French and Saunders on Andy Warhol

I WAS GONNA put this up at the time, when I went through a "poring over Andy Warhol's Diaries" phase. But here ya go now:

FRENCH AND SAUNDERS: ANDY WARHOL SPOOF

Back Home at Last!

YESTERDAY evening I had the bizarre feeling that I was "normal" again. My head was full of rational thoughts and I looked back to my ridiculousness of the past week or so and thought "I'm glad to be myself again". I felt like when you come back from holiday and your house is cold and stale (and in my case, foetid) but hey, it's home! So I'm back at last. [From alleged "hypomania".]

Binky lent me the film A Beautiful Mind starring Russel Crowe as the schizophrenic Nobel Prize winning mathematician John Nash. O boy was he crazy! His entire life seemed to be a fable and then when the doctors come to arrest him I actually thought they were the KGB! Just like the director probably intended. I've never gone mad like that ~ that's paranoid schizophrenia, where a person has an entire delusional structure they live by. My worst madness was far more Confusional than Delusional.

At one a.m. I finally went to bed. And slept. And slept. And woke up at nine feeling "ukh why so early". Except that 1-9 made a perfect eight hours' sleep... But then I drank my methadone and went into the kitchen and spotted something that looked like a Rice Krispie on the microwave but ~ wahey! ~ it was a lump of "B". So I banged that up in my leg and promptly fell asleep. And slept, and slept. And slept and slept and slept. And slept some more. Finally getting up after four. And no, I wasn't gauwching, It was true sleep. A Rice Krispie sized bit of 'eroin would never get me that high. Actually, that stuff doesn't even make me sleep any more. Nowadays if it makes me "high" it's a hyper high, like heroin isn't "supposed" to be. But I've got to the stage now where my mind is so fried I never know what to expect of anything.

Excessive sleep is a warning sign of depression. How can I be depressed when my mind is still full of such marvellous ideas ~ all thought up last week. And apart from some of the names for my clubnight they are marvellous. I mean, I haven't even told you about my fabulous magazine yet. Condé Nast will piss their pants when they see it. The key to success in magazine publishing is obviously ad revenues. I think that's where Andy Warhol went wrong: he never seemed to have a top flight ads team for Interview magazine ~ and I bet he was too stingy to pay them a cut of revenue. Well my mag will be nothing like Interview. Imagine the fabulousness of Vogue but without the boring clothes and you've got it. [You really think I'm going to give out my concept on my blog?] Bulgari, Van Cleef & Arples, Cartier, Tiffany all the big names will be queueing to get in ... It will be for everyone male or female, young or old who is Fresh, Fabulous, Funky and Friendly... the Big Wow of tomorrow...

Anyway... It's late; I've got to go. It's getting dark around 4:30 now the clocks have gone back. But hey, my golden fleece still gleams wondrously in the night...

Monte Carlo Cool

I HAVE JUST ENDURED yet another session of crapping on about drugs in a group. It's so exhausting having to be respectful of other people's sobriety when really all I wanted to say and ~ ha! ~ I did say it was ~ WHAT'S SO WRONG WITH TAKING HEROIN ANYWAY? The only thing wrong with it, as far as I can see is that it's too expensive and illegal.

So when I was put the inevitable question: So why do you want to stop? And do you actually want to stop? I said Well I wanna stop because I'm so BORED of being a junkie and besides it's socially unacceptable and now I'm old I wanna be respectable and not just a great inflated raving hypocrite who still uses on the sly (like Valerie, Australia and the world's Greatest Housewife Heroin Dealer).

Also I intend to become the Andy Warhol of my generation (and I'm not put off by being "old": old, after all, is the new young). I wanna do something new with my life and I don't want to do it on drugs. By Andy Warhol,

I mean the Andy Warhol of children's books. Something like that. Also I want to become a great painter because new canvasses can go for millions these days. Also I plan on becoming a shameless social climber. Well I want to meet interesting people: great artists, fashion designers, photographers, writers, polar explorers and the like. I'd like to meet a real live titled aristocrat ~ just for the novelty value. I've never knowingly met a true upper class person in all my entire life. The crème de la crème of international society shall flock to my fabulous club nights. They will be like a more glamorous Monte Carlo version of Studio 54 (I won't live in London when I'm rich ~ the taxes are too high). I'm also planning to go into business setting things up and finding things for people with too much money and not enough time. Example: if Elizabeth Taylor were alive and wanted to dispose of her Bulgari emeralds on the quiet, I'd broker the deal for her. (Why do you think I want to mix with the rich and the fabulous? To make money off them, of course!) I'd specialize in houses, yachts, planes, art and jewellery. All the stuff I really love! I might also set up an introduction agency for billionaires who want to find heiresses who aren't gold diggers. That would be a good one. I'd make my introduction fee a cool quarter million euros ($322,450.28)... Would that be too much? Or not enough? I don't want to sell myself short...

Anyway back to the drugs. Boring, huh. No more drugs for me. I haven't used for two whole days! Or three actually... maybe... whatever... I can't remember.

There's not much else to post except my elevated mood is falling! How terrible is that. I hate feeling human and fallible and normal. I actually deigned to pick up my writing last night and the last page I wrote was amazing. I wrote it when I thought I was in a hurry or couldn't concentrate and it just goes to show that genuis is unreliable. Because usually when I write something I think is marvellous it turns out to be crap!

Here's some hardcore trance music. Do you know I've just found out the music I really like is called "hard trance" ~ how pathetic is that? To love something dearly your whole life through (from 1998 onwards) and not even know the name of it? As per usual the first track is crap but about 4 mins in it starts getting good (that's the "Dreams" track I posted up before). And I really like the one after it that sounds like aliens in the forest sawing away at a Giant Redwood-sized magic mushroom....



Illustrated: Monte Carlo; Andy Warhol; Elizabeth Taylor's Bulgari emeralds that I want to sell...
BTW: the whole lot went for $24,799,000 (£15,871,360/€19,095,230) ~ which I suppose is a reasonable price but I'm sure I could have got more... but hey if I took just a 5% cut of that, I'd have $1,239,950 (£793,568/€954,761.50) ~ not bad for a day's work...

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Crispy when Wet

I DON'T QUITE know what the title means, but it is indeed what they like to call a "crisp" day here in London. In other words it's BLOODY FREEZING COLD with SUB-SIBERIAN TEMPERATURES. At least it feels that way. My electric fan heater has been belting it out 20 to the dozen. I don't care how much I'm wasting by using one of those things. At least I pay for electricity as I go (mostly on emergency) instead of getting stung by great overestimated British Gas bills every quarter!

I'm just going to have to drop the tiresome bipolar language. I'm not "hypomanic" I'm deliriously happy and isn't it great. I mean yes I'm a bit loud and disinhibited at times but no "racing throughts" or confusion or hallucinations. And I'm only as "grandiose" as I'm Meant To Be. O yeah and I'm losing a single hour of sleep, on average, under my usual minimum (ie I'm on 7 hours: usually I sleep 8-10) and yet that, annoyingly enough, scores me one point on some Mania Rating Scale I once googled up ~ when I scored a good 42 out of 50 (ish ~ I can't remember the bloody numbers now) you know when I went cuckoo last year.

I'm so shocked, offended and ashamed at bearing that nuttly label "schizophrenic" ~ even my GP talks about my "schizophrenia" and I cannot be bothered to tell her I actually suffer from what Emil Kraepelin called Manic-Depressive Insanity (well I do according to his book of the same name). Anyway: I'm so traumatized at having gone stark raving bonkers last year I'm starting to feel I need a brief spate of counselling sessions to get over it! How dreadful is that? The memory of the "disease" is worse than the actual thing!

I am reading the Andy Warhol Diaries. What a blast! He and I are cut from the same cloth: I'm obsessed by all that is fabulous and shallow too. Well I am 85% of the time. The other 15 I'm transcendently profound. Well I like to think so.

Ho hum I have to go. Not much else to say except if I don't get out of here soon I'll miss Downton Abbey!

This is how I know I have "manic-depressive insanity" because here's Andy Warhol in the terrifying grip of delirious psychotic mania just like mine ~ except his is far more florid. Watch closely:~~~~~~~~




Ey! I just did the Mania Scale again and I score 11! O! or maybe a 12. I love this kind of crap: reminds me of the type of nonsense you find in the women's magazines in dental surgeries etc...

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