A letter from my friend, Jacobson.

Opening it, I warmed to the idea of a slower world, a place where letters, thought, good manners and the timbre of one's voice, actually matter. As a novelist, however, Jacobson has a tendency to bang on about women and sex, as if he invented the whole thing. Sometimes I'll quote him a little Sophocles, or Shakespeare, or, if I'm really pissed off, then the Book of Job, just to let him know he is not alone, and there is nothing new. And yet this morning, taking a shit to the classical fashionista, Einaudi, I opened the letter to find a brief note plus an invite to accompany him to the memorial of Harold Pinter. Deceased, clearly.

Well, apparently he died christmas eve (as I was sojourning in the Alps, trying to avoid Axel's orgy in Bavaria). Yet I was gratified that Jacobson was thinking of me for, indeed, I have history with Pinter. I first met him in the 80's when, as a student, I was member of an anarchist group called the Fuckwits. Once we were ensconsed outside the Turkish embassy where we advoated the torture of every Turkish poet and short story writer. As the afternoon paled a drunken man (evidently Pinter) rolled out of a black cab and gave us all the most furious bollocking I have ever known. Even then, as a student therapist, I was aware of the homosexual component of his rage.

The next time we met was at a crush at the bar of Hammersmith theatre. I was aware of a seething presence at my side. I turned and saw it was Harold, angry at the world, or whatever. It must be very hard being Harold Pinter all the time, but this synthetic rage was rather irritating so I took a breath and decided to play. Already aware of his predilection for the camp, I simply turned and asked if he would hold my cigarette. Without a word, he took it, as if relieved. I then removed myself to the back of the bar, lit a new cigarette, and watched as the greatest playwright of the twentieth century stood at the bar, holding my fag, waiting to be served.

Oh, Harold.

The times we had.