I'm invited to a special reception for some visitors from another planet. I'm sat next to David Bowie. I'm eating spaghetti bolognese.
Later, I'll be found wading aimlessly in a near-by river and I'll have to feign some kind of psychotic attack, but right now I'm quite happy filling my face with free food and wine, grinning across the table at a bemused Louis Theroux, slagging everything off in his own quasi-naive way.
Although the reception is taking place in England, the American Government threatened us all with prison unless we let them handle things, on the grounds that they've "made loads more films about this sort of thing than anybody else." A compromise was reached when the US agreed to let the UK handle the guest list.
And so the tables are populated by all manner of utterly inappropriate guests: people like Robin Williams {wearing his 'Mork' outfit}, E.T., the robots from Star Wars, and my neighbour, the crumpled looking David Bowie, who is now well into his 80's and resembles a kind of camp William Burroughs in high heels and blue eye-shadow.
Everything gets quiet, in that nightmarish kind of way. I can hear the blood pumping through my head as the guests of honour arrive, moving with a fluid gate totally at odds with their physical appearance, which bares an unsettling resemblance to six-feet tall piles of spaghetti bolognese.
Rollo Kim
