Michael Heath

Diary – 28 December 2002

The Spectator's resident cartoonist displays an unusual form of musophobia and fights the lonely fight against the Christmas blockbuster

issue 28 December 2002

This is the first Christmas in recent years that I haven’t spent in traction or immobilised by glandular fever. You may imagine that I spend my days drawing and whistling in a carefree manner, but there are tears behind the laughter. Two Christmases ago I was invited to the Erotic Review party in a club in London’s Soho. I had worked for the magazine doing dodgy drawings at fifty quid a pop, so they owed me a drink. Besides, I was eager to meet the Erotic staff who, I felt sure, writhed around all day on their laptops sans knickers and headaches. I found the club, walked in and was unable to see anything except a bar, far off in the distance, full of decadent, half-naked women and helpless men being used as sex objects. I leered towards them but found myself in midair, having missed the staircase. Then I landed on the dance floor and broke my feet.

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