Love Sweet Sound

Good morning everyone! And how are we this fine summer's day?

I write with exciting news that I am in love, sweet love. Move over Kate from the B52s your time is done, this heart is now betrothed to Ms Jennifer Tilly, she of the perfect breasts, lustrous hair and intoxicating husky-yet-frivolously-childish voice.

I have admired her from afar for many years and now, having seen her perform at the Royal Court this Tuesday, I have decided to offer my hand in marriage.

Young Toblarina and I ventured to the Royal Court to witness her in Grasses of a Thousand Colours, a curious play written and co-performed by Wallace Shawn, an engaging and intelligent man who has the misfortune of looking rather like a sock puppet.

The play opens with Mr Shawn in a dressing gown and slippers, welcoming us to the show and explaining that he will be reading some passages from his latest book. At some point the dialogue is interrupted by video clips and then finally by the emergence of his wife, played by the also-fabulous Miranda Richardson, and the context of the play turns from current time to a story of what has happened in the past.

As I said, it’s a somewhat curious play about a man’s relationships and sexual activity with his wife, his mistress and a strange cat. Then the mistress gets jealous and decapitates the cat, but it grows a new head and gets given away to a woman who becomes a second mistress, but she dresses like a little girl and doesn’t really want to have sex but just kiss. After some time an illness befalls them all and eventually the man dies. At least I think that’s what happens but to be honest I was frequently a little confused, but that didn’t really matter because Ms Jennifer Tilly was on stage for a long, long time wearing a beautiful, figure hugging pink and black dress, with her auburn hair falling over her shoulders and her eyes glistening in the lights.

She suddenly jumps up from behind the on-stage couch near the end of act 1 (it’s an epic three-hour play in three sections) which led us to ponder whether she’d been there the whole time, since the theatre doors opened, and whether we could have caught a glimpse of her if we’d stuck our heads round to sneak a peak.

During the course of the play her character’s mood varies from happy and flirtatious, to furious and indignant, to injured and sad. I particularly enjoyed the scene where she follows her cheating lover to find out what he's up to. She finds herself in a odd world of animals sitting drinking, talking and playing cards. She notices she is experiencing something close to pity, “which is not an emotion I am familiar with.” Ah, she’s is surely a woman after my own heart.

After the show I considered waiting by the stage door to request an audience with Ms Jennifer Tilly but alas, I must confess, I was far too scared (downside of not drinking = cowardice.) But I am now the proud owner of not one but TWO signed photos, thanks to he intervention of my good friend Posh Paul who works the stage door and has become personally aquainted with Ms Jennifer Tilly (“Jenn” he calls her – the impertinence!). One is a formal and reflective publicity shot with the words “To Dawn, Best Wishes! Jennifer Tilly” written at the bottom. The other is a smaller shot of her in a leopard skin bikini with her signature scrawled across her tits. Hee hee – I take it she has figured out my intentions.

Life is Sweet

I’m reading a book about depression at the moment. It’s not doing a bit of good because it focuses almost exclusively on self-loathing and low self-esteem. As you know, I suffer from neither of these conditions - my frustration with life is born exclusively from my detestation of other people. Not all of them, you understand, just most of them – the slack jawed, knuckle-dragging, sniggering masses and their abominable offspring. Why waste time hating yourself when there are manifold examples of human vileness out there in which to indulge your loathing? Question is, how the hell do you avoid the bastards?

I have been seeking refuge more than ever in alcohol lately, but I can feel my internal organs eroding so I’ve decided to give it up. It’s been five whole days and I’m actually rather enjoying it. Although I might have a small glass of Sauvignon Blanc later as it’s Saturday. There’s a lot more clarity in life when you’re sober, and so many more hours to fill in the day. This is healthy but at the same time not necessarily a good thing – sometimes the thick, heavy cloak of a hangover can act as a safety buffer against, for example, the mind-numbing monotony of a day job.

The answer, I have been assured, is to stay busy – hoover the floor, fold up the washing, go for a bike ride in the park. All well and good, but in a sentiment echoed by David Hoyle at one of his shows recently, life can often feel like just a series of displacement activities until you die.

Today, however, I pushed displacement aside and took myself off to the Saatchi Gallery to look at their American Abstracts exhibition. I like the Saatchi Gallery, it’s a little bit posh and shows some interesting and inspiring works by lesser known artists. Best of all is that it’s free! In the current exhibition I particularly liked this piece by Francesca DiMattio called Tunnel (click on the image to see it properly and get more info).



It’s a huge six panel piece that is quite reminiscent of MC Escher, whose work I can look at for hours. I was particularly drawn to the little dark doorway on the left hand side that looks like it could lead to a secret room where something decadent or a little bit seedy is happening.

I also enjoyed a group of three figurines by Ryan Johnson called Watchman. These characters are meant to represent, “the ever-lurking ghostly observer, lonesome figure of security and surveillance.” That introduction alone is enough to give me chills of empathy and excitement. One of the figures had an enormous plaster cast on his leg with slogans and messages written all over. As I walked round the back, in thick black marker pen, it said, “PEOPLE = SHIT” – I could barely contain my amusement.

It’s clearly been just what the doctor ordered because look – I’m writing something again for the first time in ages! Now I’m going to watch Milk on DVD on my new widescreen, HD-ready telly and tomorrow I’m off to La Clique. No more moaning I promise ... and who needs alcohol?

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Is it really a week since the beautiful trannies were here? It all passed by in a flash. Tim Whitehead asked me on Sunday, “Was this the best weekend of your life?” Well, given that it allowed me four non-stop days of top-class stalking, I suppose it did come pretty close.

Justin Bond and Our Lady J’s appearance at Dave’s Drop-in Centre on the Thursday was riotous. I can’t really begin to describe the duet that Justin and David performed – it was a bit like Kiki DuRane running a talent night for decrepit showgirls at the institutional. Luckily I don’t have to scrabble about for words as Justin’s friend Earl Dax was there to capture the moment and has generously uploaded it to YouTube.

You might think that that couldn’t be topped, but Justin went on to sing his Christmas song; Our Lady J performed a beautiful version of Africa and it ended with a triumphant rendition of We Shall Overcome. It received the loudest applause I have ever heard at the Tavern – truly deafening.

Earlier in the evening we’d had Ashley Ryder on making dildos out of coat hangers and sticking one up his bum. He did a convincing job of pretending to be David’s thirteen year old nephew being led astray by his wayward uncle - being spanked, rimmed and generally ‘abused’. Needless to say, with all that to cope with, by the end of the night I was KNACKERED.

Thankfully recovered for the next night and Justin’s first show, which was in the more sedate surroundings of The Purcell Room on the Southbank. He opened the show with New Depression, a track from his new Pink Slip EP, and was wearing a fabulous fishnet creation covered with bits of laminated tranny porn. A piece fell off near the beginning of the show and I thought, “I’m having that.” Kept my beady eye on it throughout the performance but thankfully he handed it to me at the end of the show so I didn’t have to degrade myself by scrambling onto the stage for it.

Highlights of the show? Ooh, too numerous to mention – I love the (dress-related) story of self-discovery when he found a pile of tranny porn in a tree house as a child. While his family were trying to tell him he was a boy and should behave in a certain manner, he simply sat back and waited for his breasts to grow so he could be like one of the beautiful creatures in the magazines.

I also loved his Bambi Lake cover plus original tracks May Queen and Michael in Blue. Oh who am I kidding, my absolute highlight was when he named-checked me as he was wearing the eye shadow I gave him as a birthday present the previous evening. It was a fabulous peacock blue and shimmering silver combination that I knew would go well with his eyes. It made the horrific trip to the MAC store to buy it worthwhile and, as he commented, “Is probably the reason I look so goddamn beautiful tonight.”

After the show we stood around to buy personally autographed CDs, then off for a quick schmooze in the green room. Now, I have this fleeting recollection of Ian McKellan being in attendance, but nobody else remembers it so it’s quite possible I dreamed it. What’s for sure is that lovely Antony Cotton was there along with ‘er from out the cafe on Corrie – you know, whats’ername ... Becky. Ha ha – I’ve seen all the Corrie greats of Justin’s shows – Sean, Shelley, Fiz ... and now Becky. I’m hoping we’ll get Hayley next time, that would really be the icing on the cake.

Back on Saturday for the second night and Justin seemed a little under the weather but bravely held it all together. This time my highlight was the story of his slightly disturbed friend who took to washing carrier bags as a result of childhood abuse. Also his Anita Pallenberg story about Our Lady J asking Justin to tuck in her back fat before a function - to push her back fat round to the front and make her breast look bigger. Anita Pallenberg looked on in utter dismay and clearly thought they were bonkers.

Green room less star-studded the second night but still a great party. I had a slightly maudlin sense that it was all ending, but there was still Our Lady J’s solo night at Bistrotheque on Sunday...

Venue was packed to the rafters with London glitterati – Bourgeois and Maurice, David Hoyle, Ophelia Bitz, Tricity Vogue ... ME!! Not to mention Pete Burns.

Our Lady J did an experimental set trying out some effects she’s been producing on a computer. They sounded great but I’m not sure they were necessary, she has such an amazing voice anyway. We sniggered along to Pink Prada Purse, were taught lines to singalong to Train to Kill, and although the fabulous Picture of a Man was excluded, I had to hold back a tear when she did Nine Inch Nails’ Hurt as an encore.

The perfect point of the evening was when I looked around to see Justin over to my left, Pete Burns over to my right, and Our Lady J right in front of me. I felt blessed to be in the company of such a Holy Trilogy (yes, trilogy, trinity is too patriarchal) so while you have probably seen these on Facebook, I present the two further pictorial memories of the evening. Thanks to Kate Pelling for photographic honours.

Put Your Hands Up

I’m working in David Hoyle’s current show Dave’s Drop-in Centre at Vauxhall Tavern at the moment. It’s probably the largest project I’ve been involved in so it’s a little bit nerve wracking. In fact, the first week was so fraught with nervous energy behind the scenes that I could barely remember a thing that happened afterwards. I was fair blummin knackered the following day though!

So far we’ve had drag queen nuns, contemporary dance, avant gard music performance along with live piercing and bloodletting - I particularly enjoyed the bloodletting.

The reaction from the audience was fantatsic – lots of gasps and squirming followed by complete silence as they acquainted themselves with the spectacle. It’s not what you expect from your typical Thursday night cabaret and I say hurray! David went on to paint a self-portrait in blood and, should you care to, you can now place a bid for it on eBay.

This week I’m proper excited because, as I previously mentioned, our special guests are none other than JUSTIN BOND and OUR LADY J. SCREAM!!!!!!!!!

PERFECT LINE-UP ALERT - *MEEP MEEP*.

Did I say I was nervous on the first show? I’d better stock up on Imodium for this one!

Talking of which, our other special guest is Ashley Ryder, the self-fisting porn star I saw with Buck Angel at Ray of Light in 2007. You can read all about it here, though I must warn that this link is NOT WORK SAFE for those who are worried about such matters. It’s not like I could give a toss. In fact I was sat in the office on Friday chatting on the phone to Joan Dairy Queen – "Ashley Ryder, you know ... the PORN STAR. He does FISTING. No not shit, just FISTING. He self-fists, that’s his speciality ... I can’t help think it will cause him problems in later life though, and to look at him he looks like an angel, like butter wouldn’t melt..."

Fuck ‘em if they don’t like it, I’m not too keen on their endless bloody stories about their children either.

Still, I might draw the line at relating the story that David told us, via Ashley, on Thursday. Apparently he goes to these poo parties and the worry always is that they’ll run out of poo. So the people who are going produce a stool throughout the week, wrap it in cling film and pop it in the freezer compartment. Come party day they simply unwrap it, put it in the microwave until it reaches body temperature and hey bongo – poop all round and a bit left over for afters.

You see, you don’t just get socio-political entertainment at Dave’s Drop-in, we also provide very important PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENTS.

So get your arses down there, there’s no excuse really. Entry is just £6 plus vat, and along with David, Nathan Evans (the director) and a supporting cast, you also get to see me parade around in my uniform looking like an LGBT police officer.

Ooh, I forgot to mention my favourite bit this week was when I got let loose with a megaphone handing out hymn sheets during the interval for our community sing-a-longs! Toby and I commented, when watching Shortbus, how happy Justin looked in the closing scenes when he is parading around with a megaphone, and I can completely understand it. It’s fab – such a ludicrous power trip. Ha ha!

See you Thursday.

Last Night

I’ve complained before about how Our Lady J is just a little bit TOO impressive thank you very much. Well bugger me if she didn’t just TOTALLY BOWL ME OVER SIDEWAYS with her show at Purcell Room last night. The woman has a talent to die for and I felt completely humbled.

Striding out on stage looking like she’d just escaped from Wicked, in a huge black lace skirt, basque and crazy backcombed hair, she opened her set with the magnificent Picture of a Man from her Live at The Zipper Factory EP. This is the track that I wanted her to play at Kunst last year but she said she couldn’t do it unless she had a twelve-piece choir. DEMANDING!!

I’m happy to say it was every bit as marvellous as I’d expected and totally worth the wait. Along with her Pink Champagne Orchestra of string section and drums, and accompanied by an outstanding vocal trio called The Dreams, she went on to perform the other tracks from the EP - my favourite probably being 1,2,3,4, Train to Kill. There was some stuff that was new to me as well and I’d like to be more informed with regard to titles, but while Kevin was given a programme with all the song titles on his way in, the pasty-faced girl on the door who checked my ticket didn’t give me one so I’m having to work from memory.

Pink Prada Purse was, of course, the crowd favourite but I’ve seen that one so many times that I was kind of more interested in the other stuff. There were a smattering of cover versions and straight in at number one on my Our Lady J Hit Parade is her incredible version of Nine Inch Nails’ Hurt. As she pointed out, Trent Reznor is an amazing song writer and her slightly loungey interpretation of this track leant it poignancy and depth I’d never noticed on the original. It fair made my bottom lip tremble. (Listen to it on MySpace)

The one thing I could have done without was the chav choir that clattered in from the wings to assist with some of the arrangements. It wasn’t that they sounded bad, in fact they sounded great, it was that they lined up in front of the stage and so were uncomfortably close to those of us in the front row stalking seats and, worst of all, OBSCURED OUR VISION OF LADY J’S LOVELINESS. The audacity!

But really the evening couldn’t have been any better and I felt so proud and happy to be there. There was also an extra added bonus to the night when I was treated to a special stalking reward for good behaviour.

We were sat having a drink before the show when who should suddenly stroll by but PETE BURNS!! Now, have I ever mentioned that I regard him as my spiritual godfather and that he and his ex-wife Lynne took me to my first ever gay club to see Sylvester? Ha ha, rhetorical question, I know perfectly well I’ve told you the story, like, a THOUSAND TIMES but I still like to get it out for another airing.

Toby wants to be credited for the fact that he pointed Pete out to me, so we’ll completely gloss over the fact that he thought it was Gina Love and couldn’t understand why I was so excited OK? We just WON’T MENTION IT.

Anyway, so I was a bit OHMIGOD and really didn’t want to miss the opportunity to say hello to him. I scampered after him across the floor and managed to get his attention. I’m delighted to say he recognised me instantly and we had a hug and exchanged a few words of conversation. He was looking good which was a relief after those reports that he was seriously ill recently.

I was hoping to catch up with him later but he had disappeared into the night like Cinderella. No worry because it was Lady J’s evening.

I had a brief chat with her before she left and am now mega-excited about working with her and Justin Bond at David Hoyle’s night at RVT on the 14th. I’ll be a nervous wreck but it’s going to be FABULOUS. Miss if it you’re, like, A TOTAL IDIOT.

Oh, and it looks like Lady J is doing Bistrotheque on 17th too - HURRAH!

Ladies Please!

Well we all knew I was going to go to Priscilla Queen of the Desert sooner or later, didn’t we? I’m not really one for musicals, in fact aside from Hairspray at Christmas (and we’ll gloss over Bad Girls) the only other one I’ve been to is Prisoner Cell Block H. The Freak was fantastic, and so was Lily Savage, but I’m pleased to say that Priscilla is EVEN BETTER!!

There’s a part of me that thinks it’s just about bringing drag to a straight audience so they don’t have to actually mix with the dirty queers, but then on the other hand it is an amazing production and that’s the only way to acquire such a huge budget, without which the staging would be impossible. It must have cost a FORTUNE.

The costumes are AMAZING – from the feather headgear to the bell-bottom-trouser-shoes; the set is FABULOUS – especially the fur-lined bus, which changes from being a silver bus into a bright pink neon one halfway through the first act … and I was pleased to see the script hasn’t been toned down to make it family friendly. There are plenty of put downs and camp in-jokes, and it’s all very unashamedly GAY.

Tony Sheldon as Bernadette and Oliver Thornton as Adam both fit their roles perfectly, and the ensemble cast are all fantastic, the only slightly weak link is Jason Donovan.

I don’t have a problem with his acting, but he just makes a REALLY BAD drag queen. I’d have thought looking good in a frock would have been a prerequisite, but he looks like your dad at a fancy dress ball or, to steal a line from the production, like a cock in a frock.

He's fine during the husband and kid bits, but for some of the other stuff I kept thinking that oh, I don’t know … maybe someone like Alan Cumming would have made a better job of it. I’m sure he could pull of an Australian accent.

Highlights? Ooh, there are lots of them, but the best bit has to be Adam’s clip from La Traviata. He performs it inside a giant shoe on top of the bus which, as the track goes on, extends forwards above the front rows of the audience with a long silver trail flapping along behind it.

Some of the scenes in the bus are hilarious, I always love the bit when Bernadette is driving and takes the piss out of the other twos' dreary conversation, “Gee, poor Kevin's dick. There can't be much room down there with his brain taking up so much space already, HNNNEEERRRRRR.”

There are just two teeny tiny disappointments - one is that ping pong toting Cynthia doesn’t really shoot the ping pongs from her lady garden, and the other is that although there are two dancers in these amazing dragon costumes with pop up wings and 80s-pop-group-Cameo-esque codpieces, they don’t crawl out on stage looking evil like they do in the film version.

I was glad I booked for the matinee as, relating back to my earlier comments, there were lots of excitable ladies on the way out, wrapped in their new pink feather boas singing ABBA songs. I overheard one lot saying they were going to book to come back for so-and-so’s hen night. "We’ll all get dressed up, go for a few drinks first and get a limo to drop us off." I perish at the thought of how sitting next to that could damage, beyond repair, a perfectly good evening.

If I go back I’m going to get four people and book a box next time … I might go when Jason Donovan’s on holiday.

Don't Talk To Me About Love

I was walking past three little kids in the street the other day. They looked to me like they were about seven, but they must have been about ten. Anyway, as I was going past one of them nudged his mate, nodded towards me and said, “there’s your boyfriend.”

I wouldn’t normally bother to mention it but I was on my way home from a screening of Before Stonewall at the London Lesbian and Gay Film Festival. As the title suggests, it’s a documentary about pre-Stonewall gay liberation and what it was like for people who had to keep their sexuality a secret.

After an afternoon of being in a pro-queer environment, listening to inspiring stories of courage and confrontation, isn’t it comforting to know you can still come home and he homophobically abused by infants on the doorstep of your local Tescos?

To be honest I’ve been feeling just the slightest tinge of homophobia myself just lately. On another trip to the film festival I was handed a leaflet for A Day In Hand – a campaign that’s encouraging same-sex couples to hold hands in public.

“Ever wanted to hold her / his hand in public but thought you couldn’t?” the flyer asks. If this is you then please, do us all a favour, grow a fucking spine. Why is it you think you need permission? But more to the point, why would you want to engage in this ridiculous behaviour anyway?

I’m as pro-queer visibility as anyone but, as I've said before, I’d much rather see a law introduced to stop straight people from pawing each other in public, not have a campaign to encourage the gayers to follow suit. I’m sick and tired of them blocking the escalators and slobbering down each other’s throats with their greasy lips making those stomach-churning smacking noises.

On the train is the worst thing. Why can they not just sit there? They’ve always got to start squeezing each other’s legs and making gooey faces, even first thing in the morning. It’s enough to make you heave.

A Day In Hand encourages you to take a picture of yourself holding a same-sex person’s hand in public and then send it to be uploaded onto a website. I say let’s have International Tut at a Straight Couple Day, we can upload snaps of ourselves pointing and sneering and arrange them into colourful gallery. Give ‘em a taste of their own medicine, it’ll be a lot more entertaining.

www.adayinhand.com

Cut Me In Quadrants

Good news, I have located the front door and been back outside having a life again. Hoorah!

Not just any old life either, but a life that includes Antony and the Johnsons at the Royal Albert Hall. There are no words for how much I love Antony. He sounds like an angel weeping, this is SERIOUS ADORATION.

It took a while longer to get to know the Crying Light album than the previous two, but now we are very much united and I actually cannot bear to spend more than a few hours apart from it. Kiss My Name has become a firm favourite along with the heartbreaking Aeon ... and Dust and Water and, well ... all of them really.

I am waiting for Mr Postman to bring me my limited edition 7” of Epilepsy is Dancing which I am purchasing just for the cover. Have you seen the video yet? Go and watch it! It’s gorgeous!

It was only a short set at RAH, about 45 minutes, so I felt a little short changed at £40 a ticket, but I suppose it serves us right for completely ignoring the other two acts on the bill in favour of sitting in the bar drinking vino.

I guess I should have dragged myself in to watch VV Brown, who sounded interesting from the clips that floated in whenever the bar door opened, but I just couldn’t be bothered. Had no interest in Florence and the Machine, she puts me in mind of Edie Brickell or Joan Osbourne. Quirky women ... ick ... *shudders*

Antony opened with Where Is My Power and I was instantly a mess of fluttering eyes, gormless smile and swaying from side to side. The majesty of the Albert Hall is the perfect surrounding for the ethereal beauty of his performance and I felt I’d shot myself in the foot a little with my psychotic need to be as close to the front as possible. It meant I wasn’t able to absorb the impressiveness of the auditorium alongside the awe of the show. But then if you’re at the back you can’t see him grin and giggle, so there’s no real loser or winner.

There were a few tracks from the new album and then For Today I am a Boy at which point, if you can imagine, the idiot behind us started SINGING ALONG. WTF? Who the hell goes to an Antony show and decides to start singing?? Particularly when they are tuneless and TONE DEAF! The words “SHUT UP” bellowed aggressively from my lips and fortunately they stopped it, but I still feel sure he deserved a good bashing.

Antony was quite chatty for once, talking about how he’d eaten too many puddings backstage and how you really shouldn’t give a singer dairy foods. Along with the current stuff we were treated to Shake That Devil from the Another World EP before the set closed with a beautiful version of Aeon.

With a standing ovation I was hoping he would return for an encore, but he just popped his head back to give us a wave and then scarpered. Never mind, he’s back in Hammersmith on May 27 ... sixty days to go and counting.

Transmission

I’m not sure how this has been allowed to happen, but I suddenly find myself on day FOURTEEN of an enforced SIXTEEN DAYS abstinence from social activity. What the buggery flip is all that about?

DAMN YOU New Depression

FUCK YOU Credit Crunch

and, above all, UP YOURS person who cancelled VauxhallVille and dramatically reduced my monthly earnings.

I WAS NOT BORN TO BE POOR!!!

Thank God, then, for a little bit of excitement and *trumpet fanfare* a brand new tranny to stalk!!

Do you watch Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals on Tuesday? It was a 2 hour documentary about a group of buxom ladies competing in a Most Beautiful Transsexual Pageant in Las Vegas– OH MOMMA!!

The lovely ladies varied between those that were very femme real and those that were very obviously trans, and I’m a huge admirer of both genres.



The start of the film showed them riding around in limos doing publicity and having the time of their lives. Giggly girl, Delilah (left of the pic) was more than happy to keep whipping her rather oddly shaped tits out, this was much to the disgust of Marie (middle) who thought this was unladylike and gave a poor representation of transsexuals.

Once we got down to the pageant I loved tubby Dorae, who wore serious drag queen make up and did a mean on-stage interpretation of Tina Turner.

Was much less enamoured with girl-from-the-hood Tiara who basically said she had only had a sex change to get attention and would go back to being a man when she was older ... but best of all was Maria. Sweet Maria Roman ... sigh ... an Amazonian goddess with a big ass and an air of Anna Nicole Smith about her.

Not only was she the hottest, the most engaging and the most self-deprecating, but she also had the audacity to be intelligent and do a lot of work helping with AIDS activism and fund raising. Er, hello? Perfect Police? I think we have a situation ... It’s enough to make me dream of a Civil Partnership.

To my sheer irritation she didn’t win the contest, the prize went to a scrawny mare called Mimi who had the worst hairstyle you can imagine – short at the bottom then an enormous quiff. I can’t find a photograph that does it justice, but as Finton pointed out via text, “It looks like one do on top of another.”

As you can imagine there was some good after show bitching, I think I heard Maria saying something about the prize going to the one who’s on Prozac (miaow!), but I need to watch it again to be certain.

If you missed the show you can see it on Channel 4 catch up ... I might have to invest in the DVD.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

You might think that living a hedonistic life free from all major responsibilities is easy, but it’s actually a lot more stressful than it sounds. For example, what do you think are the chances of your glamorous friends from Tom Tom Club and your glamorous friend Taylor Mac both coming to London and playing gigs at exactly the same time?

Well, I’ll tell you … the chances are extremely high. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT, to be exact, and this week I have barely been able to think straight as I’ve been tossing from side to side, torn and wracked with indecision as to which of them to show the greatest loyalty.

In the end I’ve opted for Taylor – which ever choice I made would always feel half right and half pure betrayal - so I’ve had to factor in the cost and the fact that Tom Tom Club are on a triple bill with Ladyhawke and Keane. What lunatic thought of that horrendous line-up, I wonder? It’s ridiculous!

Taylor, meanwhile, is playing at the Udderbelly. A big upside-down-purple-cow shaped theatre at the Southbank. Taylor in the belly of a cow? You’ve got to really, haven’t you? And it gave me the chance to try out posh members-only booking with my brand new snob card for the Southbank. Yes, I finally gave in and became a member, they knew exactly how to trick me – Justin Bond is playing there in May and can you imagine if *certain people* (ie. Gerald) got advance booking and better tickets? I’d go ruddy MENTAL !!!!

I’m already doing my nut because I’ve only got row G for Our Lady J, who plays Purcell Room on May 2nd. This isn’t because of membership, but they’re holding back all the best seats for some unknown reason and I am FURIOUS. *ME* in *ROW G*? It’s unheard of and it just won’t do. I have been bleating into the ear of a long-suffering promoter friend and I am determined to find my way into the front row. I’m perfectly happy to kill.

I am also in a quandary over 28 March – Jonathan Richman or Squeezebox at the Bummers and Muff Divers’ Film Festival? It’s going to have to be Squeezebox. I read about this film ages ago and have been Googling it constantly. It’s all about the club of the same name in New York where drag queens dropped the traditional lip synching formula in favour of singing rock n roll. There are clips of Jayne County, Joey Arias, Debbie Harry, Lady Bunny, Justin … It’s also co-directed by that nice Sean Pierce who I met briefly at the Big Art Group show in Munich. Can’t wait !!

But event bookers, please, have a heart and think of the elderly - no more multiple bookings … *thumps chest* … my poor ticker can’t take much more.