Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Saturday, 27 December 2014

Marlene Dietrich: Birthday

Today would have been my friend's birthday, and I've been asked--for the umpteenth time--if I'm ever going to have the book published in download form. The answer has usually been no. The publisher who did the original is no longer around.
Then I got to thinking. I've acquired the rights back to all of my earlier books, which allows me to farm them out if I think the new publisher will do a good job--hence Aurum publishing nine of them earlier this year.
So I made a decision. I will republish "Marlene, My Friend", putting back all the chunks the original publisher edited out for fear of being sued by Maria Riva, Marlene's daughter. I will do this when she dies--she turned 90 recently.
When I was writing the book, the arrangement was that it would not be published while my friend was still alive.
"I'm almost ninety, so you won't have to wait long," she told me.
The fact that Marlene wouldn't be around for much longer filled me with horror. I had the same arrangement with Elizabeth Taylor and wanted them to live forever. The new book, Joey Stefano, is one that I wished I had never written--Joey should still have been with us, and would have turned 47 next week. Maria Riva is a different kettle of fish. I bear her no ill-will despite us having had "words" in the past, but she means nothing to me so I won't be shedding any tears when she leaves us, no more than she would weep for me.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

An Open Letter To Paragon Carpets, Wath-upon-Dearne

How people dislike having a taste of their own medicine. Your employee, Dave Wilkinson, commented on a group, "Who the f*ck is David Bret?" and was criticised for his language. His friend, Alan Blake, posted a picture of my wife with Frank Skinner and made vulgar references to her "huge f*cking lugholes", and stated that she looked like Professor Stephen Hawking, just dragged out of his wheelchair. More vile comments followed about disabled and gay people, besides innumerable racist slurs. Someone posted a picture of Margaret Thatcher and said that this was my mother. A woman who made fun of my mother was wholly unaware that her own mother had been correspondent when my mother filed for divorce in April 1971. Wilkinson posted a picture of a motorway bridge over which he had placed the sign, in flashing lights, "David Bret is a f*cking c*nt". Blake made comments that I had "bummed" my way around the world, and that I had had a sexual relationship with Peter Sutcliffe. As a result he was reported to the police in Preston.
Between them, Wilkinson and Blake directed the word "c*nt" 453 times on various Facebook pages toward my wife and myself--mostly towards my wife, who is not even on the Internet. These people constantly changed their names, and insulted other people on the group they kept sneaking into. In my file I have 14 different people who joined in with the tirade. I reported Wilkinson to his employer, Paragon Carpets, because he was promoting his filth under their name. He removed their logo, then wrote that his boss, David Rhodes, had called him into the office and congratulated him on his comments, furthermore that Mr. Rhodes agreed that I was a "c*nt" and that my wife looked like Professor Hawking. Wilkinson further affirmed that his boss was so impressed that he had placed these comments on the company noticeboard so that his other 37 employees could see that I was a "c*nt" and that my wide did indeed look like Professor Hawking.
Last night I gave a statement to South Yorkshire Police, who have been supplied with the requisite screen-shots and the 14 names referred to above. This included a screen-shot where Mr. Wilkinson boasts that he was arrested, and that the arresting officer and his lawyer also told him that I was a "c*nt" and that my wife looked like Stephen Hawking. The policewoman who took my statement found this very interesting. Wilkinson has since changed the privacy settings on his Facebook page, but the police can still access them.
Today, someone called Andrew Sellars, who works as a carer at the Mulberry Manor Nursing Home in Swinton, made crude remarks about my wife and wheelchairs, only slightly less puerile than remarks he made earlier. I shudder to think that any relative of mine would ever end up being cared for by someone who mocks disabled people. Needless to say this information has been passed on to the police and to his employers.
Yesterday on the phone, Mr. Rhodes  denied making such remarks, but I have no proof of this, not that I am calling him a liar in the least. Today, Mr. Rhodes informed me that if I badmouth him or his company, he will place this matter in the hands of his lawyers. I have NEVER bad-mouthed him or his company, nor do I have any intention of doing so. It is Mr. Wilkinson who made the statement regarding what Mr. Rhodes is supposed to have said, and about what has allegedly been posted by Mr. Rhodes on the company noticeboard. Therefore, in matters legal, it is not up to me to offer a retraction because I have done, said and written NOTHING to retract. It is up to Mr. Rhodes to prove that he did NOT say what has been claimed. All that has been written and what I have reported has come from Dave Wilkinson himself~~I have merely paraphrased what I have read.
Here the matter becomes interesting. Rather than ask you not to take legal action against me, well aware that in any court of law you would not have a leg to stand on~~I have had 28 court cases in the past and won 27 of them, so I always enter the room well-prepared~~I actually welcome you to take me to court, because if this happens, there will be no more paraphrasing. I, or my barrister, will read out before the judge, public and attendant press, EXACTLY what has been written in Mr. Wilkinson's comments, and whatever he claims has been said, by whomever. It will not be pleasant for me to pronounce the word "c**t 453 times, and the "f**k word even more, but I will do it.

Monday, 15 December 2014

Kerry Smith Quits: Good Riddance

Kerry Smith quits as UKIP parliamentary candidate

Kerry Smith

Related Stories

Kerry Smith has resigned as a UKIP prospective parliamentary candidate after apologising for offensive remarks he made in a phone call.

Sunday, 7 December 2014

Valentino: A Dream of Desire: The Screenplay

Obviously, this one is not going to be published or made public. Any professional organisation will be permitted to see this, for which the usual legal conditions will be applied, by contacting my British or US agent. The work is registered and copyrighted 2014.

Sunday, 30 November 2014

Bible-Bashers Vs Joey Stefano: The New Pariah

Just when I thought I'd heard it all, here's a new one!
Joseph Scambria, a gay man who once sucked cocks for a living, is now declaring that the Lord Jesus saved him from homosexuality, pornography, and the occult.
He is broadcasting his claptrap as a means of honouring Joey Stefano on the 20th anniversary of his death. Or so he thinks.
I often wonder where these people get off. It's almost like releasing Rose West from prison and giving her a job at a school for young ladies and allowing her to spout about all the nasty things that others have done to young women.
Even the name Scambria sounds dodgy, like something you would get from lifting too many heavy boxes, or not washing around your perineum. I first came across him (not literally, though many others apparently have) when I watched his documentary, "Room 122", wherein he took us around "the seedy hotel room where Joey died" on 26 November 1994.
The hotel room was not seedy, and Joey did not die here, but in hospital. The only thing seedy about that room was the person standing in it repeatedly telling us to pray and save our souls. Have YOU ever attempted to raise money for AIDS charities?
I know and have known quite a few porn stars and directors, and they do/did not have horns. There's a wonderful Jake Spears film called "Buckleroos II" where two Jehovah's witnesses turn up at someone's door and announce they are here to save his soul. "It ain't lost," he drawls, and five minutes later they're all at it in his garden like lodging-house cats. 
I absolutely hate, loathe and detest Bible-bashers. Every now and then they come banging on my door, waving their leaflets. They invariably look suspicious, the kind of people who would never give a blind man a light. Dig deep enough, and you'll find that they have something in their past that they don't want you to know about.
I would rate Joseph Scambria lower than any of these. He has been and still is what he is condemning, which makes him not just a bigot and a hypocrite, but a homophobe of the very worst kind. One of Fred Phelps' chosen few. I can imagine him in one of those Third World countries, gloating as they strung up some hapless young man for the crime of being in love--and then rushing off to serenade his boyfriend.  
Joey did not walk around molesting children or frightening the birds. He made porn films, the same as Seedy Scambria, and these were for private consumption--they didn't screen them in the town square, you watched them in selected cinemas or in the privacy of your home. Away from the screen, he did not foist his 'lifestyle' upon anyone, the way YOU are foisting your verbal bollocks. He was not a criminal, and when he died at just twenty-six, he left many of us bereft, and twenty years on we are still bereft. I especially feel bitter that our friend and hero is not here any more, while a creep like you is occupying the breathing space that he might have, were it possible to affect a swap.
And you honestly think that Jesus loves YOU for your abominable behaviour? I don't think so, though. So why not pop "Masquerade" into your DVD player and enjoy a spot of self-indulgence. You won't go to hell because it's written in my Bible,"Joseph Scambria is a wanker!"

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

"JOEY STEFANO: THE BIOGRAPHY" Twenty Years Since This Amazing Man Left Us

Joey left us twenty years ago today, and those who knew and loved him feel no less bereft now than when we did back then. He remains without any doubt the most fascinating man I ever knew. We found each other by way of Madonna--who I never even met. It's all going to be in the book, along with reminiscences from friends, lovers and co-stars.
A man like Joey comes along only once in a lifetime. This is the most painful book I've ever had to write, yet I felt that it needed to be done. It's not going to come out for the twentieth anniversary of Joey's death--this day is for him alone, for us to remember. Much has been written about Joey, about he spent his entire adult life with his finger pressed on the self-destruct button. No, he did not. He was a normal, healthy, and very funny young man who chose a different career to most of us, and who was inordinately good at it. He was not a junkie. Yes, he took drugs--most of us have at some time or other, and in this respect he was no different than any contemporary pop or rock star. He was just unlucky at the end.
Joey and I had much in common. His manager and I share the same birthday. Joey died on my father's birthday, which means that whenever 26 November comes around I think about a man who was good--not the evil monster who raised me. Joey too suffered at the hands of a nasty father--in his case, it was sexual abuse. Nicholas Iacona Sr has a great deal to answer for, and it's all here in Joey's story. The rest of his family also left much to be desired.
The one thing which staggered me about Joey was how completely down to earth he was, one of the most beautiful men in the world, yet utterly void of vanity. The picture he sent me is not of him in all his naked glory, but in the checked shirt he wore that evening we were together. And how that man could eat! God bless you, Joey. For twenty years now this world has been that much poorer without you, little buddy.

Monday, 24 November 2014


To be published late-December/early January
This is the official, uncensored publication.
A download was recently made available to fool those who have me on
the brain 24 hours of every day.
This has now been changed!

Sunday, 23 November 2014

Alan Blake Feik: Does Mrs Bret & Professor Stephen Hawking Warrant SO Puerile An Insult?

WARNING: this announcement contains very strong language, for which I apologise, those these are in quotes

People can insult me as much as they like. It's water off a duck's back. They never like a taste of their own medicine, but that is another matter. And when they insult my wife and loved ones, and for no reason whatsoever, this is a different matter. Jeanne never gets involved in any disputes, preferring to love and support in a background role. Here we are with Frank Skinner.
Yesterday, Alan Blake Feik and Dave Wilkinson were discussing my wife very publicly on a social networking site--because it WAS public, there was no snooping. These men hail from the Yorkshire town where we both grew up, and to which the thread was related, and during the course of this discussion about my wife, the word 'cunt' was used twenty times--a total of 200 times in the whole thread. Others were involved in the discussion, which also contained profoundly homophobic and racist remarks, and which was captured on screenshot.

The social networking group where the following was posted reaches a weekly audience of but a few hundred, which is why I feel that, as a very sensitive issue, it may warrant the attention of the minimum 10,000 visitors which come here each week.
Having posted the above picture, which is copyrighted material, Mr Blake Feik pronounced, 'His missus is a bonny cunt, that's her with the enormous lugs.' The conversation which followed--and the entire thread has been forwarded to the police and press--these two men made comparisons between my wife and Professor Stephen Hawking, such as I has dragged him out of his wheelchair and was using him as a ventriloquist's dummy.
This was not just profoundly insulting towards my wife, but to a severely disabled man, and to any number of ethnic minorities. 

Saturday, 22 November 2014

The Lenny Daykin Gang: Nancy Is Not A-Moosed!

QUESTION: Why would an 80-year-old man and an 85-year-old woman want to buy a copy of "Rudolph Valentino's Moose" just to see photographs of themselves in it, when the author didn't even know that there were photographs of them in it--and why did the said pair decide not to write to the publisher as happens in such case, and ask for the pictures to be removed, rather than consult a lawyer who deals only in accident claims, divorces, and petty matters?

QUESTION: Why did the said firm of lawyers not tell this elderly pair, and two others not quite as elderly, that for this kind of thing there is protocol--i.e., write to the publisher, and if achieving no success there, consult a libel/copyright lawyer?
QUESTION: Why did the said firm of lawyers assign the "law-suit" not to one of their partners, but to a legal executive not qualified to handle such matters?
QUESTION: Why did this legal executive assign lawyer's duties to his secretary, who amongst other things writes a series of very legal--and litigious--letters on his behalf, and signs them with her own name?
The answer to most of these questions is...MONEY. They think that I have a lot, and they want it! And they ain't getting it!
How on earth did Leonard Daykin, Winifred Brownlow, Margaret Gill and James Sanderson come to be reading such a book, having been 'made aware' that photographs were in it, of them as children, astonishes me. There are around 200 photographs in the Nancy books. I have no idea who most of them are--they came from very old family albums, some dating back to 1904, and a few were purchased on American e-bay. One or two, Jeanne thought she recognised--therefore I posted these on a group, and these were subsequently discarded.
Leonard et all are very upset that 'they' have been described in such a manner in the Nancy books, as they say that it defames them. In fact, absolutely no one would have known who the actual subjects of these pictures were--indeed, neither would I--had they not taken this action against me. They are not captioned with their names.
Mr Daykin does not like his image being described as the young Nancy, and feels that his family will now mistake him for a one-eyed, American homophobic woman with one leg shorter than the other and a tattooed vagina. He must have a very odd family who hasn't been looking at him much over the last eighty years!
Ms Gill does not like being 'mistaken' for Lord Cecil Wilde, and that she was involved with the Cleveland Street Scandal. Let's see--that would make her around 160 years old, were she still alive. And if she's not alive, why worry?
Mr Sanderson does not want to be mistaken as Nancy's child, the one who was knocked down by a car and killed in 1940.
Ms Brownlow, finally, does not wish to be mistaken as Nancy's mother, Molly, who had a passionate affair with a Red Indian chief in 1903.
NONE of these pictures were used intentionally, and of course the proper thing to do--as happened with Garbo, Dietrich and Liz Taylor--would have been to request that the pictures be used. The accidental use of such pictures, Mr Executive, does not fall under the Obscene Publications Act. Indeed, I would have remained a gentleman and never made any of these names public had not Mr Executive DEMANDED that I make a public apology, which of course left me with no alternative. So, effectively, HE is the one who has caused these people embarrassment, not myself, and in layman's terms made them look a real bunch of  sad old twits!
So, not only did I remove the 'offending pictures', I withdrew the print books from sale. Print books of this kind do not sell well--the customers prefer downloads. I informed Mr Executive of this, and received no reply--resulting in the said firm of lawyers being investigated, a process which continues--and Mr Daykin went out and bought another print copy of 'Moose'. This must have been delivered by streak lightning, for he claims he bought it on 20 October and that it arrived the next day. LIAR, Mr D. No retail site is that fast! And Mr D says that the pictures are still here. Of course they will still be there, if you've bought a copy which was left in stock--I can't toddle around all the book stores and buy them all up, and I'm certainly not travelling to Japan and Russia just to please you! 
So, to conclude, Mr Executive's SECRETARY--not the man himself--has not given instructions for a barrister to be appointed, all because of four pictures which were erroneously included in a spoof book! I'm just wondering what they are expecting of all this? The re-introduction of capital punishment and a gallows erected in their town square? Winning £1 million in compensation from me? First of all they must get past the two disclaimers in the book--the fact that any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental, and that there is an Adult Content warning. I wish them luck. If they can prove that they are actually the people in the book, then the average age of this quartet is 110-years-old, and even Nancy didn't live that long! And of course, those accusing will be compelled--or their barrister will--to read out the offending passages to a courthouse which naturally will be packed to the rafters. I do press very well, and in his missive Mr Executive, who I am sure derived some sort of sardonic pleasure out of this, draws very elaborate attention to a sheep-shagging incident in Ilkley which involves two pairs of wellingtons, but none of the above persons!
And if this is what happens with a spoof, I'm eager to see what happens when my autobiography drops into their laps. Suffice to say, you cannot libel the dead in this country, not that this will stop them from trying to get a few bob out me!

Monday, 17 November 2014

Is Christopher Riordan America's Greatest Ever Actor?

I'm not one for an overt lavishing of praise on the living--the fact being that our greatest artistic legends are sadly now all mostly gone--but in the wake of the stupendous tribute paid to myself by Christopher Riordan and members of his fan-club on one of those lovely little movie star fan forums yesterday, I feel that I must return the complement to this wonderful, warm-hearted man.

Forget Fred Astaire, who adored him. Forget Elvis, who refused to do a film unless the man he always referred to as "The Great Chris"was in it. Forget Olivier, Gielgud and Edith Evans, who studied his unique Method acting style but never quite got it as good. Christopher Riordan is generally regarded as the greatest actor of his generation, and has been for the past seventy years. Check out his IMDB listings and see the dichotomy of characters he has portrayed over the years. The roles of all the aforementioned actors don't even equate to a fraction of the work that his living legend has done! I can honestly say, hand over heart, that there is virtually no person in the acting fraternity, living or deceased, who has not counted themselves as one of his closest friends.

Chris played Liz Taylor's baby in 'Raintree County', and Liz so remembered those memorable scenes that she invited him to photograph her at Buckingham Palace when the Queen made her a dame. At a recent Elvis convention, the crowd parted like a scene from 'The Ten Commandments' when Priscilla espied The Man In The Hat. Connie Francis accredits him with teaching her how to sing.

This man's talents are boundless. The bouffant locks may be gone and the teeth may not be quite so Pepsodent gleaming as when Audrey Hepburn invited him to appear in 'My Fair Lady' ~ "Get Chris in the production, or Audrey walks!" ~ and the pins may not be as Nijinsky-like as when he was helping Hermes Pan to start out in the business ~ but by all accounts the chassis is in fine fettle and that twinkle in the eye which could outshine the brightest star is still there. And that smile--always as wide as the brim of his trademark hat!

I had the immense opportunity of interviewing Chris just the once, via Facebook message on 19 March 2013. This was such a privilege that I photoshopped every last word. We talked about Alain Delon, with whom I share a birthday. (To digress, Freddie Mercury and Nick Drake were so enamoured of Chris that they elected to die on his birthday, which gives you an idea just how eclectic he really is!) I'd told Chris that in his younger days he's looked like Delon--and indeed, he still does. Though bedded with the flu, Chris was very chirpy, and think that talking about my very dear Joey Stefano perked him up no end. Joey had some years ago given me a beautiful picture of himself with long hair. In the picture he is naked, but I sent Chris just the head-and-shoulders ~ the picture, not the brand of shampoo. Chris had never seen him with long hair before, and asked me to send the full photo of Joey in magnificent arousal.

Chris and I also talked about my parrot, Theo, who had recently died. He loved parrots, he said ~ a friend of his had once owned a pet shop, and had often asked him to take parrots home to help get them tame. This moved and impressed me. Not only did Chris prove himself to be a great human being, he was also a great humanist.

My next chat with Chris was when he thanked me for the picture of Joey. He was initially coy about divulging if they had ever met ~ I didn't think so, because I know many of Joey's friends and they certainly would have known about it if Christopher Riordan had schlepped into a room! Then Chris told me about a favourite old hangout of his, The Gallery Room, on the corner of Crescent Heights ~ known he said for its good drinks and good food, and moderately priced for starving actors. It was a favourite haunt, he said, of Rock Hudson's manager, Henry Willson. Already by this stage my eyes had started to well with tears, but there was more to come. And how I hated Chris ~ in the nicest possible way ~ for divulging that he HAD met my idols: Al Parker, Jeff Stryker...and Joey himself! I didn't want to call Chris a liar and accuse him of making stuff up, so I just assumed that when he met Joey, maybe he was fresh off the film set and still wearing his dancing costume, which would explain why Joey and Gino Colbert never recognised him, and why Chris wasn't mobbed by The Gallery Room crowd. Chris confessed to me that this was not the company that he usually kept, but what really got the tears flowing was his closing statement ~ than many of these porn stars were much kinder than some of the more conventional actors he had known. Now THAT is what makes Christopher Riordan not just a splendid thespian, but an exemplary human being.

A friend asked me recently if there was going to be a part for Chris in the film production we are currently working on. Silly man! is the Pope a Catholic? Another friend asked me if there have ever been any plans to have a star for this great man on Hollywood's Walk of Fame. I can quite categorically say that no, there will not.

Christopher Riordan is not worthy of a golden star--but he IS worthy of a whole row of them!

Sunday, 16 November 2014

Fan Club Forums: Who Needs Them?

I've never liked them, and I hate it when people add me to them because I know only too well that, a few genuinely nice people aside, I've suddenly been catapulted into a melee of lunacy.
If the subject is still alive, then it's not too bad because he or she is still in touch with the real world. If the subject is deceased, it usually doesn't take long for necrophilia to raise its ugly head.
I was recently booted out of one little conclave where I would say around 70% of the patrons were level-headed, but where the "gaffer" was one of those people who think they know more about the deceased than the deceased knew about him/herself.
You know the drill. Jack wore a blue tie at a function on 4 November and gave a 60-minute speech. Says the gaffer: it was a green tie and the speech lasted 59 minutes.
No names, no pack-drill, but I should imagine there are many who come here who will know who I am referring to: the Sapphic Sister who virulently opposes the fact that Mister loved another Mister. Yes, it's the dreaded "H" word.
I wrote a book some years ago, and though I'm not prone to boasting like some, it shifted six-figures and continues to shift, some two decades on. God knows what the reaction will be when my next biography comes out. SS (now where did I hear that one before?) runs a website where every book written about Mister-Mister is listed--save mine. This I don't mind, or the  excuse that whatever I put into it was "unacceptable" and "make-believe".
The source of dissention between myself and SS? She now applauds a new book wherein Mister-Mister tells all about his life--in an interview with a medium from beyond the grave. In fact, so far he's given a TRIO of interviews! Call me sceptical, but I don't care if it's a medium, a small or a large. I dismiss such findings as piffle. I mean, what if he'd confesses to being a serial killer or a kiddie fiddler? Would Mystic Meg--or should I say Septic Peg--have revealed this to the world?
So, there we have it. And a warning to any well-intentioned persons out there. Please do NOT add me to any of your fan forums. Like I say, there are a lot of very nice folk there, but there are also an awful lot of people who I term "corpse wankers"!
And as a PS...
One "Simon Constable" telling SS that I am insane.
With that hat and those glasses, darling, you're the one who looks like a prize bell-end!

Friday, 14 November 2014

Jessica Ennis versus Ched Evans

So, Jessica Ennis wants her name taking down from the stand erected in her honour. She doesn't really want it taking down--she's just whining and showing off. Therefore I think that the powers that be in Sheffield should call her bluff and take it down. Then she'll whine some more saying that she didn't really want it taking down, that she was just whining and showing off--geddit? Currently she is the most annoying person on television--those promotions on Sky, where she whines and the sun reflects off her shiny bonce are really getting on my tits. As a sportswoman she is unique, and a living legend--away from the track, I find her a pain in the bum.
I do NOT advocate rape, before those harpies who make it a point to trail my every move, utterance and nuance start flapping their wings--unless of course they flap over the edge of Beachy Head. There's some doubt as to whether Ched Evans did what they said he did, and I also think that he shouldn't be allowed to play football until after the hearing, when it's all been sorted out. Oops, he's NOT playing football--he's training, so that if he IS re-signed, he'll still be in shape. The ones making all the mouth should wake up their defunct grey cells and see this. They don't, because they're too consumed with hatred. If they weren't hating and campaigning against Ched Evans, it would be some other lost cause they're supporting--anything to make a little difference to their largely mundane lives.
As for Mr. Evans, regardless of the severity of his crime--or should I say alleged crime--he has paid for this by spending time in prison, and should be allowed to continue with his work. The fans will decide whether or not he is a role model.
As for the bullies--and this includes Ms Ennis--leave him alone.
Unless of course you want another Justin Fashinu episode...

Monday, 10 November 2014

David Bret: Autobiography Now Published

This one has taken some deliberating over. Three long years, and three legal reads, along with one behind-the-scenes legal hearing which cost the other party a great deal when they had already been told that in the United Kingdom and most other countries, one cannot libel the dead. There are a few who might not like some of this, and to them I say--tough titties. I didn't write it for you. I wrote it for myself, my mother, and all those important people that I have loved and lost. Currently it's only available as hard-back print and digital from Lulu. It will be released on Amazon and all the other outlets, and in stores, in around 6-8 weeks time.

David Bret has spent 30 years writing about the famous, but now dishes the dirt on himself, holding nothing back when discussing the ones he loved, those he did not. Born in France, adopted by a British couple, he suffered physical and mental abuse at the hands of a Machiavellian father, a serial adulterer whose cruelty knew no bounds. Unable to find love at home, he searched for solace in the arms of lovers of both sexes. Initially, these were ordinary men and women. There was a platonic relationship with Peter Sutcliffe, before he became The Yorkshire Ripper. When starting to gain plaudits as a biographer, his intimates became more celebrity orientated. Marlene Dietrich, Dorothy Squires and the French chanteuse, Barbara, took him to their hearts, as did others. In these very candid memoirs, Bret recalls his eccentric family, celebrity friends and lovers, but is unsparing towards the father he got away from only when his mother chose suicide rather than to continue suffering.

Thursday, 6 November 2014

Fast-Tracking My Autobiography In Case Peter Sutcliffe Dies

Call me callous, but it's a case of striking while the iron's hot.
I'm not one to wish ill on people, and I know there's another book out there with me in it, so it's a case of getting there first. I'm using the pictures he took of me, but I won't be using the one I took of him for obvious reasons. I might be cocky in stating that the haters will sell the book for me, as usually happens.
Pete's had a heart-attack and says they'll soon be carrying him out of Broadmoor in a box. It should have happened years ago--let me be the first to say this.
My only desire is that he doesn't die on 26th November, so it looks like it could be a race against time. 

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Penelope Gibbs: Does Dotty Lord Longford Have A Successor?

Not since Lord Longford and his woeful comb-over shuffled his mortal coil in the wake of one orgasm too many over Myra Hindley have I read such rot.
Penelope Gibbs of the Standing Committee For Youth Justice protests that Will Cornick, the lout who butchered a schoolteacher in cold blood, has been badly done by because the judge sentenced him to twenty years in jail, and that in all probability he might never be let out. The sentence, she says, is out of line with European standards.
What better excuse then to vote for Nigel Farage, who despite being a bit of a slurp wants to get us OUT of Europe, which means that there might be a smidgeon of a chance of bringing back the rope for the likes of Master Cornick, who told the court the other day that he "couldn't give a shit" about the impact on Anne Maguire's family after he knifed her seven times in front of the other pupils.
Mrs Gibbs might be better off cleaning toilets in a toothpaste factory instead of pontificating about our justice system. How would her husband feel, one wonders, if this little creep had left her lying in a pool of blood?
I have a suggestion. I will provide the soap-box if Ms Gibb agrees to stand in the middle of Leeds City Market and express her opinions there. 

Monday, 27 October 2014


"The passion and the hypocrisy ~ but above all the passion ~ of the Hollywood Film Industry during the Silent Age."

Available everywhere in print and digital.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Now That Afghanistan Is "Over", Where Next Will Our Soldiers Die?

"When will they EVER learn?" Marlene asked in the song.
The truth is, NEVER.
Our politicians know bugger all about the real world. We have 23 millionaires ordering us what to do with our lives, and across The Pond, it's even worse. Men and women who are totally out of touch with the real world, having wanted for nothing, having spent their whole lives choking on silver spoons.
These people spend more time up on another's arses than a Wembley Stadium filled with Brent Carrigans. They think that they share the same song, but for years it's been out of tune. They stick their snouts where they don't belong, and leave someone else to fight them out of the mess they got themselves into.
The politicians sit smugly in their mansions watching the carnage from afar. Those who have been sent to far climes to sort out their mess lie not so snugly in their coffins--in bits and pieces if they are lucky.
453 brave men and women have died in Afghanistan. And for what? To keep the rest of us safe, the politicians say. We WERE safe, for goodness sake, until you started interfering. When I was growing up we were taught to mind our own business, as a result of which towers and railway stations were not blown up. If you had a beef with someone, you met them in the local park with the dog leash, or you took up boxing.
So, Afghanistan, which should never have begun, is over. Doubtless the politicians will be scratching their expensively coiffed heads trying to fathom out where next to send our soldiers to die. And when they do so it will be with hands that already have blood on them.

Thursday, 23 October 2014

Is Ched Evans The New Justin Fashinu For The UK Tabloids?


There are few beings in Britain less evil than our tabloid press and their band of self-righteous hacks. I was in London in 1998 with Pete Murray, doing a phone-in at LBC Radio to promote my biography of Rudolph Valentino when news came in that Justin Fashinu had hanged himself after being persecuted for his sexuality. They just would not leave him alone. A woman called in to the station and said that he had done the right thing, and that it was a pity that a few more "of his kind" didn't follow his example. On air, she was told exactly what to do with her opinion. 

Ched Evans raped a woman. He was found guilty, and sent to prison. Now he is out. Evans isn't responsible for the workings of our justice system, which is screwed up at the best of times. My friend Ryan Idol flung a toilet seat at his girlfriend in America and is serving twelve years. That's too long, whereas Evans' sentence was too short. BUT--and there is a BIG but--he didn't make the rules, and he has served his time. If his club want him back, then he should be allowed to play football again. These people who get up these petitions are like sheep. Aunty Aggie has a black cardigan, so the whole family wants one. And how many people--mostly those who are hoping to earn a fast buck--have gone bleating to the police with a story they've made up, putting stars through hell--as happened with Paul Gambaccini and William Roache? Do these get named and shamed and hounded by petition-wielding bigots?

Ched Evans committed a vile act, he was arrested, charged, and sent to prison. He has served his time. Let him get one with his life. Or would you rather read the headline that he too has been found swinging from the rafters of a garage somewhere?

Somehow, I think you would.

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Oscar Pistorius: The Judgement Was Fair

A young woman is dead, nothing can bring her back. But I'm glad that this ordeal for everyone involved with this case is finally over. I know from personal experience how long these things can drag on, and I've seen both sides of the fence--the love and support, and the hatred. I supported Oscar throughout his ordeal as I have another friend/acquaintance, and will continue to do so, as they and a number of others supported and encouraged me. 
Judge Masipa had a heavy weight on her shoulders. For some, whatever judicial decision is made, others will continue to bellyache and hate. It's in their blood. 
I anticipate a few anonymous hate-mails for my comments, as this goes with the territory. But there is always Someone watching far greater than they or I, and karma is a very strange being.
Today, Jeanne and I celebrate 42 years of marriage. My father and siblings gave us six months. This I find amusing, given the way their lives turned out--numerous failed marriages  and relationships, and a couple of periods of Her Majesty's Pleasure for some very serious crimes, which of course I will never make public unless they and others decide to hound me when my book comes out.
This is something people never think about when levelling accusations at others. What's that old saying about people in glass houses not throwing stones? 
There's also another one we have here in the North of England, suggestive that whatever anyone throws at me, I'm always going to have something on them, hiding up my sleeve.
"When you catch a weasel asleep, you piss in its ear!"

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Our Annie's Funeral

It was between 4 February--the day of my grandmother's funeral--and 21 October of that year, the day of my marriage, that I learned courtesy of my uncle that the family's nickname for my father, bestowed on him by members of his family, was "O.B"--Old Bastard. My uncle, Bill, said that "O.C." would have suited him better on account of the way he treated us. I only worked that one out later. Bill also said that the saddest thing about his mother's funeral was that they were not burying O.B.--a serial rapist and abuser--instead. There was great rejoicing when he finally curled his toes.

So, that's how this monologue came about. I loved my grandmother, and she would have loved the pantomime that her funeral became.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Jeremy Hunt: Another Twit Out Of Touch With The Real World

I often wonder about the people running our country, most of whom regard "hardship" as when they're down to their last dozen tins of caviar.
Jeremy Hunt, he of the unfortunate name which has oft been mis-pronounced on the television and radio, now adds his words of wisdom to the Ebola outbreak and says that it could be as big as the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s.
Why not just tell us that we're all going to die, Mr Hunt, and have done with it? 
And of course, will other comparisons now be made, especially when UKIP get their foot in the door? We had The Gay Plague. Will these mostly racists now label this The Black Plague? 
In fact, the only malady we have in Britain is Politicians Plague, for which the only cure will be to get rid of them all, humanely, at the next General Election--whence they will all retreat to their mansions and pooh-pooh the actions of the next bunch of do-gooders.
As for Mr Hunt, let him take his panic elsewhere. Maybe he should show support of the NHS by donning a nurse's uniform and heading for Liberia, where he might be of more use than he is right now, frightening the bejesus out of impressionable people.
Tuesday 14 October 2014

Jeremy Hunt: Ebola crisis 'could match Aids epidemic'

Ebola must be contained before it spreads out of control, health secretary claims as Heathrow prepares for screening of passengers

Saturday, 11 October 2014

Dante Alfonso: Italian God of the Silver Silent Screen

Out today!
Dreamspinner Press!
Download 11/10/14
Print 20/10/14
Visit our website for pre-order and extract!

Last night's signing went quite well. The next is on 20 October to tie in with radio phone-in.

Dante Alfonso lives with his family in a small village in southern Italy until they learn of his affair with, Roberto, the nephew of the local priest and send him to live with relatives in New York City. Onboard the ship to America, Dante meets Jean-Paul, a French entrepreneur, and upon his arrival in New York City, they begin a relationship based on mutual benefits. Dante gets a job as a waiter at Harry’s Place, a popular dance hall, and when Jean-Paul is arrested and deported, Dante moves in with Martin, a coworker, who soon becomes a lover. By way of a wealthy client, Dante gets an audition that earns him a bit part in a film from a major studio.

In Hollywood of the early 1920s, Dante’s star is rising, and he and his handsome publicist, Bob, who reminds him of Roberto, soon become lovers. As a movie star and heart-throb, Dante steadfastly refuses to submit to the pressure and dictates of the studio bosses who want him to marry to stop the rumors about his sexuality. Can a prejudiced Hollywood make him change who he is, or will he find a way to stay true to himself?

Friday, 10 October 2014

David Bret Autobiography "My Own Story: The Uncensored Memoirs of the Celebrity Biographer"

(Not the final cover)

My Own Story: The Uncensored Memoirs of the Celebrity Biographer

David Bret has spent thirty years writing about the intimate lives of some of the world’s most famous and best-loved celebrities: Greta Garbo, Edith Piaf, George Formby, Doris Day, Maria Callas and Clark Gable are but a few of the thirty or so subjects of his best-selling books. Now, for the first time and after much deliberation, Bret dishes the dirt on himself, and holds absolutely nothing back when discussing the ones he loved, and those he did not.

Born in France and adopted by a British couple, for fifteen years David Bret suffered physical and mental abuse at the hands of a Machiavellian father, a serial adulterer whose cruelty to his wife knew no bounds in an age and culture wherein one made one’s bed and was compelled to lie on it. Unable to find love at home save from his long-suffering mother, Bret searched for solace in the arms of lovers of both sexes, at home and overseas. Initially, these were ordinary men and women. There was a platonic relationship with Peter Sutcliffe, ten years before psychosis set in and he became The Yorkshire Ripper. When he started to gain plaudits as a biographer, the friends and lovers became more eclectic and celebrity orientated. He was championed by the famous: Marlene Dietrich, Dorothy Squires, and the great French chanteuse, Barbara, took him to their insular hearts, as did many more.

In these very candid and frequently shocking memoirs, Bret speaks lovingly of his mother, his eccentric family, and his celebrity friends, but is unsparing towards the father who made his younger years a misery, the man he fought so hard to get away from, and finally did—at a terrible cost when his mother chose suicide rather than to continue suffering.

‘And yet if it hadn’t been for that dreadful period of my life,’ Bret says, ‘I would have never broken away from the humdrum existence of being expected to follow Yorkshire family tradition and work down the mines or farm the land, and as such I would not have evaded the prejudices attached to such a life, back then and been rewarded by the life I know now."

ISBN: 978-1-326-04300-1

DbBooks November 2014


Sunday, 5 October 2014

RIP Brenda Leyland, Another Victim Hounded By The Vultures Of The Press

I don't give a monkey's left-handed toss for the "trolling" she did,and I am not remotely interested in the case she was involved with. There are other problems to worry about in the world, much more pressing.
With the British press, it's always been a case of being guilty before proved otherwise. Think Bill Roache. Think the actor in 'The Bill' who they hounded--printing maps of the pubs he visited. Pathetic. Think of Justin Fashinu. I was doing a BBC broadcast when he hanged himself after being hounded by the tabloids. And now this lady. Creepy journalists hanging around street corners waiting to pounce. These people have neither heart nor soul. If this lady did wrong,then let the police deal with it. Don't hound her into taking her own life. You are not the law, and you are not God.
There's also been another one today, the man suspected of killing the girl, Alice. Suspected, not accused. What if he is innocent and the press have hounded the wrong man? It may seem unlikely but it's a possibility. 
Martin Blunt should never be forgiven for hounding this woman, yet had it not been him, it would have been someone else. It's a pity his kind of people cannot put the same effort into tracking down the killer of that poor man in Iraq. Then we might show them a little respect, instead of utter contempt.