The Man Who Invented Sex

Once, while watching one of those talking-head documentaries, I realised that when I’m older, I’m not going to be John Peel.

I’m going to be Pete Waterman.

I don’t know what he was talking about in this programme, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt, I would have said the same thing, in the same way if asked that very question.

It was very humbling and more than slightly disturbing.

(I don’t like trains by the way)

In a similar way, I knew, no matter how much I wanted it to happen, I was never going to be England’s heterosexual Gore Vidal (the position of England’s heterosexual Truman Capote being already taken) I was going to be someone much worse.

Then I had this weird vision that I would end up like Harold Robbins.

(I’m sure I’ve read a Harold Robbins though I have no idea which one. Its only saving grace, in my opinion, is that at least it had some sex in it. You don’t get that with a Dan Brown, that’s for sure.)

All this shows is that I’m unnecessarily concerned with self-mythologising over content, which is no bad thing really.

But when I eventually become a famous writer, I’m going to make sure the picture that graces all my books is like that of Mr Robbins above.