Hippodrome London Book Launch. Countdown to April 3rd Diary Day 1

Also a tie in with my talk at the Ink Festival: We'll do the Show Here!

Ken Levison, writer, editor, dramaturge of brilliance, rang to say that I of course must perform Dulcamara the quack doctor's aria in my book show at the Hippodrome London. 'How nice of them to lend you the theatre! Gosh. Yes, I listened to your CD. And speaking as a layman I think you have a beautiful voice and should be doing the character parts in opera, because you have a sense of humour. And, let's face it, are no longer - perhaps never were - the ingenue.'
Brera PR agrees with me that acrobat Stefan Alexander in his underwear would be a good selling image in certain quarters. 'But for something like the Woman's Weekly, let's go more with you as Madame Galina off-stage. Perhaps some crocuses at your feet. No, not strewn on the carpet, go out for a walk.'
This reminds me, idly, of my mate Gerard's younger brother, Montgomery, asking not to have any more of those leaves (kelp) in his breakfast smoothie 'from bloody well outside!'
Singing practise, ballet practise, two thousand seven hundred and six words of the new novel done.

Comments

Me Featuring in The Sunday Times, Nicely...

This happened. The editor thinks it's a book of dog sitter stories waiting to happen. I am scribbling away at same... I first house-sat by accident. I was originally at Haven House, Lembton, as a live-in safety net for Lady Olive Simmonds, a seventy-nine year-old Bostonian with a lilac afro, a Temazepam habit and leg ulcers. Haven House was by the sea. Eighteenth century, elegant, comfortable. But there was Olive... Always in pain; either drunk, hungover or both; barely educated. She had married a man who was knighted, and believed this gave her a licence to be a twat. According to Olive, her fellow Lembtonians were all dull academics - this group having reading ages older than hers, which was thirteen - or failed schizophrenics. She had serious monophobia, with staff working (unnecessarily) every day apart from weekends. At weekends, first thing, anxious, she would ring round the Lembtonians that were still speaking to her - six in number - inviting them for coffee, ...

In The Times again...

The Marine Says I Must Re-queer...

Being camp in Camp Basra... Stacks, ex-Royal Marines Commando, recently watched my Tutu Went AWOL! show on Zoom. He had notes. I was shifting from foot to foot, he said, and gesturing too much. 'And you must put back the stuff about the Brigadier and your fellow comedian being homophobic...' The Brigadier had been sneering about my act, saying it would be more suited to Butlins. But, more importantly, he believed I was an 'inappropriate influence on 42 Commando'. Stacks, deadpan, commented, 'Sir, before Iestyn started hanging out with us, sir, it had never occurred to him to play Tiddlywinks with anything other than his thumb, sir.' My fellow comedian, who I'll call Mark, because that's his name, asked Reg, Garrison Sergeant Major, in front of ...

Iestyn Edwards is...what?

Search This Blog