O.B. The initials stand for "Old Bastard", and his elder brother--his entire family loathed him--said he should have been called O.C.
He was everything: thief, embezzler, bankrupt, child-beater, rapist, serial adulterer, psychotic, homophobe, racist, anti-Semitic. You name it, he did it. He did it while married to my mother, and never stopped doing when he married again. His new family did not even know one half of it.
An example of his evil. We lived at a pub, and someone in Australia sent a money order and asked him if he would buy a dying old lady two bottles of brandy, and deliver them. O.B. cashed the order and pocketed the cash, saying, "If she's dying, she won't need the brandy."
Even Pete Sutcliffe, who we knew back then, wanted to "do" him for the horrendous way he treated my mother. I wish he had. Pete would have been in jail for a worthwhile cause instead of killing all those women...and my mother and I would have fought his corner.
To get away from him, in the days when you made your bed and lay on it, my mother killed herself.
It's 22 years today since he snuffed it...a truly joyous day for us and his other victims.
I made a pact with Marlene Dietrich. The idea was that I had O.B., and she had someone too that she wished would die. So, whichever of them died first, Marlene and I would buy the champagne and get pissed. Sadly, she died in May 1992. My dear godmother, however, kept up the pact. We were in Paris with Barbara when O.B. dropped dead, Jacqueline sent the champers around to the hotel, and we toasted his journey to hell in plastic cups in the foyer of Marlene's apartment.
Today, again, we celebrate his death...even though it came thirty years too late...and the fact that I no longer legally bear the Old Bastard's name!