It’s no secret that I hate Christmas. Ever since my father had to shoot my beloved dog Ozymandias on Christmas day in 1963 (it had been driven demented by the flashing lights on the tree), this time of year has more often than not been the harbinger of yet another colossal breakdown. This year I was determined to keep a grip on reality and not allow the tides of madness to pull me onto the rocks, but it seems the festive period has conspired against me yet again.
Last week I got a Christmas card from Wes Craven (MY BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD). The card itself had a tasteful (presumably doctored) picture of Wes as the Christ child on the front, but inside was an invitation to a ‘Last House on the Left’ reunion party at Wes’s house in Hollywood that was due to take place the following night. Sensing an end to my crippling financial problems, and my rightful return to massive celebrity, I pawned the last of my Nazi uniform collection and bought a ticket to Los Angeles.
Twelve hours later I was in Beverly Hills without so much as a change of clothes or, it turned out, Wes’s address. Thankfully, I had a plan: if I could raise enough money to book myself onto a tour of the star’s homes, I could just get off the bus when we got to Wes’ house. Raising the funds, however, wasn’t as easy as I expected, and by 5pm, still penniless, a grip of sickening realisation seized the tiny fraction of my mind still clinging to the farcical delusion of self-respect. I was going to have to become a male prostitute again.
Summoning as much dignity as possible, I strolled into a seedy looking diner, past the counter and into the malodorous toilets, where I started getting myself ready for customers by soaking my undercarriage in mouthwash. My first visitor was wearing a cowboy hat and I assumed my luck was in, but when I presented him with my minty member he just looked repulsed and punched me hard three times in the face. More desperate and determined than ever, I shrieked that he could continue to punch me if he paid a dollar a blow. His face lit up, and soon enough he was back with several very burly friends.
Over the course of an hour that will linger long in my nightmares, they literally beat the shit out of me. I was $200 up on the deal, however, and wearing a shattered but satisfied smile I staggered to the Star Tour bus stop, paid my money, and got on the bus – despite the protests from other passengers about my face, which by now resembled a dropped trifle. I tried hard not to give in to my massive internal haemorrhaging as we drove past various celebrity mansions: Tiger Woods’s (bender), Jack Nicholson’s (bender), and even Elton John’s (I have my suspicions). Eventually, my patience paid off and we were outside Wes’ glorious home. I lurched out of my seat and staggered to the front of the bus, where I insisted to be let off.
Climbing over the nine-foot security fence was surprisingly straightforward even with my badly fractured rib cage, and at the front door I rang the buzzer again and again until it finally opened – and there stood my BEST FRIEND Wes Craven. He looked confused and remained silent as I explained – as best I could – what had happened, but he still looked bewildered as he stared into my horribly disfigured face and listened to my blood-gurgling drawl. He turned and, apologising, closed the door. I wept animalistically until the other guests started to arrive and security guards removed me from the driveway.
A week later, back in Bristol, another letter arrived from Wes saying he was sorry I couldn’t make it to the party and it was a shame because he was going to offer me a part in his new film – a part he’d given to David Jason instead. If my tear ducts still worked I would be crying like a widow.