'Are you famous', asked Sarah Ferguson, aka The Duchess of York, aka Fergie? I looked at her like a bull with a bastard calf. Flying the Concorde, with wild long hair, a bow tie and a Fortnum and Mason carry bag doesn't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
That happened in my good old profligate days when I was too fucking clever by half, thought that my wealth could survive my giving my money away to my kids and ex-wife, buying gifts like a drunken sailor all included in my wonderful and wild ass spending.
And sober as well. When the maitre de of every tony restaurant recognizes you and calls you by name, you’ve gone over the fucking top.
Yeah, I was a 'steady' on the Concorde from London to New York and vice versa. The flight attendants all knew me and 2B was my seat. God was I ever full of shit playing the big shot. But I loved it and would do it all over again even knowing full well that I would end up, at 89, busted on my lowercase bronx, jewish, ass while trying to become an author and blogger of some note.
On this particular flight the Duchess was sitting across the aisle from me, next to the window with a deliberately empty seat next to her. And what a knockout she was. My friend, the flight attendant, had alerted me as to who was on the airplane with me, a lowly commoner.
It was a sight to see her, this tall, beautiful woman stand up to go to the loo. The narrow Concorde aisle emphasized the size of her big ass which looked enormous in that aisle. No wonder the Duchess went to Weight Watchers and later became a spokeswoman for it. What a huge ass, hooked on to a great looking body and beautiful face the Duchess had.
My guess is that Fergie had a drinking problem to go with her eating problem best shown in her weight by her inability to stop her mouth from moving and pushing herself away from the table. Whatever her problem was she had an affinity for doing the bizarre and being photographed by the paparazzi doing it.
Like being photographed while in a lounge chair by the side of a pool, naked from the waist up and having her toes sucked by one John Bryan who was the son of oil man J.P. Bryan, who by the way, only lied when his lips moved. Some father/son combo.
I was reluctant to tell Fergie that I was indeed famous but only in my own mind. So I responded with an 'Absolutely not'. 'Well' Fergie said, 'I know you from somewhere'. 'For sure not’, I replied, 'Not a chance'. She then said 'Only someone with style would fly on the Concorde with a bag of fruit from Fortnum and Mason' which I had done. The food on the Concorde was too fucking rich for my taste, cost notwithstanding, hence the fruit from Fortnum and Mason. Gotta’ keep my mouth moving.
Ah too bad I wasn't famous. Maybe I could have developed a meaningful relationship with the Duchess, at least until my foul language reared its ugly head and she discovered that by a hooker's stated standard, that I was a lousy lover.
A few years later I wrote the Duchess a letter, hand delivered to Buckingham Palace, asking for her support (Not financial. It was well known that she was busted on her big ass.) of an Autism project. I was so fucking famous that she never replied.
As the Queen told Alice, ‘Think The Impossible’.
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