The “naked woman,” whose presence in my copy of the 337
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Guardian necessitated its confiscation, is actually made of marble. My sexual addiction hasn’t yet involved the molestation of sculptures. I don’t—on seeing the Venus de Milo—think
“Phwooar! I wouldn’t mind a go in her armpit.”
Why am I always being sent to these places? I just want to make people laugh
01/04/05
The joke’s on me—I’m in a sex addict’s hospital. April Fool.
Initially what I’m finding difficult is the culture of aphorisms, platitudes and—beyond that I suppose—the whole American celebratory/therapeutic culture. I suppose all therapy is American in a way—it was here, after all, that Freud became all-encompassing . . . I just feel so En glish amidst all this homespun backslapping and animal-impersonating (they actually meow like cats on hearing the word “love”)
02/04/05
Old Popeychops is dead . . . wonder if the Sun’ll do a pun?
Freaked out and threatened to leave. Changed my flight to tomorrow night, then had a few pleasant chats and a game of Boggle and felt better. Boggle with sex addicts is up there with go-kart racing with junkies. Words included “orgy,” “tits,” “rape,”
“teat” and “teen.”
Spoke to Sarah—she was fabulous. I love her. She was strong and said I should try
03/04/05
Still here. Intense day. Went to Philadelphia art museum where the potency of my sexual appetite came crashing back into my life
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04/04/05
A few funny things . . .
At an SLA (sex and love addicts) meeting last night one bloke candidly spoke about how he can now masturbate healthily and safely—“I’m practicing healthy self-touch and masturbation”
like it had some spiritual value, like his wanking was an ode to God or some charming natural phenomenon like birds nesting or squirrels hiding nuts. He was all earnest and American I thought—it don’t matter if there was a joss stick burning and Enya playing, you were still just laying on your back having a wank like a filthy Bonobo. A Bonobo in a smoking jacket grinning and strumming his cock is not evidence of spiritual evolution.
Someone in my group, Lee, mid-forties Californicator who speaks fluent New Age but is quite cool, was proselytizing and I said, “Lee, you have the soul of a poet.” He said, “I am a poet—I’ve written over a hundred poems,” which, I think, is about the least poetic thing I’ve ever heard.
I miss Sarah and feel jealous and resentful of her continuing life. I imagine her to by now have adjusted to my absence and be frolicking in springtime ecstasy with a series of dashing suitors.
I have practiced yoga for the few days I’ve been here and watched the clock with the hollow fervor that only the incarcerated know.
The KeyStone building is a gray stone house surrounded by crossroads and traffic lights, perpetually amber. They never say
“Go.” I am in Chester near Philadelphia. The sister institution for junkies and drunks is across the street, many of its graduates on discovering that they’re colossal perverts make the short trip to the E.C.U. (extended care unit), heads rattling with 339
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jargon. There is an interesting cross section of deviants here.
My roommate Arthur who molested his foster daughter now spends his time groping for words in puzzle books or Boggle, which he plays with Peter—a well-groomed, silver-bearded Christopher Lee figure smiling, clean-toothed and chummy.
Peter had sex with his wife’s sister when she was twelve. Th ey
are both nice blokes.
I hope I can continue to journal long enough to inform you of the menagerie in its entirety. But you know me . . .
The chief problems I confront are integrating and missing Sarah. I’ve not had an orgasm since early on the morning of the 31st. Sarah and I had a lovely meal at Ravel’s unpretentious bis-tro, down the road in Hampstead, dear sweet beautiful Hampstead. I’m not nearly as unpretentious as Ravel’s where I’ve twice seen Michael Palin and his wife.
We ate well, Sarah and I, in an alcove—which is now our table, and I must strike from my memory the previous meals I’ve eaten there with previous “victims,” as Philip Sallon calls them.*
Sarah is the first girl I’ve given the best seat—back against the wall—I usually sit there.
We then quarreled because I made some joke during one of her anecdotes from adolescence, which in her case is not particularly distant. She is, after all, nineteen.
She sulkily picked spots in the bathroom. I lost my temper; feeling unable to contact her I smashed a glass, and to demonstrate the depth of my angst I gestured self-destructively to my wrists. There was some screaming and hollering, blood coagu-lated on the toilet seat—she went all Florence Nightingale. We cleared up together.
* Philip Sallon is a flamboyant gay man who was an integral fixture in the ’80s London party scene.
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The cut was a minor one on the fourth finger of my right hand which impacts the way I write and reopens each time Lee sincerely shakes my hand.
It’s difficult to maintain dignity when you’re traveling in a group of more than eight people, especially in a van. You feel like a spastic . . .
05/04/05
Met Dr. Kauffman yesterday who, from behind his spectacles, laptop and mustache, told me I have bipolar disorder—manic depression—and recommended I take Abilify, some mood-stabilizing drug.
Tomorrow I am the “bus driver.” That means the group leader.
It isn’t an honor I’ve earned, it is issued on a rotational basis, and means I will be responsible not only for giving fifteen-, ten-, fi ve-and one-minute warnings before each group leaves, but also for making sure there’s a good “meowing” atmosphere.
Tonight’s trip to the shops was good fun. People are starting to show an interest in my comedy and stuff. I’ve made people laugh, and they keep saying “that’ll be good material.” In our “Good-night Share” last night I said, “I feel better now I’ve been integrated and accepted, although I am being accepted by a bunch of perverts—is that the only place I’ll fit in?” . . .
Miss Sarah and have been informed that the postie is an irresponsible drunkard who should be a resident at KeyStone, not collecting letters and dropping off parcels—but in fact Al (always on about being raped as a kid, looks like a hybrid of Colin Farrell’s “Bullseye” character in Daredev il and Bill Sykes’s dog in Oliver Twist) said he never received any of his expected mail containing cash and that he’d seen the postie swigging booze on his bike: “Why do you think he’s always chewing gum?”
Al asked.
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Al is a bit nuts. However I saw the postie with my own eyes and placed Sarah’s letter adorned with a plethora of Yank-Stamps, which I got off Paul H (a gynecologist who had an affair with a patient—inevitable). He did look a bit indiff erent and all too hasty . . .
N.B. Not keen on taking the old Persian rugs, although happy to get further confirmation of the glamorous bipolar disorder*
06/04/05
This “bus driver” lark ’s going alright—mostly it entails bellowing up the stairs and a bit of mucking about and rabble-rousing . . .
Today it is bright and sunny—I hung my washing on a tree in the grounds and climbed it
Alice Phenis and Deborah Kuntz join the list of improbably named staff, alongside baby-faced doctor Travis Flowers. Th is
rubbish writes itself
07/04/05
The day ended with a “Good Evening” group in which the group wanted to install me as permanent bus driver and chanted “Four More Years!” This led to me getting a bit overexcited and showing off too much in the final group session 08/04/05
We did a shame confession exercise where people admitted sha
meful acts from their past—cue tales of child molestation, public wanking and group sodomy from anxious catamites.
This has made my mind feel heavy, and the air is a thick noxious
* “Persian rugs” is once more rhyming slang: it means drugs. It’s one of my favorites.
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treacle that clogs and burns my weary lungs. I yearn for some clean, bright expanse—a Shangri-La in which to sit, away from all this
Obviously, I have developed an intoxicating crush on my female counselor, Erika. She’s twenty-six and has quite big tits (36DD/E). I spend our sessions doing nought but posturing.
Starved of female company as I am, she is—to me—a glacier of unattainable beauty
Watched Malcolm X—great story but overlong and indulgent film making
09/04/05
I dedicated a song to each member of the group and we listened to them in the grounds. It was very sweet
Eventful day including Paul H (gynecologist who fucked patient) punching out his aggression on a punch-bag in the gym downstairs
Just watched Invasion of the Bodysnatchers—tosh Tomorrow morning I awake at seven to call Sarah—my phone embargo is at an end—I already feel like I’m picking a fight . . .
10/04/05
Spoke to her—she’s really missed me and was all teary and emotional. It made me feel secure. I know time will continue to pass and that I’ll soon be with her
11/04/05
I suppose it’s an indication of my further integration that my diary entries are growing shorter and less frequent. John called yesterday—got straight into badgering him about my career . . .
Apparently things look good with Efourum . . . was tortured by 343
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mad hard- on all night—the puppet of my own desire. I fought not to wank. I feel like I’m at war with biology, battling millions of years of evolution
14/04/05
A few crazy days of contact with London—quarreling with John about going on holiday—the dates clashed with work.
Sarah spoke to him, this made me adore her
I’m now in the grounds watching frolicking squirrels who seemingly have no idea that they are at a center for sexual addiction. They come only for the vim of spring
In the spazz bus the whole group sang “The Star- Spangled Banner”—fifteen perverts in unison. They all knew it. American sex crooks are still patriots
We went to an NA meeting. I enjoyed being among proper junkies
16/04/05
Over halfway now. Did an exercise where we had to write letters to our parents as if we were children. We used our nondominant hands and childish language. I struggle with the mawkish implications and tenor of these practices, but they are evocative 18/04/05
Had to write a victims’ list—a litany of the women I’ve wronged as a result of my sexual addiction. I feel like Saddam Hussein trying to pick out individual Kurds . . .
12:20 P.M.
Bill has just been thrown out. Apparently he was flirting with the (hideous, old) cleaner and groped her arse. So he’s gone . . .
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There was very little spirit of mutual consolation among the men afterward—seems it’s every perv for himself I leave in eleven days. I want to try and remember funny stuff like—Lee saying “I lived a double life for ten years—I think I can manage a game of Balderdash”
That bloke Phil’s healthy wanking story
Fitting in—with a flock of perverts
Transforming lust energy into healthy “walk in the park”
energy
19/04/05
Big cultural shift in the group after Bill’s well-deserved banishment. The scriptural prophesy, “The meek shall inherit the earth,”
came to a limited fruition when the ever-increasing contingent of squares wanted a change to end spontaneity and fun . . .
The conflict centers around the bizarre repertoire of slogans, yelps and squeals that make up our morning and evening groups.
Despite my initial disdain for this culture of mawkish clichés and primitive bonding rituals, I came to identify with it as necessary and even charming. But the changing balance of power in our deviant menagerie now decrees an end to such practices There have been a series of notable departures. Th ey were
replaced by Greg, an octogenarian,
leather-faced,
hangdog,
disgraced gunslinger-looking bloke from New Mexico. He is a psychologist long and aloof, held tall by a scaffold of pom-posity bent by his years and trade. Carlos, an immigrant from the Dominican Republic, brown with lazy, heavy-lidded eyes that for the first week streamed with constant salty rivers of regret. Typical of the new arrivals is Eric, a gap-toothed, gargoyle-faced Tweedledum, addicted to naught but rules. He is either a big midget or a tiny big-headed regular person. In groups he 345
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announces, “I’m an alcoholic sex addict drug addict codepen-dent compulsive overeater.” I doubt he’s smoked more than an eighth of grass in his entire life
20/04/05
Set the alarm because I am bus driver today. Awoken at 7 a.m.
by Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love”
21/04/05
Jacob, whom I liken to a well-intentioned, freckled Th under
Bird puppet—has just informed me of his recommendation that I stay another week. Ha, Ha, Ha. I imagine him in a silver space suit. Homespun “aw shucks!” earnest kind nods and platitudes before groovin off in his H.P. metallic gleam mobile.
The church opposite chimes out its prerecorded religious melodies seemingly on a whim. Currently it’s belting out “Ave Maria” like there’s no tomorrow. But of course there is a tomorrow, and I shall be spending it here while spring explodes around me, the trees drool voluptuous blooming squirrels and this pair of red-breasted starlings eye each other up like strangers in the night exchanging glances. Amidst this fecundity I reside, seden-tary, glum and taut with raging celibacy.
John just informed me that Efourum—now renamed Big Brother’s Big Mouth—will be screened on Channel 4. What do you want from me? Use me for your ends, or for pity’s sake let me know the snug embrace of the grave
23/04/05
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physical ailments. I hurt my wrist yesterday, “have an Ibuprofen,”
and, later when I hurt it again, “take some more stabilizers.”
I took one of Arthur’s completed crosswords out of the bin today. It was gibberish
Ah, a lovely stroll down memory pain . . .
After KeyStone I did continue to have sex with adult human females, but I made sure it didn’t interfere with my work. Th is is
the point that my life changed, the point that you may have become aware of me. Efourum became Big Brother’s Big Mouth, a change suggested by Mark Lucey who, when he began to work on the show along with Iain “Coyley” Coyle, transformed it from a parasite show into an independent piece of comic television of which I am proud. Coyley, a big slab of humanity with a teddy boy–looking bonce, thought of the “wand” microphone, and the inclusion of the viewers’ recorded messages; also he did the voice of “Little Paul Scholes” and hid inside the whale costume and horse’s head to inhabit “Rosebud,” to provide characters and items that were, as far as I can work out, fuck all to do with Big Brother.* Mark Lucey, a twinkle-eyed, soulful, QPR
fan, was forever saying things like, “Nice to be working on a Big Brother spin- off show . . . if anything,” and “ ’Citing,” which formed part of the lexicon of the show. More importantly, the two of them—as well as being excellent producers—are comedy aficionados and approached making that lovely little TV show as if there were no consideration other than having a laugh.
* “Teddy
boys” were the punks of the ’50s, so-called because they wore Edwardian-cut jackets; they also wore rubbish: thick-soled, brothel-creeper shoes and had big daft quiff s.
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We used to watch footage from the main Big Brother show in hysterics, particularly the racism, THAT WAS A JOKE; but in fact it illustrates rather well the mentality we had: it was, how far can we push this show and it still fulfill its remit to the channel. “Ballbags,” “Pulled down my trousers and pants” and
“the swine!” Juvenile, silly catchphrases, all born of us lot just larking about. We also used to fuse those daft outbursts with irrelevant, esoteric references to art and literature. It made the show funnier and more popular than it had any right to be.
More people started to come and see me do stand-up, a craft that I had been practicing for eight years, with material that had been written over a lifetime. I became employable, 6 Music gave me a little show that I did with Matt and Trevor Lock, the NME asked me to host their awards. Opportunities began to arise and I was prepared. More importantly, I was surrounded by people who love me, who made it their business not to let me self- destruct. The most rewarding aspect of writing this book has been to record the kindnesses I have been shown by all the wonderful people I’ve been privileged enough to know. John, Nik, Matt, Karl, Gee, John Rogers, Martino, Chip—all these strong, intelligent men. And women: girlfriends that have saved me from poverty and insanity, absorbing my madness, demands and indiscretions, and Sharon, my stylist, who I adore and who is like a sister to me. Hers is the only female friendship I’ve maintained. Since I was first at MTV, I’ve been stuck with her—she comes from an estate in South London, but really likes horses (where’d she get that habit?) and speaks as fast as I do, faster sometimes. Lynne, who looks after my house and makes me and the cat eat food and ignores my indiscretions as resolutely as I imagine she did Steve Coogan’s, who she looked after before me.
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And Nicola, who does my makeup. Who reminds me a little bit of my beloved nan, the way she rolls her eyes at me with weary ac ceptance and affection. At the times when I’ve been bilious with self-pity and self-loathing, I’ve thought “Look at these people that love you,” all these amazing people. I can’t be that bad. I’ll write another book one day about how it feels to become famous—it’s berserk, amazing; but to the people who know me I’ve been famous for ages. Nothing really changes, now I’m just a rich poor person.
My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up Page 30
