After Cecil Beaton, Rupert Everett. His outrageous memoirs, searing and bitchy, witty and sad, knowing and camp, full of sex, drugs and .... no, not rock'n roll, theatre, pasty make up dripping with sweat, Hollywood wannabee, all of this with a posh upper class accent. Throw in a bit of catholic perversion, some travelogue, famous friends - and you just keep on reading, Vanished Years - yours too, because he is a boy of my generation - goes to the top of the pile and gets read, to the bitter, uproarious, moving end.
