
Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin on the 13th October 1854.
Now, this may come as a surprise to many people (or perhaps not?) but I loathed and hated school and did everything that I could to avoid it, even developing a pretty serious truancy problem until I was in the second year of my GCSEs and my new English teacher, Mrs Parrott introduced me to the works of Oscar Wilde. I was instantly smitten by everything about him and devoured everything that he wrote as well as the fabulous Richard Ellman biography, which I have often cited since as being one of the books that had the most profound effect on me.
Poor Oscar. I love him still and in fact have named one of my sons after both him and his favourite saint, Sebastian. I remember the first time I went to Père Lachaise in Paris, aged seventeen and full of tremulous gothic self consciousness as I walked in my black lace rags to the back of the cemetery, bearing a single perfect white lily to place on his lipstick kiss covered marble monument.
Oh, Oscar. There will never be anyone quite like you again.