"...this
year, it was actor Charles Dance. Though clearly his (aging) sex symbol status
was why he’d been called upon, in true actor style, after years of smoldering
his way through movies like White Mischief, Plenty, and Gosford Park, he bristled at
the idea of being a sex symbol. “I don’t have anything to say about that… what
does it mean… I mean… I suppose it’s not a bad thing… I suppose you could say,
‘It’s better to be looked over, than overlooked.’” Even though I had collared
Dance in the name of reporting, it was rather humiliating to add my number to
the throngs of literary lovelies who were mobbing him. London is quite short on
devastatingly attractive male writers, or at least ones that would be seen dead
at a Bad Sex party, so Charles Dance and Jeremy Irons are to the literary
circuit what Robert Pattinson is to the rest of the world.......
The
awards have no golden statuette or fat check—only a plaster foot—reminding all
writers that they have feet of clay. However, there seems to be something
quintessentially British about celebrating the slap and tickle of bad sex,
rather than good. Charles Dance was outraged at this suggestion. “Not at all,”
he purred. “I think the English like to celebrate good sex. It’s just the
Literary Review who’ve got this obsession.”
Actor Charles Dance, presented the award
but added testily: "I have no experience of bad sex. There is no bad sex
with me. Here, you can be in the photograph, it’ll serve you right for asking
cheeky questions."
with Jonathan Little editor and the prize
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