Twenty years in August since Diana died. The anniversary is sad for me on many levels — she was definitely the final famous person I’ll have a pash on, and it reminds me that I haven’t yet earned back the whopping advance I was given for my book about her. To be fair, the book was an absolute stinker, written through a haze of gin, tears and avarice, containing such clodhopping clangers as ‘with blue skies in her eyes and the future in her smile’ and ‘affection swooshed out of her like a firework from a bottle’. Nurse, the screens!
(…)
When a bunny boiler becomes bored by her own emotional incontinence, she becomes a bitch, if she’s lucky. Diana’s Bitch Years were majestic. She was the toast of the New World by then, and from the distance of Manhattan could treat the Windsors like the provincial cheese-parers they are. She kept her evil twin happy by taunting her ex-in-laws, probably reaching peak-bitch when she called the Queen Mother ‘chief leper of the leper colony’.
