Having recently been introduced to the realm of the ecto-web by my au pair, Una, (just before I had her locked in the cellar for willfully doodling a phallus one of my original Khnopff), I have decided to record the events of my exceptional life in this digital journal.
Of course, one would be perfectly entitled to ask how a disembodied skull could possibly write a blog. Am I laboriously tapping the keys with my cigarette-holder? Have I perhaps summoned an imp from the faery kingdom to act as my PA? Certainly not. What are servants for if not being dictated to?
My trusty chauffeur and batman Mange-Tout is typing these words with his over-sized mitts as I speak. He is somewhat impaired by the fact that his eyes were removed and eyelids sewn up by the Lost Priests of Hurrrk (yes, that does have 3 rs, Mange-Tout. Do carry on, dear love), but that is another story, what?
So who am I? Who is this mystical fellow, reduced to a shadowy undead existence, tethered to his last mortal remnant, this bony brain-ball that is both my prison and refuge?
Well, I was once Tarot-reader to the court of Edward VIII after a long career as a stage psychic in the music halls of this Sceptred Isle. Regularly consulted by the aristocracy and stars alike as a medium, I was the one who first sneaked a fag to a very young Princess Margaret.
And now here I am in this mouldering pile in Holland Park, being attended to by a sadistic Housekeeper, a blind polynesian manservant and an au pair with biro Tourettes.
How did demi-life end up like this? Well, I may just begin to paint that particularly melancholy picture very soon…
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