Dear Readers,

On Boxing Day 2022, in Rome, after taking a comfortable walk to the Piazza del Popolo, followed by a stroll through the Villa Borghese, and then back to the apartment, I had a fall.

I woke up a few minutes later in a pool of blood, my neck in a grotesquely twisted position, my wife on her knees beside me. I believed I was dying. I believed I had three breaths left.

Now, without the use of my hands, or any other limbs, which is a considerable inconvenience, I write a weekly dispatch from my hospital bed, which I dictate to my family who then send it out to you.

My rambling dispatches will arrive directly to your inbox, daily, if I’m up to it.

I will be writing about writing as well as my new immobilised predicament. I will be writing about sex and drugs and music, TV shows and writers I admire, and my memories, among other important matters.

More importantly, I want to hear from you, for I read all of your comments and I am moved by them.

Subscribe to get full access to my stories, essays and screenplays from my back catalogue.

Your loving no-hands man,



Dispatches from my hospital bed. Writing on writing; sex and drugs and music, TV shows and writers I admire, my memories, among other matters.


Writer. My Beautiful Laundrette. Sammy and Rosie Get Laid. Venus. The Mother. Le Week End. The Buddha of Suburbia. The Black Album. Winner of the Whitbread Prize, and the PEN/Pinter Prize. Fellow of King's College London and awarded the CBE.