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Greetings dear viewer,

Are you sitting comfortably? Good then I will begin.

There fellows an extract from my Diary - Another Year Closer to Death. Published December 2012.

Copyright and all rights reserved by the author by the way.

I hope you enjoy it and please tell your friends about the book but don't go posting it anywhere dodgy and spoiling the joy of Gore.

Otherwise I will have to send my wife Marge around and believe you me you do not want to get on the wrong side of my darling Marge.

You'll not be able to sit down for a month. The things that woman can do with a hot poker and a croquet mallet, brings a tear to one's eye just thinking about it....


Sunday, 1st January

Dear Diary, every year bloody New Year comes around, and every year I promise myself I will not overindulge. So how is it that every year I end up in an even worse bloody state than the previous one? Last night I was on a boat – well, the floor kept moving so I hope I was on a boat! I was in fact on HMS Belfast, which is moored on the Thames, along with a few hundred other VIP revellers.

My darling wife, Marge, or “She That Must Be Disobeyed”, had a great time chasing the sailors. I think half of them jumped overboard to get away from her. The other half she tossed over the side in her urgency to get dancing with the Captain!

In her day my Marge was a true beauty. A work of art; a real Moaning Lisa oil painting. Now she’s like me, needs a bit of restoration and is in desperate need of a touch-up, in more ways than one.

As I write this it’s New Year’s Day and I’m sat with the mother of all hangovers, a life-ring around my neck, my trousers around my ankles and my shirt covered in vomit! I’m not even sure if it’s my own. The shirt, that is. I’m wondering what the bloody hell went on last night? Answers on a postcard … to me, Kensington Gore, care of the London street that bears my name.

That’s for those who don’t know who I am – and let’s face it, there are times when I haven’t a bloody clue myself! Normally I prefer to remain anonymous and don’t like to expose myself. I’m a semi-retired director of horror films – I’m in my mid-seventies. Sadly, at my age everything seems to have gone semi… from semi-detached, semi-literate to semi-conscious. I’ve reached the age where I’m old enough to know better, but too old to care.

Enough with all of this grow old gracefully tosh! I intend to do it as disgracefully as I can. I’m going downhill with style and panache. More Torvill and Dean than Eddie the bloody Eagle, you could say.

2012 is a big year for London, in case you haven’t heard. It’s an Olympic year and I have decided it is also going to be my big comeback year. I may not win any gold medals – unless they are for drinking, farting, fornicating and falling asleep – but I do want to get back to where I truly belong, which is in the movie limelight.

I plan to write and direct one last great horror feature. My Magnus Magnusson Opus if you like, and you don’t have to be a mastermind to work out that the sands of time are ticking against me.

This diary will chronicle my journey, recording my one last shot at the big time for posterity. I will allow you, Dear Reader, an insight into my everyday life. This is not to be a boring journal for film geeks to witter and Twitter about, endlessly dribbling on about the size of my lens or what exposure I plan to use. As I’ve said to many a leading lady in the past, my lens is more than big enough, thank you very much, and I’ll expose what I bloody well like!

Speaking of leading ladies, I’d best see if my dear wife Marge has surfaced. She’s a former big screen siren – I call her that because every time she was on screen, people said she was alarming. The last thing I recall is that she wanted to go down with a submarine commander; something about seeing how he got his periscope up …

I’m fighting the urge to get my own head down at the same time. I can’t cut it like the old days. I want to get back to Kensington, SW7. Yes, we do live in a posh part of London, but that’s not a crime. It’s a bloody big house and, rather like Marge, takes a lot of upkeep. It’s a bit like me too: certain parts are in desperate need of repair. In fact, exactly like me, the plumbing is well and truly fucked!

Monday, 2nd January

Dearest Diary, I promise to make lots of entries into you this year. More entries than a porn actress will allow, if I have my way. Porn actresses on the hole are lovely. In my heyday I dated plenty of them. I once was a bit of a ladies’ man, even if I do say so myself. I used to have to beat them off with a big stick, and some liked it even kinkier than that.

Having admired the art of pornography from an early age, I’ve always wanted to direct a porn movie myself. Something arty, with a trademark Kensington Gore gothic-horror vibe. Idea to self: The Penis Fly Trap – a film about a woman who is obsessed with giving oral sex. Sadly, the fellatrix suffers from lockjaw and an uncontrollable urge to bite down. Tag line: She bites off a bit more than she can chew.

Speaking of mastication, my beloved wife Marge has made a curry with the Christmas turkey leftovers. It looks, and probably tastes, like something from the Black Lagoon. I’m a bit worried about Marge’s bum-burning curries. The last one she made took the enamel off my teeth.

I might stick to an all-liquid diet today. The Brandy Diet is one of my personal favourites – you don’t lose any weight, but if you drink enough of the stuff then you neither care what you look like nor what people think of you. Also, if you’re very lucky, you can lose days.

As a septuagenarian, and yes, I did have to look that up, time is the great tormenter. There’s the horrible feeling that you are on the scrapheap of life, sitting in God’s big white waiting room. The body might be uncooperative but the mind is still as sharp as a button, and I’m as smart as a pin, or is it the other way around? Bugger it, at my age, who cares about the details?


Monday, 16th January

Experts say today is officially known as “Blue Monday”. It's nothing to do with the popular 80s synthesiser beat combo New Order. The gloomy title refers to a combination of post-Christmas blues, cold dark nights and the arrival of large credit card bills.

Things get very blue in the Gore household, believe you me. Bills are always of a very red kind and things more often than not are always dark – I blame those bloody new energy-efficient light bulbs. They save you money but are about as bright as my idiot grandson Wayne. They don’t let you see where you’re going so you can easily fall down the stairs and spend six months in plaster whilst losing a bloody fortune as you’re not able to work.

Excuse me, Dear Diary, I've gone off on a tandem again.

I started to think of ways I could banish the blues and at least feel a little better about myself. I looked online and you can sponsor and kind of adopt a needy African boy for as little as £10 per month. He sends you a letter, telling you how much he appreciates your generosity, and you can then feel good about yourself. It says you can even send him a letter, or a more personal gift, to make the adoption “even more touching and heartfelt”. Maybe I could send him Marge, and get her walking ten miles to the well for clean water before she brings down an antelope to make burgers for his tea.

Marge keeps saying I should do more for good causes and charities, but she hardly ever gets off her own arse much for anything at all. Also, Sol now wants me to write off a lot of money to charitable donations before they close the charity loophole. So, I’ll do it. I’ll adopt an African child. Not literally, like Madonna did. I want to do the one I saw online where you send a payment to look after his welfare, see him through school and buy him a Happy Meal once a month or something. It will get both Marge and Sol off my back for a bit and, well, the thought of doing it does kind of warm my old heart, I guess.

Tuesday, 17th January

It was very interesting writing a letter to someone you don’t know who lives in a different part of the world, and the third world at that. I will reproduce it here for you after this entry. Made me think back to when I was a teenager. I had a penpal and asked her to send me a revealing picture so that I could see more of her. I think she was a bit dumb because by return of post I received an X-ray from her.

Here is my letter:

Dear Odongo,
My name is Kensington Gore, and I'm your new – for want of a better term – foster father. Let’s see, where to begin? Personal information. All right, I'm seventy-six years of age, I am married to Marge who is a former actress and ten years my younger. We have had many happy years, not necessarily together, but let’s say she and I have grown accustomed to our ways.

We live in London, on a street that bears my name. Not everyone in London has that, by the way. In my case it’s because the street was named after my great-grandfather. He was big in the theatre world and “fake blood” was also named after him.

I'm a semi-retired horror film director. You probably will not have seen any of my films as they’re so old and you’re so young. I doubt they have many multiplexes on the plains of Africa, or if they do I doubt they’d be showing my old horror movies anyway.

I have four children of my own, all happily flown the nest a long time ago. My eldest from my first marriage, Bella, lives in Los Angeles in the USA. I named her after Bela Lugosi. Sadly my Bella also looks the spit of him too. She’s a bit of a wallflower, actually, more of a wall-weed, as Bella is well on her way to becoming an old maid. Mad about cats; think all of the charm of that Sumo-Subo woman but without the voice or the good looks!

Then we have darling Gloria, who’s recently turned 40. Don’t tell her I told you that, as she tells everyone she’s only in her mid-thirties. She's a lot like Marge; numbers are not her strong point. She has no concept of the value of money either, but she sure as hell knows how to spend it. Gloria’s been married and divorced five times. Personally I think she just likes the taste of bloody wedding cake.

Wedding cake is something my eldest son Vincent is not likely to see unless there is such a thing as “Civil Partner’s Cake”. Vince is as gay as the day is long. I’m proud of him but I wish he wasn’t so loud. I don’t mean his loud shirts, bright clothes and being camp, he’s just so bloody loud! Squeals like a jumbo jet taking off when he as much as sees a bleeding spider.

Then we have my youngest, Boris, who lives in Newcastle which is in the north-east of England. I support their famous football team, Newcastle United. They play in black and white stripes. Not the best example of racial harmony as they haven’t won anything in decades. I'll try and send you a shirt so that you can impress your friends. Only hope you don't get mistaken for a zebra and torn to bits by a lion! Boris is in finance, but we don’t talk too much about that. You could say he’s the white sheep of the family.

Boris has two sons. Graeme is the smart one that wants to be a writer and get into film like his grandfather. Then there’s his younger brother, Wayne, who often stays with us. He’s not exactly the brains of the Gore family, bless him. One winter’s early evening we were walking down Oxford Street in the middle of a power-cut and Wayne asked why all the shops’ lights were off. I explained there was no electricity. He asked, “Well, how come the buses’ lights are on?”

My third and final grandchild is Gloria’s girl, Danni. She is the apple of my eye but the thing is she knows it and likes to have me wrapped around her little finger. She’s in her mid-twenties, a single mum, and she’s not sure exactly who the father is. Might be a soldier or a sailor or a tinker bloody tailor!

Danni gave birth to twin girls nearly six years ago; Apple and Marmite. That Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow have a lot to answer for in making strange names for kids fashionable, I can tell you.

Danni is all about fashion and the latest things. I find it hard to keep up with her; one week she wants to be a model, one week a singer, another week an actress or TV presenter. She has so much talent she can't decide and the enthusiasm of youth.

Anyway ... seventy-six must sound pretty old to a young chap like you? The truth is, it sounds pretty old to me, too. Because when I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles around my eyes and the sagging skin on my neck, and the hair in my ears and the veins on my ankles, I can’t believe it’s really me. When I was a young man the world seemed to be my lobster. Anything and everything was possible. These days simply getting out of bed or the bath tub is a task and a half.

We have a cleaner/home-help, but she isn’t worth the money we don’t pay her. Marge strangely always tidies up for her before she comes around anyway so she’s as much use as a chocolate fire-guard.

My agent, Sol, has recently risen from the dead. Don’t worry, he's not one of my film zombies. He’s recently come out of a coma. He seems to have his wits about him and as much drive as he ever did. So, if he can come back from the dead, maybe I can too? Figuratively speaking of course.

I’m trying to come out of retirement to make one last great horror movie. But between you and me, my old grey cells are finding it hard to find the inspiration to write. All the great stories have been told, and a lot of modern horror movies are simply rip-offs from the classics, paler and paler imitations and never-ending sequels. I need to create something original, to find a unique spark of inspiration from somewhere …

There haven’t been too many horror movies set in Africa. I suppose the true horror is living there. We take things for granted in this country, such as a child being able to walk to school safely. We know nothing about risking life and limb every day to study in an old shotgun shack. Over there you have civil war, land mines, charging elephants and wild boars. Over here we have rioting, overcharging bankers and boring fat cat politicians. To be honest, I'm not sure which scenario is worse.

I’d best close now, and get this in the post to you. God knows how long it will take the Royal Mail to deliver it to where you are. Here I am, rambling on and on, and you probably want to cash that cheque and get yourself something to eat, eh?

May this letter leave you feeling better than how it found you.

Yours truly,

Kensington Gore

Copyright Kensington Gore. "Kensington Gore's Diary Another Year Closer to Death"

Being published December 2012 - if you would like to leave any constructive feedback or comments then please do so in the box provided.



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