Astronomer Royal, Edmond Halley
Confided (back when we were pally),
‘On sighting a comet
I gen’rally vomit;
And shooting-stars drive me doolally.’
Not an ideal companion, then, on our seasonal expedition to the heath to view The Perseid Shower, and to join in the midnight incantations whereby witches implore these cosmic projectiles to validate their hitherto-purposeless trajectories by hailing down on the skulls of this planet’s most infamous leaders.
The last time I spoke to James Mason
We were both throwing up in one basin.
I think it was him
’Cos I said, ‘Awright, Jim?’
And he answered, ‘Whatever you say, son.’
In this final ‘I think it was him‘ case-study we do at least have some hint of confirmation from the actor himself – though the background to the particular encounter is left to the inferential skills of the reader. Crucially, though, the past week’s program at My Dog Errol has offered us a handle on the way celebrity capitalism tampers with the already-shaky sense of personal identity with which the last century has saddled our culture.