Someone has been putting peculiar ravings up on the internet and signing them ‘Gareth In a Wig’.
This is an oblique reference to my friend David’s wife, Della Farrant, who for various reasons is reluctant to be photographed. This has led to some bizarre theories about her identity being posted, that for instance she is actually Rob Milne – who in fact is obviously a Scotsman, and could not possibly be Della – Trish Jing Jai, a Thai woman, or the literary critic Doctor Jane Monson, simply because she interviewed David Farrant at the launch of the first volume of his autobiography, and any number of women whom David has made the aqcuaintance of over the years. It has also been suggested that Della is David Farrant himself, though it seems rather obvious that David is not a woman.. Perhaps the strangest idea is that she is myself wearing a blonde wig. Since her hair is dark brown, this is particularly odd. Actually, it would be interesting to be a woman with a cleavage like hers, but I am a man (I think). I have never stuffed coconuts up a bra, as has been alleged.
‘Gareth In a Wig’ accompanies his (her?) postings with a photograph of the popular singer Shakira. I do not suppose that she likes this any more than I do. Whilst Della is not normally photographed, her voice has featured on various radio programmes and You-Tube videos, and I would particularly draw attention to the ‘BPOS Christmas Special Bloopers’, where you can hear her voice off-screen, saying to me: “What ARE you going to do?” I could not possibly imitate her voice, since mine is deep-pitched, and hers is in the middle range. Even if I was capable of throwing my voice.
Della is a close friend of mine who I see on a weekly basis for several hours at a time, sometimes a lot longer if filming or social commitments require this.
I wish to emphasise as strongly as possible that I am not Della, and have no idea who ‘Gareth In a Wig’ may be.
Gareth J. Medway (posted by David Farrant).
I really feel compelled to break my ongoing ‘silence’ with regard to a proliferation of peculiar rantings on the internet. NO, I am not Della, nor is Della me. NO, I am not Springheeledjack. NO, I am neither the’Bishop’ or Hogg or Spartacus. No way am I the Whore of Babylon. Last time I looked I could not see any evidence of being a hermaphrodite. As to hacking into someone’s blog or whatever, I can barely send an e-mail. Why is it that the very thought of me goads a certain individual into such frenzy that it is akin to poking a savage dog’s haemmeroids with a sharp stick ? Not too keen on being the obscure object of the ‘Bishop’s’ desire/ current obsession. Peculiar ravings indeed.
My cher Le Comte,
Good to see you back again. Where have you BEEN!? Don’t worry to much about accused of being Della. Its onle ONE person making this assumption anyway. The usual one!
First he accused her of being Jane (the literally critic who interviewed me at my bookshop Talk a couple of years ago); then he said she was you!; then it was another friend of mine who had just got married; then she was really me and didn’t really exist! and after that she was just various girls that I used as ‘stand-in’s! So don’t worry about it. The man’s still as Bonky as ever!
If you can get yourself down to London while the Summer’s still here, that would be good. You would be most welcome. Just think of it . . . then you could meet the real Della!
yes, yes, Le Comte must visit. We are left to satiate ourselves with a mobile phone number which we never seem to get round to ringing, and which rings us only rarely and usually from the pub, and an email address which bounceth back – much like my legendary cleavage.
We need more!! We DEMAND more. And so it shall come to pass, we hope and pray. The rampant Scot will visit our dingy bedsit once more. He will dine upon our golden platters, sup from our crystal goblets, sleep off his excesses in the guest suite, wake to see his morning cigar being rolled delicately and with much care upon the thigh of a Bolivian virgin. Then we shall decamp to Jenny’s Caff on M Hill Broadway where the grease will set our noble guest upright for a day of whatever he fancies most. Do, do dear Comte not reject our humble hospitalities. Haggis could be arranged. Scotch by default. Yours, in adoration, La Farrantessa
Perhaps the visit of our kilt clad friend could coincide with that of the Frew – who I hear that the Bonky One is now speculating may be DEAD! He was very much alive last time I saw him, which was not so long ago.
Can you handle it, Mr F? Just imagine the potential!
The Bonky One may be HOPING he may be ‘dead’ but, like you, let me assure him he is very much alive!
Incidently, I have since checked and the Frew is the last one to the right with his back to the camera in that 1970 Evening News photograph. And guess who is just in front of him? Why, its The Eggmanne. Can you spot the ears?!?
My Dear Farrant and Farrantessa,
What delights you promise, such scarlet temptations to tittilate the most jaded palate, such frisson inducing fillips and enticements. Alas, I must decline. Only a will as tempered by iron resolve as mine could make a lie of such blandishments but, again, alas, my duties lie too heavy on these careworn shoulders for such frivolity. Perhaps Spring, should your need be as keen ? I am however flattered by your kindness and wish you both the very best.
Less flattering by far is the obvious sexual obsession that the mitred one has developed with myself. This offers neither compliment nor comfort. The ‘Whore of Babylon’? A ‘trannie’? It is very very disturbing to be aware that one provokes the nocturnal emissions of such an obvious lunatic.