Over the last few months I've received a number of emails from regular visitors to WordJam asking if I can tell them a little about myself. Flattered by this display of personal interest, although somewhat wary of giving away details about my private life, I did try writing a mini-biog and resumé; modesty, however, got the better of me and all I could come up with was a single sentence that read: "mind your own business, you nosey bastards."
Instead, I've plucked a few choice extracts from my diaries, which I'm sure you'll agree shed light on the complex, enigmatic figure that is Richard English and his legacy to the world. In sharing this information, I hope to break down the barriers of distance and geopolitical borders to foster close and everlasting friendships with all my readers (as long as I'm not expected to remember birthdays or contact you in any way).
* * * * *
4th February, 1945
At the Yalta Conference, trying to reach a mutually desirable post-war agreement between Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt. God, it's depressing. Stalin's upset that Roosevelt won't let him have any of his fruit pastilles, and Roosevelt's getting pissed off at Churchill for taking all the black ones.
Roosevelt finally loses his temper, calls Churchill a lard-ass and says he looks like a tortoise in that big coat. Churchill retorts that although he may look like a tortoise now he can always take the coat off, but Roosevelt will still be a twat. Stalin comments that their monopoly on fruit pastilles is typical of western capitalism, but they both tell him to fuck off back to the Village People. When I remonstrate with them that they're both adults and the future of Europe is at stake, Churchill makes faces behind my back - much to Roosevelt's amusement. Stalin asks who put me in charge anyway, whereupon Roosevelt offers him a fruit pastille. Luckily it turns out to be a red one, which pleases Stalin considerably. Churchill's desperate attempt to make light of this new development ("Comrade Ambassador, with this New Deal you will be spoiling us!") goes down like a lead balloon, but the rest of the conference proceeds amicably.
At the hotel bar later, Stalin and Roosevelt perform a karaoke version of the Spice Girls' "Wannabe" while a drunken Churchill takes a shit in the ashtray.
* * * * *
20th July, 1969
A cloud of cigarette smoke hangs over mission control as Neil Armstrong descends the Eagle's ladder to write a new chapter in human destiny.
"That's one small step for [burst of static] man, one giant leap for mankind."
Mission control erupts in a frenzy of high fives and bear hugs. Suddenly a lone voice rings out amidst the throng, trampling on the collective spirit of camaraderie and achievement.
"Can it, guys!" I shout, taking the radio. "Eagle, this is mission control. We're gonna have to go again, fellas."
The room echoes with jeers and hisses. I call for silence again.
"Copy that, Houston," Armstrong replies. "What's the problem?"
"It's a small step for a man, Neil."
"That's what I said, Houston."
"No, you said it's a small step for man. We've gotta go again."
"Bullshit," he says, acting the big guy just because he's stepped foot on an extra-planetary body. "I filled up my EVA waste unit just climbing down that fucking ladder."
"I could say it!" Buzz Aldrin offers hopefully. Armstrong tells him to shut the fuck up. Suddenly the red telephone buzzes.
"It's the President on line one, sir," Jim Lovell says, holding the receiver against his chest.
"Shit, that's all we need." I pick up and try to placate the old codger.
"What the hell's going on?" Nixon growls. "I should be talking to those guys right now - not being left on hold, listening to the theme from the freaking Brady Bunch."
I explain Armstrong's fluffed his words and is being uncooperative. Nixon says he knew this would happen and asks if there's some way we could pin it on Kennedy to besmirch his legacy. Lovell points out that millions of people of all creeds and nations are watching. Fearing a roasting from Brezhnev at their next summit conference, Nixon orders the moon to be destroyed. I radio Michael Collins aboard the Columbia command module.
"Mike, you know that five dollars you owe me? Keep it..."
* * * * *
24th December, 1972
Andy Warhol's Christmas party is a triumph! I meet William Burroughs, who courteously offers me a joint. I politely decline, explaining that I'm already off my face from the smack I procured earlier that evening from Reg Varney. I bump into Lady Penelope of Thunderbirds fame, who's recently been linked in the gossip pages with Thomas the Tank Engine. She confides in me that despite finding Thomas a dynamic and resourceful lover, he's confused about his sexuality following an earlier tryst with Warhol acolyte Candy Darling. We muse on this for a while, eating our fair share of pineapple-sausage sticks. As I prepare to make my move, Mick Jagger comes over and introduces Penelope to Edvard Monster Munch III, the snack tycoon. Feeling uncomfortably like a spare wheel, I excuse myself and mingle with the other guests.
I stumble upon Godfather director Francis Ford Coppola, who leaves me with a young protégé when he wanders off to discuss Hegelian metaphysics with 3-2-1 host Ted Rogers. Coppola's apprentice tells me his name is George Lucas and he wants to be a filmmaker. As I watch Edvard Monster Munch take Penelope in his arms, Lucas explains his idea for a science fiction franchise based on the pulp matinee serials of his youth.
"George," I reply, a wave of jealousy washing over me as Penelope passionately kisses Monster Munch, "That's a fucking awful idea. No one in their right mind would pay to see that piece of shit."
And sure enough, I was right.
* * * * *
31st August, 1997
"Fucking hell!" Mother Teresa says, slumping back into the leather-bound armchair. "Can't these arseholes empty their own bedpans for once?"
"Teri!" I purr, handing her a large scotch. "These people need you! It's what you're here for; you said so yourself."
"Bollocks to that," she sneers, lighting her n'th Marlboro Gold of the afternoon. "A woman has needs, too, you know. It can't all be slopping out the shit and soothing bedsores."
She fixes her eyes on mine, a surge of electricity passing between us.
"You shouldn't smoke," I tell her, attempting to stem the current. "Especially not in the hospital."
"What're you gonna do?" she replies. "Arrest me for smoking?"
She slowly crosses her legs to reveal she isn't wearing underwear. I gasp, tugging my shirt collar as a bead of sweat trails down my forehead. She smiles mischievously, lowering her seductive gaze to the crotch of my worn levis.
"What was it Pope John XXIII said?" she asks, rising from her chair and slinking across the room towards me. "Something about the little soldier standing to attention in the presence of his captain-?"
Suddenly we kiss, tongues darting between locked mouths as she eases open my jeans and grabs my eager-
[Note: The rest of this post has been removed for legal reasons.]
