If you are poor, haven't got enough going on in your own life, and are interested in what posh people are up to, this is your best chance to a pop-up book of fairy stories about a sensitive and volatile posh English boy. And gay, too. What are the chances (quite good actually)!
Rupert Everett might be the closest thing we could ever get to a modern incarnation of Oscar Wilde. Although he personally find such statements cheap, and it pains me to admit he might not achieve the height of Wilde's, there's still no denying the uncanny resemblances. Only he is much more rebellious, possibly due to that he's English and thus more on the insider side. I wouldn't say bonkers, because that implies some degree of ignorance in taking those reckless actions. That he is not. You need a cold, conscious, even deliberate inside-outsider to show you the whole picture, the side that has been well-hidden and forcefully forgotten. The chance of encountering such a conflicted soul is astronomical but there we are.
People of less fortune always think everything will be alright once one gets rich. Needless to say that's nonsense. Pain is subjective and quite a private matter. When your family for generations socialise with the royal family, cabinet ministers, board members of investment banks, directors of broadcasting institutions and news organisations, university chancellors and bishops, there's a great deal to live up to.
Although the way of avoidance takes various forms, the face of sufferings is the same: an impasse, a dilemma, a dim prospect of resolution and the desperation of no-way-out. And it doesn't help to be hyper-sensitive. Yet to be hyper-sensitive and famous but notoriously unorthodox must be hell. This is not a fancy tale of a priviledged playboy trotting the world, but a horror story about a vulnerable man who can't protect himself mostly from himself.
It is also a story about running away. But running away is also running toward, something one hasn't quite figured out. Actually runaways could be a theme particular to Britain. Doctor Who is essentially about a highly-intelligent expat who couldn't fit in among his own people and doesn't have to among earthlings.
In the second chapter, he told the extreme anecdote of how he literally ran away from Comic Relief shooting scene, all the way from London to Norfolk. It is one of the most bizzare tale since Il Giornalino di Gian Burrasca, a tale of both startling bravery and absurd cowardice. To be frank, it was both a grotesque and brilliant idea to put Alastair Campbell, Piers Morgan and Rupert Everett in the same room. They might as well recruit Nigel Farage had he been egregiously famous by then, or Russel Brand. And this clearly placed too much strain on Everett. The set soon disintegrated into a freakish show. The aired footage was already difficult for ppl with less keen sense of humour, and if the scenario was as eerie and cringeworthy as Rupert described, the editors at the BBC deserve an Academy Award for the cutting. Looking back, it is really cruel to set a tough, controversial politician (well political aide, but perhaps more abled and memorable than many cabinet ministers), an egotistic arsonist and a detached neurotic against each other, who evidently despise each other for their own reasons. Later on the second episode, the mere confrontation between Piers Morgan and Alastair Campbell was enough sulphuric, if not over, for a Comic Relief atomsphere. And perhaps by escaping, Everett did the right thing rejecting the fishy scheme, only at his own cost. I am sure the Beeb meant well in the start but it was highly likely a prank went a step too far and had to be stopped, in one way or another.
There's also the outrageous pranks on his fellow celebrities and even fans, which is hard to understand unless you can afford it.