Monday, 4 January 2016

Errol Flynn, The Iffy Priest And The Proud Degenerate!

Priests are a funny breed. They snoop and get to know everyone's personal and most intimate secrets by way of the Confessional, yet not all of them are as righteous as they like us to think they are...hence we have a wonderful film called Scandal In The Vatican.
When I was writing about church architecture in the early 1980s, one good father lectured me about the sins of the flesh during our first meeting ~ and during the next taught me a few tricks that I, who had thrown my carcass around the world, had never heard of.
Some of the holy men who have crossed my path are just a little dippy but okay. Father Michael Morris wrote an excellent biography of Natacha Rambova. And I mean excellent. No one will ever write a better one and I relied heavily upon his work when writing my own. Though the gentleman would never admit it, he and I did meet many years ago. Indeed, I found him quite a friendly chap, and pleasantly camp. Then he went off the boil somewhat and began writing nasty reviews about my books (these are published in Rudolph Valentino's Magic Python) under under one pseudonym, and adopted another ~ "Leah-Cim Sirrom", which is his name spelled backwards ~ for more positive reviews hoping that no one would work out who he was. 

Next up was Lincoln Hurst, a dirty-looking, Jesus-sandalled scruff who looked like he had travelled the world on the back of a dust-cart, and  who was absolutely hooked on Errol Flynn, to the extent that he wrote a 20,000-word thesis about little old me, sent it to every major media outlet in the UK, and finally expired...while pleasuring himself to Errol swashing his buckle in Captain Blood. I observed at the time that instead of coming, he went. And he had the audacity to call ME a wanker!

In recent years I have had loonies attack me by way of defacing my book covers. Bless them, they were too obsessed with their subject to realise that they were insulting their subject, and not me. There was the picture of Freddy Kreuger superimposed over the face of Mario Lanza, one of a cat tiddling on a movie star's face ~ the animal's tail was up and it took me a moment to realise that I was not looking at my adversary's corpse-like features. As for poor Errol, he got his face blown to bits at a shooting range! They're all there, printed in my Little Black Book. And they wonder why gun crimes are on the increase in America!

Today, the "shooter" ~ I won't mention that his name is David DeWitt or that he used the pseudonym Arno Thames ~ went a little off his trolley by writing to me and addressing his missive, "To David Bret, Degenerate." I left the comments in the post about Lincoln Hurst. It seemed a shame not to, seeing as Mr DeWitt managed to spell every word correctly this time and may have therefore taken some time to pen his piece.

I feel very honoured. Mr DeWitt has a variety of names, and I know them all. He also refers to the way I look ~ which as with all his detractor contemporaries is a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Indeed, almost every one of them gives the impression that, at birth, the midwife threw the wrong stuff away. But, we cannot all be perfect, I guess, and I find it quite an honour to be labelled a degenerate ~ better to be something, Mr DeTwatt, than nothing!

And of course, to call a gay or bisexual person a degenerate is homophobic ~ and I attract that breed of people like iron filings to a magnet. On saying this, some scholars claim that it is homophobic to call a homophobe homophobic, so I will just call him Mavis.

Concludes Mr DeTwatt, like Charles Higham I get away with my degenerate writings because I cannot be sued for defaming the dead. It's not the first time that I've been linked with the likes of Higham and Kenneth Anger. This is an even greater honour. We have a lot in common, not least of all that we sell books while our detractors do not. Mr DeTwatt also wonders what will be said about me after I am dead, and unable to defend myself. 

In the words of that great gay-for-pay icon, Clark Gable...Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. And what will they be saying about you, Mr DeTwatt, and your ilk? Not a lot, I should imagine. The only reason that you seek attention in the first place is because they're not saying a great deal about you now!

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