Public service announcement: You may not be aware of this as yet, but the actor Rupert Everett is one hell of a good writer.
I just want to share here a tiny snippet of his January 2014 article In Defence of Prostitutes, which originally appeared in The Guardian.
I think this passage succinctly displays the greatness of his writing, its humour, and a number of its recurrent themes/ preoccupations.
Here, Everett is describing a walk through London’s Soho on Christmas Day 2013:
I walk through Soho on Christmas morning. There is not a soul about. I am suddenly transported to those days when London died each Sunday and the only noise was church bells.
Bar Italia is closed. The theatres are dark. No lights in the models’ flats. The Christmas Eve storm has blown everyone away. A couple of brain-dead queens stumble across Old Compton Street towards an elusive orgy. Under the blue sky, in the weird silence, the ghastly Christmas spirit hanging there, just the sound of the queens’ slurred voices asking directions, everything is suddenly clear.
Everett is an amazing writer. If you want a true literary treat, I would strongly recommend his two volumes of autobiography, each of which is hilarious, scandalous, oddly touching and exquisitely written:
Image via Wikimedia Commons.
MJCarty 
