I’ve decided that that I’d like to invite Robinson Crusoe to my fantasy dinner, so that we can chat palm trees and Ray Mears techniques.
You’re allowed eleven guests, fictional, dead or alive.
I would also like to get Christian Bale along and maybe Stalin as a youngster because I have an old-fashioned, secret and guilty crush on him (I’m sure it’s wrong, I know, but check him out), which I’d very much like to get to the bottom of. Bale is more than welcome for his audacious smugness/misplaced self-deprecation alone: “I would like to say acting is a difficult job, but it’s actually damn easy and pretty pointless”. Although, equally worrying and ever so slightly obsessively, he has a rather large amount of brownie points in credit with me at the moment and therefore Can Do No Wrong. Other guests I am swilling around in the chipped-toothed imperfection of my gathering are Bob Dylan (predictable, but great), Mad King Ludwig (as long as he doesn’t scare me), JG Ballard and Alexandre Dumas (who I always maintain is an ancestor) as well as the Godmother from the book Marigold’s Godmother who has happily scarred my mind more than any other fictional character, ever.
I have also decided that this blog will be going through a NOTES AS FAR FROM THE NEWSROOM AS POSSIBLE hiatus. It may just turn out to be a brief stage or a fleeting sojourn or it may develop into an all-out era, just as long as it is inspired by my honourable dinner guests.