I seem to have spent the whole of the last week writing about bigots, fat women, bigots, ugly women, bigots, loud-mouthed women, bigots, copiously vulgar women, bigots and oiks. My father, O.B., always liked fat women, though sadly he preferred them over his first wife--who eventually preferred a fist full of pills to living with him.
George Spurr, a monster whose name I shamefully carried for 37 years, was far worse than a thousand Peter Sutcliffes, my current project. Though he changed afterwards, Pete, when I knew him, brought goodness and protection to our lives. George Spurr brought only misery and was despised by all who knew him back then. I wrote my own book to place a lid on this terrifying chapter of my past. I wrote the books about Rock and Joey because they were loved, deeply and passionately, by all who knew them--in Joey's case, by myself. Not a day passes when I do not think about him. Rock and Joey were fine wines. The other one was stagnant urine which took thirty years to flush out of my system.
So here, as an antidote to the poison I had to put up with from a vicious, hideous man--bigot, rapist, serial adulterer, anti-Semite, wife and child abuser, thief, homophobe, racist--who finally curled his toes in 1993, are two supreme examples of male beauty: Rock Hudson and Joey Stefano. A connection, you ask, between these two and the ogre that was George Spurr--the human debris my mother filed for divorce, citing one of those fat women as correspondent, the despot whose name I ditched long ago?
Rock died too soon, whereas my father died 30 years too late. In fact, when you eventually read Peter Sutcliffe & Me: The Yorkshire Ripper Before He Turned, you will see that there were a few occasions when he was almost helped along his way during the 1960s.
O.B. was evil, however, until the end--for on what would have been his 72nd birthday, 26 November 1994, Joey left this world a far, far worse off place. Even from beyond the grave, my father reached out to perpetrate one last act of wickedness.