I had made arrangements with Irma Bunt, the ex-villainess from ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’, who is now employed as RG’s personal secretary, to meet with Rob in his elegant London apartment, but I hadn’t banked on the over zealous bodyguards that awaited me.
I experienced a measure of difficulty before I was actually allowed onto the doorstep. The officer in charge of the squad holding the crowds of young girls at bay refused to believe that I was there on business, and it was only when Irma phoned down from the penthouse to confirm that I had an appointment with Rob that I was allowed in.
After the dust and heat of the street, the front-hall was a haven of peace and tranquillity. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I saw some of the trappings with which a fantastically successful Comedian surrounds himself. In a corner of the vast hall was a German Panzer tank, on which generations of fans had scrawled their protestations of unfailing devotion in a bewildering variety of cheap lipsticks.
On the wall was a range of fine paintings. I recognised an early Justin Bieber, two de Paris Hilton’s and at least five efforts in crayon by Britney Spears. There was also a full-sized map of Disneyworld and several posters advertising Rob’s sensational gigs in places as far apart as the top of Shaftsbury Avenue and the bottom of Shaftsbury Avenue.
I was allowed to linger in this unattractive environmental disaster for eighteen hours - unfortunately Rob does not believe in chairs and there were none in sight - before Irma, a stunningly unattractive ex-Smersh Assassin with a Russian styled coiffure and a tartan sari of fetching ugliness, came down to tell me that I could now go down into the kitchen and fix the refrigerator.
I explained that I had been sent by The Los Angeles Times to interview Rob and to discover his feelings on the seventies craze of Cabbage Patch dolls. She laughed in a sinister way and disappeared upstairs again.
Forty two minutes later she reappeared as ugly as ever, and told me that Monsieur Gotobed would see me now. The elevator did not seem to be working, so Irma and I walked the thirty-eight floors up to Rob’s private suite.
In between gasps I asked her what it was like to work for such a fabulous personality. Was it true, I wanted to know, that he was making a NEW comedy film based on the components of the Internal combustion Engine? Had he, I wondered, really severed his relationship with the glamorous starlet Lindsay Lohan - who reacted to Rob breaking off their passionate love affair by turning to lesbianism. Irma passed me a water melon from a bowl on the staircase but made no answer.
From time to time as we climbed I saw the shadowy and scantily dressed figures of twenty-something young girls of all hues and nationalities flitting in and, indeed, out of such rooms as the library, with its unique collection of rare illuminated medieval comedy scripts, the billiard room, with its teak-panelled sauna and massage chamber for the exhausted billiardier, the jester’s gallery, with an extensive replica of the Paris Metro system, and the private zoo, in which Rob keeps the three white panthers he takes with him whenever he tours the comedy clubs of North America.
Eventually Irma and I reached the great man’s lair and were ushered in by the two dusky Albino dwarves, who come, I believe, from Texas.
Rob was already up when I walked into the room, (a problem Rob regularly suffers from first thing in the morning) and one of the girls in the room offered me a Gotobed Sunrise. I accepted gratefully and handed her the nutritious water melon Irma had given me earlier.
Rob beckoned me over to the brushed-steel and glass bar inside the bed, motioned me on to a Victorian bucking-bronco rocking horse, and asked me to remove all clothing in case of accidents. He then clambered back into bed. A furtive giggle came from what I had hitherto supposed to be a heap of clothing on the pillows. Then having made my apologies for my tardiness, I began the interview….
Fanny Ferrari March 16th 2017