Head of planning and partner
(020) 7494 9120
Fallon, 67-69 Beak Street, London, , W1F 9SW
16 May 1978
The number of people in advertising I would consider to be among my best friends. Then again, I went to a comprehensive school carrying a briefcase (and butched it out for five solid years as an act of defiance) so I didn't have any friends until I was 16.
To try to stop beating myself up. I still administer the occasional self-aimed shoeing. But the new stretch ambition is inner peace.
If you can't spot the tosser in a room within ten minutes, it's you.
Never have admitted to Heidi, the double-jointed German beauty who was leading me down to Faliraki's darkened beach, that I was not, in fact, a fringe member of Man Utd's first team.
A beautifully poetic piece of prose.
When I was doing my brother's best man speech. I had a little cry while quoting Rolf Harris lyrics. A new low.
Sat in my new car, heading for the sea.
Heart on sleeve. I tried to be enigmatic once. It lasted as long as it took someone to say something stupid.
Staring at my walls. I'm addicted to shelling out for creased and tattered original film posters and photos. Every one tells a story. Sometimes a sad one.
Inner peace. Or a 1952 Porsche 356 Carrera Speedster. Whichever is easier.
Blamed it all on a simple twist of fate.
I spend the first 80 per cent of a holiday feeling homesick, then want to live there forever.
A frustrated novelist. Best feedback so far: "This is culty, unconventional and funny. But I didn't like the bit where the cat is buried alive." You just can't please cat lovers, it seems.