PERMIT me to mull over Marilyn Monroe. Sixty photographs of her, ten of which have never been seen in public till now, will be exhibited at the Dome, George Street, from Wednesday to Saturday.
Andrew Weiss, of the Monroe Estate, is coming over from California for the private viewing tomorrow night.
Guests invited to the preview will be drenched with Chanel No5 on arrival by the Chanel team from neighbouring Harvey Nicks because Marilyn
famously once said that the only thing she wore in bed was No5. Smells good to me.
Oh, and by the way, that universally voyeured shot of Ms Monroe above a subway vent, skirt skywards, it’s been on my bedroom wall for years, next to the Hibernian Scottish Cup-winning team pic.
Nothing quite like a quick burst of La Marseillaise to bring me smartly to attention on Bastille Day. The French Consul General, Michel Roche, had invited me to his reception at the New Club on July 14 and in his speech made a point of reminding us that his country is doing its bit.
Maybe the British press had got to him in the debris from Gulf War 2. Anyway I now know that France has 38,000 servicemen and women helping keep the peace the world over.
Hostilities, of a reasonably civilised sort, are not scheduled to break out until France come to Murrayfield on Sunday, March 21, 2004. This is where Eric Milligan, standing stiffly to attention alongside me, confided: "Like our host, I feel we should make that an essentially French weekend for Edinburgh, maybe bring over a couple of high-profile personalities. Catherine Deneuve would help decorate the proceedings. Perhaps a concert by Sacha Distel or Charles Aznavour."
We all say oui, oui to that. A Scotland triumph on the pitch and we’d have a tres bon three-day sheendig.
Somebody who’s been known to get fraught in the Fringe, Nicholas Parsons, is coming back yet again, this time with WS Gilbert, A Great Victorian. Old Nick, his 75th birthday fast approaching, is almost a Victorian himself.
Astonishingly, I hear an advance on 75. A frail fan of the prickly entertainer says Nick will be 80 in October. If he is, I want to know what he’s on.
Parsons revels in his reputation for being unflappable but mention his age and he flaps. "All journalists seem to be obsessed about how old you are," he has said.
Fraught he got when another Fringer, Sir Clement Freud, wrote: "Nicholas Parsons, of whom I was not very fond though I hugely admired his industry . . ." and "there cannot be many folk in the profession who get that much work with that amount of talent".
To which Parsons, when invited to comment, riposted: "I don’t care to know what you’re talking about and, no, I don’t wish to comment on anything to do with it."
Boys will be boys.
85 and still very much in the swing
THIS time of year space is at a premium, so Tommy Sampson, you and your 16-piece big band plus four vocalists get a plug for your jazzfest gig at The Hub on Sunday at 8pm only because you’re an astounding 85 and swinging with it. Sampson, who sold out the same event last year, has hired Scots stalwarts Bruce Adams (trumpet) and Duncan Lamont (tenor sax) from London.
Nowt to do with the jazzfest but wrapped up in rhythm ’n’ blues, Nick Johnson’s Bluefinger have been recalled to the Balmoral’s music room, NB’s, on Friday and Saturday, 9-11pm. Both sessions will be recorded. They jam-packed the place as resident attraction in ’97-98.
Finally . . . always something there to remind me. A woman has complained to environmental health officers in Suffolk that her neighbour’s horse has been urinating too loudly. I’ve often wondered why I could never sustain a relationship. Now I think I know. See you later urinator.
