My Kind Of Bastard

I was a most peculiar child, precocious and extremely sensitive. I am possessed of an uncommonly good memory and can pinpoint many of the seminal moments of my childhood. Which is how I can trace my fixation back to the age of six. I can remember November 1990 extremely vividly. Margaret Thatcher Leaving office after her cabinet turned against her. John Major, Michael Heseltine and Douglas Hurd all vying for the leadership. A marvellous stroke of luck for the team behind House Of Cards. Former Thatcher aide Michael Dobbs wrote the novel inspired by his time in government, which was, in turn dramatised and improved upon by Andrew Davies. The central figure was Tory Chief Whip Sir Francis Urquhart, given dramatic life by the incomparable Ian Richardson. I watched transfixed as the modern Machiavell schemed, manipulated and murdered his was to the top. Whether he was putting rat poison in Roger O'Neill's cocaine or throwing a besotted, yet perplexed Mattie Storrin to her death from the roof garden of the houses of parliament it didn't matter. I was in love. F.U's hold over me endured, for both sequels: To Play The King and The Final Cut. Of course as I grew up and saw him in other things I managed to distinguish Ian Richardson from F.U. For example I thoroughly enjoyed his turn as Professor Joseph Bell in Murder Rooms {2000-01} along with retrospective performances such as Sir Godber Evans in Porterhouse Blue and Oberon in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Yet to me he was never as attractive as when he was a bastard. When I recently watched Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy {1979 TV series} I felt the same attraction overtake me once more. Ian portrayed Bill Haydon, a.k.a Gerald, the mole in The Circus {based on real life traitor Kim Philby}. This performance gave the spell greater potency and he is for the moment, my main dramatic crush. To see him hysterically laughing and weeping alternately was mesmerizing. His large sad eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes, wet with tears attempting to justify himself to Alec Guinness' impassive George Smiley. That's not to say this sort of reaction is reserved for the late, great Ian Richardson oh no. When I was seven my parents took me to the cinema. I wanted to see Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves. While the other little girls in the audience were busy swooning over Kevin Costner and Christian Slater, I had fallen desperately in love with Alan Rickman's sheriff of Nottingham. I say desperately in love, it was probably more like a species of Stockholm syndrome. As I was compelled and terrified in equal measure by Rickman's Satanic, sadistic, sex offender baddie. Yet when my Mother asked me how I'd enjoyed the film. I told her I'd enjoyed very much, but was saddened the Sheriff had died, so now there couldn't be a sequel with him in it. I felt the flame re-ignite aged 18 when I caught sight of him in the HBO TV movie Rasputin. The sight of him with a feral beard, dancing sensuously with some attractive gypsy women in a taverna, before leaping atop a table and masturbating was truly a sight to behold. Another man who could also engender a similar response was George Sanders. While watching Hitchcock's Rebecca when I was about nine I remember feeling a thrill of expectation when George padded through the window with silent, feline grace and began to purr away in his basso profundo voice. Of course I was right George was an unrepentant cad and bounder who'd been having it away with his own cousin, the eponymous Rebecca. The fact that the deceased, wicked, anti-heroine shared my Christian name, augmented my delight. Unsurprisingly, many years later, he was asked to provide the voice for Shere Khan in The Jungle Book. Yet If I step back and analyse them, all three have something in common. It is a sort of silky malevolence associated with the British upper class. They are a trio of dastardly dandies capable of all manner of sophisticated cruelty and treachery, also all three are ever so slightly camp. This sort of attraction to the wickedly camp was not confined to human beings. I also found Shredder from The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Mumm-ra from Thundercats perversely erotic. In fact I'd have liked to see them go to war over me. Though my money was on Mumm-ra. He'd had years contending with the might of the Thundarians where as Shredder was just the henchman of a giant haemorrhoid inside a mechanical suit, whose chief opponents were a giant rat and some moody teenagers with green skin. I mean they were supposed to be reptilian yet, never had to bio-thermoregulate. Plus the fucking pizza delivery man would have seen them at least once. Pizza parlour boss "Where are you delivering to tonight Brad?". Brad : " Those freaks who ask me to leave it by the manhole cover". Pizza parlour boss: "What kind of freaks?" Brad: "Real Ugly ones boss. I leave the pizza, hide behind the bushes and watch to see who comes out. Some times it's the old rat man, others it's his deformed, green kids." Pizza parlour boss: "Deformed?" Brad: "They must be bad boss, if their Dad won't let them out without their masks on". I digress. Though I've often wondered who would emerge the winner out of Shere Khan and Scar form the Lion King. Scar voiced of course by Jeremy Irons mmm..... So now you know my secret: I am attracted to effete, villainous men. There, I said it. The peculiar charm of the right kind of bastard.