There’s quite a few writers who are sensitive souls, and the worst are those who like to dish it out but reach for the smelling salts and swoon when anyone so much as gives them a funny look.
Luckily I was born with the Sensitivity Gene missing, especially when it comes to dissing, and I find that like with gifts, I’d just as soon receive than give. Say nasty things behind my back, to my face – or both ways in bed – and not only will I not get upset but I’ll derive a mild kick from it. Just a little one, mind you – I’m not kinky!
I’ve had a bunch of feuds – Tony Parsons (‘Looks like a dying rhesus monkey’), Martin Amis (‘A little man in every way it is possible for a man to be little’), and Camille Paglia (‘F*** off you crazy old dyke!’) The last one was admittedly a low blow, but I like to think I was cut down to size by afterwards becoming – however briefly – a crazy old dyke myself. And you must admit that what they lack in levity they certainly make up for in brevity.
So I’ve dissed everyone from ex-husbands to ex-heroes but sadly I’ve never had a feud with a fresh corpse – though the cadaver in question being that of Karl Lagerfeld, I’d hazard that it’s fresh in the way a bag of beef jerky is just before its best-by date. This honor goes to Jameela Jamil, who I’ve only been vaguely aware of till now as one of those pretty girls who starts out as a presenter on TV pop shows and goes on to be an Insta-influencer banging on about world poverty and climate change while plugging scented candles called things like Loving at fifty quid a throw.
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