- MONDAY Onanism aside, OZone isn't much of a DIY enthusiast. Having recently moved lair, I've managed to unpack most of my belongings, but until someone comes around to put up the shelves, my book collection remains boxed on the floor.
This morning the mailman delivers a proof manuscript of Trevor White's book, The Dubliner Diaries (due from Lilliput Press this autumn). Given my already cluttered circumstances, I wouldn't generally appreciate another addition to my library. However, it's a terrifically entertaining and bitchy read, and once I pick it up, it's hard to put down again.
Despite the title, it's not just an account of Trevor's tumultuous years at the helm of The Dubliner magazine (the Tiger Woods fiasco isn't mentioned for legal reasons).
Here's a frivolous snippet to whet your appetite: "The actor Colin Farrell was once asked to name his favourite restaurant in an interview for the American Airlines in-flight magazine. For weeks afterwards, the head office of Abrakebabra was plagued by calls from the assistant to a major Hollywood producer who was planning a trip to Dublin. She was determined to reserve the chef's table."
- Tuesday Morning flight to Malta for an Isle of MTV special featuring Scissor Sisters, Kid Rock, Kelis and DJ David Guetta. The show isn't until tomorrow night so the day is totally free. I spot Kelis relaxing by the pool.
Sky News reports that a major Russian spy ring has just been busted in the US. Allegedly, one of their hammy secret codes was, "Excuse me, could we have met in Malta in 1999?"
- Wednesday Afternoon press conference with the stars of the MTV show. Kid Rock is particularly impressive, and comes across as a surprisingly self-deprecating, down-to-earth type.
Although he's a massive star in the US, he explains that at this stage of his career, he's not that interested in trying to "break" Europe. "I'd rather go to places where I'm celebrated than places where I'm tolerated. Like, I'm really big in Kentucky."
- Thursday Morning flight from Valetta to London for Sebastian Horsley's funeral. That's the plan anyway. At 6am, I'm still quite drunk, barely awake, and only slightly perturbed by the news that a member of Kid Rock's road crew has used my pre-booked cab to ferry some local floozies away from the scene of the crime. Actually, they've used all of the pre-booked cabs.
By 7.15am there are four of us -- two English DJs and a sour-faced German journalist -- angrily plaguing the hotel porter. "How can you call this place a five-star hotel when you can't even provide transport?" OZone's situation isn't quite so urgent, but at one point the German guy screams, "I'm gonna miss my flight! Does any member of the staff have a f**kin' motorbike?"
When the cabs eventually arrive, they come all at once, screeching tyres. For spite, we all get into the same one.
Five hours later I'm in another cab, running late for the funeral, watching the changing of the guards down the road from Buckingham Palace. All the pomp and ceremony seems appropriate for the day that's in it.
When I eventually make it to St James's Church in Piccadilly, there are at least 300 people there. Many of the guests are flamboyantly dressed -- some of them in rubber. Sebastian's coffin looks like a giant present, wrapped in ribbons and sparkly red paper with a bouquet of flowers and his trademark stovepipe hat on top. It's a beautiful service -- sad, funny, tragic. There are literally dozens of beautiful women weeping. As journalist Jessica Berens comments in her tribute to him: "I'm probably one of the few people in this church who hadn't actually slept with him." Stephen Fry does the eulogy, and speaks movingly of Sebastian's "essential sweetness" and his "brown eyes, just short of pleading".
The coffin is carried out of the church to the strains of Marc Bolan's 20th Century Boy. There's a champagne reception in the gardens of the church afterwards -- family, friends, relatives, rock stars, artists, actors, poets, writers, journalists, filmmakers, prostitutes and crack dealers. All very Sebastian.
OZone gets chatting to writer Will Self. The last time we met was 13 years ago, shortly after he'd been fired from The Observer for snorting heroin on John Major's election campaign jet.
Although he was avoiding the press, he agreed to do an interview with me on the grounds that, as a Cannabis Legalisation Party candidate in the Irish election, I was unlikely to stitch him up.
Self's long since cleaned up his act, but still has at least one remaining vice. When I tell him I enjoyed his most recent novel, The Butt, he nods at the cigarette in my hand and says, "It obviously didn't have the desired effect."
He explains that the book was his anti-smoking polemic. I nod back at the unlit roll-up in his own hand: "It didn't even have the desired effect on you."
"Quite," Self smiles. "Have you got a light?"
A couple of hours later, I adjourn to The French House in Soho with filmmaker Paul Duane and comedian Andrew Maxwell (both of whom were also good friends of Sebastian's).
Maxwell is flying back to Ireland later to participate in the second series of RTE's Celebrity Bainisteoir. He tells me a wonderfully scandalous story. I'm about to call the Herald to tell them to hold the front page when he says, "Of course, that's totally off the record."
The Dail are about to go on their three-month summer holidays. Will anybody be able to tell the difference? Even them?
- Saturday My two children are coming to stay for the night.
O-No-Zone! My toddler son wants to see my penis. "Daddy, can I see your willy?" he asks.
"Em . . . no," I reply.
"But why?" he demands.
"Just . . . because." "Daddy, I wanna see your willy!"
"Well . . . you can't," I say. "But why not?"
Only four more hours to go . . .