I Love the Nightlife

I was feeling a little stir crazy and sorry for myself yesterday, so I decided upon some gentle retail therapy and then a quiet drink at Retro with Toby.

I wasn't going to go to Horse Meat Disco where I was until midnight. And I certainly wasn't going to go to Marvellous where I was until 3am. Oh dear! Seems I tested my resolve and found that I have none.

I'm not sure I liked Horse Meat too much. I had been wanting to go for a while and since Sammy Jo was DJing it seemed like a good excuse, especially as he got me in free. The place was very packed and one of the bar staff was a misogynist cunt who wouldn't serve women. Aside from that it was OK, had a nice chat with Justin and then Christof's mum showed me her clit piercings in the toilet. Well actually, she was showing them to anyone who would look - I've never seen queens with such fear on their faces!

I was happier in the familiar surrounds of Marvellous. It was the last Sunday of the month and so Yr Mum, Ya Dad had their club night going on in the room next door. Now, I've nothing against the chaps themselves, they both seem like perfectly nice fellows, but the audience they attract is the most laughable collection of fashion disasters ever. It makes me realise that one of the most enjoyable aspects of getting older is being able to point your finger and laugh at the young.

Some dick walked past us with an album sleeve on her head. I couldn't get close enough to see what it was, but I bet it was something shit like Kate Bush. I'm slightly ashamed to say I goaded on a very drunken Paul from Gladstone Arms to try and set fire to it, sadly something in a pink and blue shell suit stopped him. Probably just as well.

I tasted Justin's lip gloss on numerous occasions, reprimanded Joan Dairy Queen for wearing real fur, bitched about Wayne Shires with Paul the poster guy and then trotted off home. Last thing I remember is part falling down the stairs on the night bus, whacking my knee and staggering out the door muttering "fuck". Well, if you're going to be a drunk, may as well do the job properly.

Blonde Blast from the Past

Long before I'd ever even heard of Justin Bond, I used to stalk a little known blonde songstress by the name of Deborah Harry.

I credit Blondie for releasing me from geekdom when I was a mere 13 or 14 years old. I was a shy, awkward teenager who was obsessed with Abba. Thankfully, one of the older kids at school took to playing Parallel Lines and Plastic Letters in the rec room and I was suddenly transported to the world of "hip".

It wasn't until 1989 that I finally got to see Debbie live, it was at the Town and Country Club. I remember that for the first couple of minutes I could hear her but couldn't see through the crowd. Then I finally elbowed my way to the front and YEOWW, she was absolutely blummin gorgeous!

That marked the start of a 12 year infatuation that took me all over the country and even to the USA to see gigs. I even have a dodgy tattoo on my shoulder that features her name. I plan to get rid of it soon - believe me, it really is dodgy!

Last night, dosed up on Advil and with a pleasing Jack Daniels anesthetic (supplied by the aforementioned Mr Bond), I trotted off to see Blondie at the Royal Albert Hall. I can't say I was especially excited, I was expecting a greatest hits package and I'm bored to death with all those songs. Thankfully, it seems, so are they!

Instead we got lots of stuff from Parallel Lines, a surprisingly fab version of Good Boys and just a few of the obvious hits. I always enjoy Rapture live, I don't care how naff it is!

Sadly they also threw in a cover of Roxy Music's More Than This. God knows who thought that was good idea, I haven't been so embarrassed since they covered Heroes!

Still, it was a nice trip down memory lane. Tall Paul is off to see them at Shepherds Bush next month too, but I've decided to give that one a miss. Time to move on ...

Deep Heat - Fragrance of the Year

This week has been a total pain in the arse. Literally!

I woke up Saturday to discover my spine had decided to take a wander round and trap one of the nerves at the back of my thigh. Gentle reader, you can imagine my delight.

By Sunday evening I thought I had done enough stretches and twists to free the bugger but, no, by Monday morning the incessant throb had returned.

Thus, as well as wearing an even bigger scowl than usual, I have had to replace my delicate aroma of Bulgari Blu with the overwhelming stench of Deep Heat rub. Just as well I'm not on the pull.

Still, at least it's given me an excuse to buy the darlingest fur fabric hot water bottle. My loss is Tesco's gain.

Dark Days

If, like me, you occasionally walk past homeless beggars sitting in the street and think, "get off your arse, you lazy bastard!" then you might like Dark Days, the DVD I watched last night.

It's a documentary about a group of homeless people who used to live in an underground railway tunnel in New York City.

They weren't just dossers who felt sorry for themselves, they would drag boards, pieces and furniture and equipment down there and had all managed to build themselves little houses, utilizing the electricity from the train tracks to fuel their cookers etc. They were fiercely house proud, one of the guys would even make people take their shoes off before they came into his hut.

There was a great camaraderie in the tunnel. People felt safer living down there instead of being on the streets where they didn't know who was going to walk by and what was going to happen next. Here they were all united against the same enemy - the many rats who also called the place home!

There was a strict code of conduct, nobody stole from each other or entered anybody else's space without being invited. The penalty for violation was harsh - one woman got into a fight with one of her neighbours and came home to find her hut being burned to the ground.

Eventually the group were evicted by Amtrak, the US rail company. They were all given proper homes and jobs by the local government. Most of the stories had happy endings and people made the most of the opportunity they were given. Though there was one guy who couldn't cope with the return to normality - he returned to the tunnel where he sat on the tracks and waited for a train ...

Scream!

Blimey crikey! I just accidentally set off my personal alarm as I was opening the front door. Scared me more than any ne'er-do-well on the street has ever done, I can tell you!

I can't actually believe I even carry the damn thing. They were giving them away free at work a while ago, after a number of instances of friends and aquaintances being mugged over the past year, I thought I might as well take one.

I should point out that, without exception, the victims I know have all been fully grown adult males. Somewhat contradictory to the popular view that it's only women who shouldn't be going out on their own at night. Looks like the patriarchal males should be paying a bit more attention to themselves and their own well being.

I was reading an interview with a woman who is 102 last week. She described the horrific things that happened during WW1 and 2, but then said she feels more scared living in London now than she did back then.

Then I was talking to somebody at college who has been researching ASBOs. It seems that, far from being a deterrent, they have become more like a status symbol in certain quarters. Somehow, that really doesn't surprise me at all.

Then she went on the talk about the school she works in and how the head teacher has been physically assaulted by parents when he has called them in to discuss their children's behaviour. If I think about it for too long it starts to really freak me out.

I know it's easy to look back with rose tinted glasses and think, "It wasn't like that in my day...", but it really was different as recently as 30-odd years ago. If a group of kids started playing up on the train, then an adult would step in and tell them to behave. Now they're too scared to in case they get a knife in the face. And at the same time there's talk of legal restrictions on the way that people discipline their kids. It's ridiculous!

As I jump back into old lady mode - I was given a few good slaps when I was a kid and it didn't do me any harm.

It seriously worries me to think what will happen in the next 30 years. I guess at some point it needs to go full circle and strict discipline will come back into fashion instead of woolly liberal shit. I can't see who's going to take it forward though. Maybe it's like Mark Wood used to say - we need a good war to humble people again.

Justin Escariot

Can you believe that in an online radio interview Justin Bond was asked if he had any stalkers and he replied, "NO"?! Oh, the betrayal!

To prove my mettle I have spend much of this weekend following him around like a bad smell.

On Friday I made my second visit to his shows at Too 2 Much. He had changed the set around a bit from last week, there were a couple of Bowie numbers and lots of new dialogue. Sadly Clean White Bed was dropped, I'm hoping it will appear again before the end of the run.

The evening was slightly marred by constant yapping from much of the crowd. What the hell is wrong with these people? It's not like there's a shortage of pubs in London if all you want to do is talk. If you pay to come along to see somebody's performance, then show some manners and shut the fuck up!

After ending Friday exceptionally drunk, I was planning a nice quiet night in on Saturday. That swiftly ended when I was reminded that Justin was appearing at Duckie. Well, as you can imagine, I was in the bath and into my glad rags before you could say, "get a life you sad obsessive freak"!

Turned out to be a nice evening, Justin played a fabulous short set with an amazing version of Kate Bush's King of the Mountain. I hope I never have to hear the original as it will just spoil it all. Then he came and joined us on the dancefloor for some dancing and gossip. Even by his standards he looked amazingly beautiful, with false eye lashes, blue and silver shadow and red lipstick. He's always endearingly tolerant of my fawning, thank god!

Elsewhere it was good to catch up with a few old faces - Jonny Slut and Tim 'n' Rob. Boogied my little booties off to my current fave - Madonna's Hung Up. Madonna + Abba = brilliant??? How the hell does that maths work?! I don't know - but it does!

Got the bus home with Tom where we had a lengthy conversation about our intense hatred of other people. No better or more fulfilling way to end an evening, in my opinion!

I Am A Swot

I got full marks for the two news stories I handed in at my course last week. It's official - I AM A GREAT BIG GIRLY SWOT!

You can read my great works of prose here:

Kiki and Herb Christmas Show
The Nativity was never like this...

New Channel 4 Interactive TV Show
Moral Guardian or Marketing Ploy? Vote Now...

On top of that, I've also been published again - in Heat magazine no less! Ha ha, there's nowhere to go but up from there!

They published my snippet about seeing Marco from Big Brother at the Retro, accidentally smacking himself in the face with his camera. I'm sure he'll be glad of the publicity!

Horny Rock Chicks A-Go-Go!

I had been told that Prey for Rock n Roll was one of the worst films ever made, but I don't really think it's too bad.

Of course, the cast consisting of lots of foxy tattooed rock chicks wearing tight fitting clothes may have had some bearing on this. Not to mention Gina Gershon making out with a Scary Spice lookalike to the soundtrack of Iggy Pop's Now I Wanna Be Your Dog - hello!!

I wasn't prepared for the gruelling aspects of the story line. There I was tum-tee-tumming along to a tale of a struggling rock band trying to get a break when, WHAM! there's a truly horrific rape scene. I *was* prepared for the revenge scene that followed - in fact I was itching for it. Gina Gershon and her gay-clone boyfriend gaffer tape the offender to a chair and tattoo "rapist" on his forehead. That's lesson he won't forget.

It all goes a bit Rock Follies after that when they decide to write a song about the experience. Oh dear.

Thankfully we're soon back to tum-tee-tumming again, but then ... WAIT! NO! DONT GO OUT INTO THE ROAD LORI PETTY FROM TANK GIRL, YOU'RE GOING TO GET RUN OVER!!

Oops! Pass the tissues again, someone.

There's no big schmaltzy happy ending, thank god. The band don't get their big break and no-one lives happily ever after. But you are left with the message that, no matter what life throws at you, at least you've still got your mates. Sigh!

Gay Shopping Revolution?

London had its first (I think) gay shopping night last Friday.

"Ooh, where was it?" you squeal. "Harrods ... Selfridges ... Liberty?" Erm well, sadly, no - it was Superdrug. They are also soon to launch their own range of "his n his" and "hers n hers" gift sets to celebrate the legislation of same sex civil ceremonies. Now, however misguided, I appreciate their attempt at being gay friendly. But really, who wants their Christmas present to come from Superdrug? Surely the mark of a gift that says, "I'm cheap."

Still, it's led me to wonder - will this lead to a gay revolution on the high street? Will companies be vying for the pink pound now that we are, like, legal and all that?

Will Clinton be stocking Happy Civil Ceremony cards? Will travel agents be actively be promoting same sex "honeymoons"? Will you be able to register your Civil Ceremony present list at John Lewis? I'm genuinely curious to find out what will happen.

Hmm, I feel the need to research. I think I feel a feature article coming on ...

I am my own Blogger

Yesterday I went to see I Am My Own Wife at the Duke of York.

I'm not usually a theatre-goer, but as a tranny chaser I knew this would be for me.

It's the story of an American journalist and his trips to interview German transvestite Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a woman who allegedly killed her own father and then managed to survive oppression by both the Nazis and the communists. Not only looking after herself, but also preserving a gay community so that people still had a place to go and meet.

Jefferson Mays performs the play as a one man show, taking on no less than 34 different characters. His performance is incredible. Well, OK, so a couple of his accents are a bit dodgy, but not enough to detract from the drama.

There is just enough camp humour to lighten the story of domestic violence, barbaric Nazi attacks and homophobia, but not so much as to feel disrespectful.

Sadly, during the second half of the show we learn it's likely that Charlotte shopped one of her best friends in order to save her own skin after persecution by the police. Tut tut to that.

I'd felt so much affection towards her during the first half that it was a bit of a disappointment to find out she's probably a lying cow throughout the second.

Oh well, c'est la vie, I suppose.

Justin Bond and the Freudian Slippers

If you haven't booked a ticket for Justin's fantastic new show at Too 2 Much yet, then what the hell are you waiting for? Book some now!!

Thursday's opening night was hilariously rambling and shambolic, exactly what I love best about his performances. He opened with a song I'd never heard before - turned out to be the new Kate Bush single, enjoyable without her screeching voice.

He apologised for not wearing stockings but said he was more comfortable with boxers on under his skirt. Then he sang us a song by Bambi Lake and I realised how much I'd been aching to hear this stuff again since the Soho Theatre shows earlier in the year. We also got to revisit his version of Benjamin's Clean White Bed and Joy Division's Heart and Soul.

He recently performed (I Don't Want to go to) Chelsea at an Elvis Costello tribute in NY. I was hoping that would be included but apparently he doesn't know the words. Instead we got a native African chant that was so fucking hilarious I couldn't actually breathe!

One of the bits that made me shiver was a short lullaby his mother used to sing him as a kid. I remember he once sang it right into my ear at the bar. I got all hot and trembly and hearing it again took me back to that moment of squirming with delight!

I would like to remember more from the dialogue but unfortunately was ever so slightly drunk. Just as well I'm going back 3 more times, by the end I'll at least have learned a bit.

Vive Le Revolution

Today was the last of my twelve days holiday from work. How very depressing. To cheer myself up, I went to see a nice film about the Nazis!

Sophie Scholl is the true story of the White Rose anti-Nazi group in Germany during Hitler's rule. In particular it's about a young brother and sister who gave out anti-Nazi leaflets at college and were subsequently sentenced to the death penalty.

Now, I'm all for a bit of zero tolerance, but even I think chopping off someone's head for distributing a few A4 sheets is a bit harsh.

The scripting, directorship and performance are superb. The only flaw is some slight sentimentality - Sophie's interrogator looking bashful and ashamed when she is sentenced for example - we will never know his true feelings, but it doesn't distract from the story.

It would appear the film had quite an effect on me. At my journalism course tonight we were asked to suggest topics for feature articles. I found words like "bring back the death penalty" and "public flogging" flying out of my mouths. Oops-a-daisy! The nervous, embarrassed laughter that followed made me think it didn't make me too many new friends. Oh well, I'm used to being mediocre on the popularity stakes.

Tomorrow I'm going to see my lovely Justin at his first night at Too 2 Much. I can't ruddy wait. Expect much gushing to follow ...

Party Pooped

Phew! It's been a non-stop hedonistic whirl for the past two days.

Firstly there was Marvellous on Sunday with the lovely Sammy Jo on decks. Was good to get down on the dancefloor with Janie and Christof, who I know from Scissor Sisters stalking, and a variety of other bods.

Sammy played Sylvester for me, as always, and acquiesced to my request for "that Mylo Motherfucker thing". Bless!

The spectacle of the evening was some dreadful goth girl. She started off dancing in a long skirt that she was hitching up to perform (ahem) "sexy" dance moves. The skirt was then removed to reveal a mini dress. Next thing, without so much as a "cover your eyes", she had whipped her dress off and was dancing about in nowt but her pants! Good grief! Why do straight girls have to get so over excited when they come to gay clubs?

Thankfully it didn't give me nightmares because after a lie in yesterday I had to get ready for Hallowe'en at the Retro Bar. Carved a lovey drag queen pumpkin that won first prize due to be being the sole entry in this years competition! Sadly I forgot to take its picture so you'll just have to imagine a pumpkin in a flashing tiara with false eye lashes and a big red smile. Made me laugh, anyway.

I was going to travel across London in my (s)Executioner costume but bottled it in the end. Turned out I turned more heads by looking normal but casually carrying an axe. Ha ha! Made the trip home in full costume and nobody batted and eyelid. It was quite nice actually, I think I might dress like that more often.

Here's a couple of my favourite pics - me with Joan Dairy Queen (sans drag!) and Ebony. You can see the rest in my fabulous
Retro Bar Hallowe'en 2005 Gallery