’?
“Potential”? You either are a Microwave Man, or you
aren’t. I would advise her to sleep with people she wanted
to sleep with, and not to hang around waiting for men to make the
running, which is, frankly, an act of craven passivity which sets
back the cause of liberation by decades. What would be the perfect start to a day? The
phone rings. It’s my publisher. Not only does the UK love my
new novel, but it has taken the States by storm. David Letterman
wants me (in a media way), Tom Cruise wants to be me (in a
cinematic way) and Rupert Murdoch, shocked to learn of the meagre
salary I have been receiving from his faceless minions, and
determined to make amends for the years of wage slavery, wants to
court me (in a slacks-and-sensible- shoes way). Is a microwave meal best eaten shared? Hell
no; it’s best not eaten at all. Having said that, it is
pathetically easy to switch on a woman’s caring instincts by
inviting her round for a meal and then dorkishly
“preparing” something for the micro from Tesco’s
Finest range – it’s a short step to a post-nutritional
sympathy shag. Which fruit would best describe you and why? A
bruised peach, because it sums up the roughness of my surface
texture, contrasting so poignantly with my soft, internal
vulnerability. Or possibly an enormous banana (but not as
yellow). Do you ever worry about being too exposed? Hardly:
my body is a mausoleum. All people really want to hear about is
shagging. And you would be surprised by how upset a shaggee can
become when she reads an account in a national newspaper of how
much fun I have just had with a third-party. But hey, as I always
pompously say: invite an artist into your bed and you are bound
to get paint on your sheets. It’s no dejeuner sur
l’herbedown here in the gutter, I can tell you. Last words? Read me in T2, every Friday in
The Times, email me, offer me money and I will mention you in my
upcoming book. Unless you’re a bloke, obviously. Or studying
engineering.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

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