A letter to the editor from Frederick Forsyth takes me to task. Enough about Gstaad is its message. OK, but only because it’s you, Freddy baby. Instead, I will treat you to a rivet-by-rivet description of tattooed oiks and thick-ankled slappers puking their guts out in urine-drenched Manchester pubs, my one thousand and one nights of exotic oriental pleasures in a Liverpool nightclub and — of course — my threesome with Ken Livingstone and Nicky Haslam. Incidentally, if you believe that, you surely must also believe Piers Morgan’s diaries. Bloody hell! Why is it that when a diarist quotes others addressing him by his Christian name ad nauseam, as Morgan does, I don’t believe a word? Perhaps it’s just me.
Unlike a biography, a diary cannot tell the complete and unbiased story. It is easily manipulated. I once caught Woodrow Wyatt writing a whopper concerning my person and Lord Suffolk.
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