BDJ: “In a way, I already thought about what i was doing – temping and trying to get ridiculously low-paid jobs as a kind of prostitution anyway”
Well. Of course. When I was temping it was routine to interrupt a morning’s typing with a bit of financially-rewarding anal sex. And that job losing parcels for Parcel Line paid shit, so I must have been a hooker even though nobody tried to insert anything into my vagina while discussing Proust – at least, not during working hours.
It turns out BDJ “Reported on music gigs for the student paper”. At “uni”. Martin dear, no-one under 40 uses the word “uni”, for starters. And the classic “reporting on music gigs for the student paper” strikes me as just a little out of character for the philosphy-loving elegantly weary tediously erudite high-class call girl we know so well. Something tells me she would have submitted bad poetry instead.
Apparently she wanted to be a journalist, but no-one would hire her as editor of The Times, so prostitution was the only alternative. I know the feeling. I spent three years as a bar girl servicing American sailors in the Philippines after I was rejected as editor of Vogue, two weeks after I left university. Oh the sufferings we creative types must endure!
I’m as much of a feminist as the next ugly unmarried 30-something, and I don’t believe all hookers are incapable of coherent thought and an elegant writing style. I just don’t fucking believe that BDJ is a woman, or a prostitute. As he himself notes at the end of the interview: “Now I can lie like . . . . well, a very good liar.”
Lose the “very good” and I’m in agreement.