Poor Philip

They say it never rains but it pours...

As if there weren't enough misery in the world at the moment, I received a text message from a dear friend last night which simply said; 'I'm so sorry to hear about your friend Philip.'

My blood immediately went cold. I rightly assumed that she meant Philip Sallon, and thought she was going to tell me he was dead. I called her immediately, and was relieved to discover he was alive, but horrified to learn that he'd been attacked in Soho, in what can only be described as a queer bashing. Details were sketchy. The newspapers were reporting that his skull was fractured and that he'd been left for dead outside the Gap in Piccadilly. 

We have just been to St Thomas' Hospital to visit him. He's still very confused and has no recollection of what happened to him. It is horrible to see him looking so fragile and miserable, and he was in considerable pain. 

The room is filled to bursting point with flowers. As we sat with him, an enormous bouquet arrived from Vivienne Westwood. The nurses were forced to put him into a private room because so many people were calling in on him. He is a much-loved man.

People are very angry about what's happened. Despite his having been attacked in Central London, we've been told no CCTV footage exists of the event. Curiously, Philip was also sent a threatening text just before it happened... To my knowledge the police have not yet followed this one up, which seems particularly odd, as the message came from the meat-head boyfriend of some ghastly waste-of-space so-called celebrity! 

The vigilantes have taken over. They're going to be handing out fliers in the spot where it happened, and his close friend Boy George is leading an on-line appeal to find his attackers. A march is even being planned. I have handed my details to the organisers and will do anything I can to assist. I passionately believe that we need to rid the world of the grotesque, cowardly people who think it's okay in this day and age to beat someone up simply because they're different. The man is 60, for Christ's sake, and utterly defenceless. 

I spent the morning helping Ellen with her cats. She has a bad back and needed help getting them to a vet. It was a glorious day, and we had coffee in Stoke Newington with all the lesbians, former hippies and cat lovers. We took a stroll in Abney Cemetery, which is a location I've earmarked for a potentially very exciting performance in the late summer...

In the afternoon I went to the dentist. My hygienist tells me that my gums are receding. She told me off for not sticking little yellow brushes between them often enough, and I felt like a naughty school boy. The dentist, on the other hand, complimented me on my teeth, but has given me a hospital referral to check out a little lump I've recently discovered on the gum behind my lower back teeth. She didn't seem too concerned about it. I'm hardly being rushed in! 

350 years ago, Pepys met up with his old friend, Thomas Townsend, who recounted the hysterical tale of his walking around for an entire day with both legs in the same leg of his breeches! Oh the fun those guys had with their fancy frocks!

Speaking of fun, Pepys then went to the Leg in Whitehall Palace, where the pretty maid behind the bar disappeared into a back room to give Pepys a kiss. We're not told what sort of kiss, or whether things got even steamier. These were before the days when Pepys would write in graphic detail about his dalliances in a mixture of schoolboy Latin and French. Oo la la!