1988
"So I like f*****g strangers. Call me old-fashioned."
I've heard Richard use this quip before. He still wants to be Mr Entertainment, but he hasn't the energy to think up new lines. He hasn't the energy to do anything much, which is why he is lying here in a hospital bed. George, one of his nurses, is holding his wrist and Frank, another patient, sits on the bed beside his. It's for them that he has delivered his line, though it's addressed to me, and they respond with the requisite laughter. In the AIDS ward, good humour is an imperative.
I put his GQ and Esquire onto his bedside locker and lean low to kiss his forehead. His rash is inflamed, red blazing up his neck and face from beneath his white linen pyjama top.
"You're wearing that look again, Squirrel," he says. "You really
