I’m home and warm, sitting on the sofa with Tom. Money is a real concern in this coming month, but I am allowing myself to feel sanguine that all will be well. And Tom, who is an occasional sofa visitor from Manchester, has just offered to pay 15 quid to a pizza franchise created by an anti-arbortionist nutbag, also called Tom. I’ll call him “Catholic Tom.” Catholic Tom is smart at business. Recently we’ve all learnt how people who are “good at business” can also be utterly hideous fucked up monstrous orange moronic twisted angry emotionally fucked ridiculous laughable racist misogynist parochial self obsessed abusive divisive unkind base humans. Catholic Tom still takes lots of money from people who should know better and funnels it into things like making sure people who are physically weaker and fiscally poorer than he is have even less chance to take control of their destiny. “Fuck ’em. They are so dumb they’ll shell out 15 pounds sterling for this bit of dough and a slap of processed meat.”
Anyway. For all that, I ate it. I have no problems with double standards… Sadly. Before all the pizza, I had a great night contemplating Gatsby. Gatsby, a man who made the sort of money Catholic Tom made. But a man of principle, of kindness and ultimately of sacrifice. He was invented by the complicated dark beauty of F Scott Fitzgerald. What a glorious fiction we were given. Fitzgerald excelled at creating beautiful effortless loaded fuckwits. And the immersive Gatsby in London – I’ve been to that show so many times now I couldn’t tell you. Sometimes I’ve worked it, sometimes I’ve watched it. Jack and I saw the first ever show in a freezing pub in York. The only thing that hasn’t changed is the temperature. It’s a beautiful night, it really is, it always has been. And Fitzgerald has a special place in my heart. He wasn’t much older than me when he died. But he made his time count. And him and Jim Henson are the only two people I share a birthday with that I’ve ever given an active fuck about. As a fellow contrarian conflicted self doubting empath I hit on his excoriating semi-biographical book Tender is the Night at a privileged 19 and it blew the doors off completely. No wonder he died so young. He already had it all figured out. Nothing left to learn but the other country.
It’s worth seeing, that Gatsby show. It’s a party, and a story. And there are some lovely people making it. Obviously Brian produces it, but as well as him, much of the creative team is made of people who I’d definitely go back for in a burning building. Theatre rarely attracts arseholes and even more rarely let’s them thrive. This Gatsby is totally arsehole free and delightful for it. I was bawling my eyes out at the end. I mean, yeah I will burst out crying at the drop of a hat. But these human honest brave actors, working with a skillful frame in a beautiful venue – they were nailing it across the board.
Literally the only photo I took today is of the actress playing Daisy and a propane heater, just pre show. It tickled me because it reminded me of my pre carol. I don’t know her so I’m taking a liberty. Hopefully she won’t mind. She was ace.