Sunday. A quiet day to replenish the soul. Spoiled by a call from Richard Breamore, complaining about Punk’s behaviour at Lords yesterday. Apparently, Punk got drunk, and made a pass at Richard the B’s niece, who was accompanying him. It occurs to me that Richard the B may be particularly peeved, because it would appear that the pass was successful -perhaps I have finally found a use for Punk.
He was unfortunately unable to save the English cricket team, who succumbed today without so much as whimper.
Punk’s literary efforts continue to trouble me. At 4.30 pm, I took a call from Karen Aires, who has received a draft of Punk’s early chapters. Karen is a long time acquaintance of mine, a formidable writer and generally good egg – as well as being the thinnest person in Manhattan. I was disturbed that she actually enjoyed Punk’s writing, and wishes to know if he is able to include more sex, drugs and violence. This would be rather like asking if Richard Burton and Oliver Reed were able to play the parts of ageing alcoholic actors.
It seems that I may be failing in my attempts to limit the chronicles to 'true to life stories about the everyday business of music'.
James next door has family visiting. Fortunately, they have improved the standard of aural pollution, which this evening comes courtesy of the Dirty Dozen. Eminem is a true talent – the first white man that can really rap.
As I close the day, my thoughts are with George Harrison and his family.