Knowing from personal experience that Alistair enjoys the life of a rampant libertine, I was frankly amazed when I discovered that he wrote. The idea of him forgoing his 'swilling, scoffing and squelching sessions' in order to produce art felt tantamount to a hippo giving up its wallowing time to write a West End play. And yet Alistair's creative cravings are easily the equal of his baser ones; having produced poems, plays, short stories and elsewhere on this site, 'Arse Appreciation' (or 'AA' as he likes to call it with a wink). A writer of barbed wit with a relish for satire, these pages will be a showcase for some of his lost treasures which have remained unseen for decades.
The first work I have chosen is a short piece called A Patron of the Arts which was originally published in an underground magazine called Gazonkers
in 1996. Alistair has said that he based the work's titular character on his Aunt Celia who was a perennial spinster with a weakness for 'artistic' boys.
Unfortunately all of the young men she fell for also had a weakness: money, which she had in abundance.
He moved his stuff in last week. Not a lot really - CDs, a few clothes - very beatnik. He says possessions weigh down creativity. It's nice to have someone else in the flat again. Do you know it's three years since Jimmy.... No Victoria, don't think about it. It still upsets me you know - the way things... Well, no need to explain to you Felicity. You've had your own share of heartbreak with Philip. Alex says he can only write in the flat when he's alone. Every time he's touched by creativity he gives me a ring on the mobile and I take a room in a hotel. Of course when I get home there's half-empty wineglasses, upturned coffee tables, peanuts on the chaise longue. Anyone else would think he'd been having a party there. Alex likes to act out his characters you see. He says it's the only way he can make them come alive on the page. His latest novel's set in the nineteenth century. It's about a young group of impoverished hedonists who prey on the rampant sexual appetites of rich, aging society women. I've put him in touch with a few contacts at Penguin and Bloomsbury. There's bound to be a bidding war. No, Alex is nothing like Jimmy. He was a dirty scrounger. I should've kicked that little toerag back to his grimy corner of Battersea. An Abstract Sculptor he called himself! I made better plasticine models when I was five!
I found them doing it on my eighteenth century oak dining table you know. The one that Daddy had given me for my fortieth birthday - Jimmy and this little tart. She couldn't have been much older than nineteen. Pumping away on top like a little steam engine. Girl Power! I ask you. They've no self respect these days Felicity. At least they'd had the decency to remove the Victorian candlesticks.
'Diminished responsibility' the Judge said. Thank God Daddy knew him from Harrow - my lawyers were next to useless. He kept going on about how I'd forgotten to take my oestrogen, what with the excitement of meeting Jimmy. But you can imagine how I felt Felicity - finding him and that bitch writhing about on a piece of valued furniture. I suppose it was fate that the carving knife had been left out like that. He won't be straddling any antiques again!
Oh Felicity, I've just had a wonderful idea. Why don't I buy Alex a new writing desk. It'll be a sort of moving-in present. I'll surprise him. I know he doesn't like me coming back to the flat while he's stimulated but I'm sure he'll forgive me. Alex'll love it. Well, what do you think?