…So, my perfect New Year, 2 July. I am floating in the pool at my villa in Cyprus on a bright pink lilo, with a fantastic tan, wearing my Jackie O sunglasses, a shiny black bikini, and drinking a large whisky and Coke, with lots of ice and a slice of lemon. I have a fag in my hand and a big smile across my face. My friends are flying in from all over the world to celebrate my birthday. There are crates of champagne, vodka, whisky and rum; enough of everything to keep us all going for years.
My mobile rings. It is David Bowie: he is coming in on his private jet – Does anyone need a ride? The Tate Gallery rings: I’ve been nominated for the Turner Prize again, and the money’s been raised to a hundred grand. I turn down the nomination, not because I’m not interested but because I’m just not in the mood to deal with it. Nick Serota comes on the line to wish me happy birthday anyway.
A fax arrives from Rough Trade records. Pulp’s new single, ‘Tracey A Girl From Margate’ has gone straight into the charts at number one.
Sarah Lucas calls: Virgin Airlines has charted a special plane to bring everyone over. She says there’s been delay because Mat Collishaw has lost his passport, but he’s on his way. They should arrive by six. And my new novel, Fucked-Up Crazy Soul, has been banned from all bookshops in the UK. Sarah had been hoping to pick up a copy at the airport.
I put the phone down. And I fall asleep to the sound of helicopters hovering overhead.
I am in a massive double-bed and the clocks are striking twelve. The world may be cheering, but I can’t hear. My face is firmly pushed into the pillow and he is fucking me. The year. the time, the date – none of it matters. All I want is him, deep inside me, deeper, deeper, for ever and ever.
I’m in love…
pg. 203-204, New Year in July, Strangeland, 2006.