Lars and the Angry Itch

I’m feeling a bit guilty about not supporting the bummers and muff divers film festival. Usually I go to quite a few films, but this time there was little that appealed. The thriller with Patti D’Arbanville I wanted to see was sold out and I can’t make it to RuPaul’s Starrbooty (SOB!), so I’m making a token effort with a documentary next Monday.

Called Gay – So What? it’s an investigation into contemporary gay life in a number of capital cities, including Berlin, London and Paris.

The press shot is a fantastic picture of Amanda LePore so hopefully it’ll be worth it just for her bit.

It’s got to be better than what I saw at “the pictures” this weekend - Lars and the Real Girl. I don’t really know what I was thinking. Well actually, I do, I was hoping for something dark and a bit nasty, like Dennis Hopper playing Feck in River’s Edge. Feck is a dysfunctional recluse who has been living with a blow-up doll for two decades. He serenades her, protects her and very definitely, um, fecks her. It’s all just so wrong that it’s perfect – makes your skin crawl while you’re laughing out loud. Lars ATRG is more like The Care Bears ... or, if I dare say it, Forrest Gump. It’s twee, idealistic and very, VERY sex-free.

It starts off well enough as the kind of lovable loner / outsider makes good thing I was a sucker for when I was younger. An autistic man buys a sex doll that he introduces to his family as his girlfriend. They, after their initial horror, decide to accept her and play along with his fantasy. Heart-warming at first, but then the ENTIRE TOWN start playing along, including the local school, hospital, emergency services and church. My head was lolling from side to side by the end of it, and the man a few seats along started tutting. I mean, come on ... give us *some* credit!

Most embarrassing of all I paid TWELVE POUNDS for this nonsense, you’d think I had money to burn!

(PS. Anyone want to go and see RuPaul at G.A.Y.this Saturday?)

Immortalised

My next blog will have words in, I promise. But in the meantime here is my portrait, as painted by David Hoyle at the Vauxhall Tavern this Tuesday. An uncanny resemblance, I think you'll agree.

Image blatantly stolen from A.M. Hanson's blogsite.

Bunny Hell!

It was Easter, I went a little insane ... (the ears FLASHED!)

Thanks to Mat Sternewald for the pics.

I Refuse to be Obsolete

I’ve been slacking, I know. Days just keep passing by and I find I have had no time for blogging.

This week I have been primarily concerned with planning my trip to Manchester for this year’s Queer Up North. God knows, I’m going to need to preserve my energy as this year my main stalk, Justin Bond, is appearing with Taylor Mac (my stalk on the side), and there are added extras in the form of David Hoyle and Jonny Woo. How the hell am I going to cope with all that then?

As if the thought of an overdose of genderqueer cabaret wasn’t enough to make me giddy, in the afternoon there is a debate called Is Queer Culture Obsolete? where Justin, Taylor and the Queer Up North programmer will be arguing the case in favour of queer culture against Anti Gay author and pop culture commentator, Mark Simpson. If there’s room for anyone to get a word in edgeways, I believe the floor will also be open for members of the general public to, as we say in Council circles, have their say.

I’m going to come back to the issue of queer invisibility and why there is a need for queer culture at a later date but, in the meantime, I have been doing some research into Mark Simpson’s latest writing.

It appears he’s maybe not so much anti-gay these days as pro-metrosexuality. METROSEXUAL - what a damning phrase, I HATE it, but my issues with the wording aside, I’m getting the feeling Mark’s view point will not be so much about condemning the queers (and God knows, he’s made a living out of writing about them), but focusing on how “gay” straight men have become.

From his blog, I enjoyed his article about lad’s mags and how they have helped bridge the great gender divide by making men as uncomfortable about their body shape as women can be. Particularly in the case of Men’s Health which he claims is, “doing its best for equality of the sexes when it comes to eating disorders and supplement addiction.” Also how the last bastion of good old British heterosexuality, The Sun, has now started publishing dietary tips for men so that they too can look super in their swimming costumes on the beach.

So while I was not actually agreeing but at least understanding the angle he was coming from, he then threw me by claiming that just as there is no need to queer culture now that we have “metrosexual” straight men, now we have metrosexual men we no longer have a need for the magazines and supporting media that produced them.

Hmm ... perhaps he’s become so involved with comparing the past to the present he’s forgotten that, unless he knows something we’re not aware of, these will, by force of nature, go on to produce a FUTURE and a whole new generation that will need an education and a sense of history and belonging. The fact that straight men will now walk around in pastel colours and worry a little about their waistline is small comfort to the isolated gay in a small town who has nobody to talk to, nowhere to go and no example or experience of queer identity.

Just as he used to claim there was more to being gay than feather boas and a liking of the Village People, there’s more to queer acceptance than a straight bloke with bulimia who isn’t ashamed to cry in public. And even if there were a level of wider acceptance, why on earth should we be denied our history?

Totally Nude

I’ve seen far too many naked men in the past week. Firstly, on Tuesday I saw Fred Bear and David Hoyle in the nud on stage at Royal Vauxhall Tavern, then on Friday I went to this thing at the Barbican where there were two men sat talking in a bath tub.

It was a play called Tough Time, Nice Time. Set in a spa in Bangkok, it featured two Germans sharing details of their lives – their youth, sexual encounters and experiences of watching friends die – along with frivolous topics like films they had seen and their concerns over the effects of celebrity.



The premise sounded fair enough but I was a bit nervous that the production company is called Ridiculusmus, it all sounded a bit "Legs Akimbo Dance Company" and I wasn’t too sure what to expect.

Thankfully it wasn’t at all drama school and wanky, but I’m still a little unclear exactly what they hoped they were achieving. The interaction between the characters drew an obvious comparison to Kiss of the Spider Woman, where two men are alone in a room and spend their time talking and swapping stories - one quite serious and the other more likely to retreat into fantasy. But with this production there was no explanation of what the men were doing there and how they’d both found themselves in the same place. With no real beginning middle or end, it was just a snap shot of a conversation and I didn’t feel I’d actually “been” anywhere when I left.

I liked some of the stories though, particularly the character Stefan who was annoyed at himself that when he saw the news headlines about the Israeli Prime Minister Sharon a couple of years ago, thought that “Sharon” must be Sharon Osbourne. I remember I did *exactly* the same and felt foolish, even more so because I didn’t know that a Prime Minister Sharon existed until that moment.

I used to worry about my scant knowledge of current affairs but now, with the warming self-acceptance that comes with maturity, I can’t be bothered. If I can’t do anything about the situation in (insert name of foreign country) then what does it matter if I don’t know about it?

Whenever I read a newspaper I feel like I will go insane, so now I just pick them up for the Sudoku. Some would consider this air-brained, but it’s more to do with preserving my sanity.

Love Affair

I’ve always maintained that if you want a job doing, do it your bleedin’ self.

Today the Hercules and Love Affair album was released. Did the poxy WH Smith in Woolwich have a copy? Did they buffalo. Had the HMV website even so much as *processed* the order I diligently placed some seven days ahead of the scheduled release? Had they bum fluff. (I used to run the HMV fulfilment centre and it ran like *clockwork* then I can tell you, but I digress ...)

There was nothing for it but to take matters into my own hands and set about downloading a copy from this new-fangled internet lark.



A few clicks and a card transaction later, Antony and his chums were winging their way to my lovely, expensive, shiny blue lap top.

At this point, I admit, I faltered slightly. To my complete shame, the only thing I had to burn them to was a 5-for-99p Woolworths “Worth It” blank CD. Oh the humanity ... that I should have subjected them to this.

But, oh, what joy my ears are beholding. The last time I fell this instantly in love was the first Scissor Sisters album back in ... whatever year it was, I’ve never been good with years. There’s funky bass lines, jiggy riffs and BEAUTIFUL, relaxed vocals that draw you in, wash over you and can even make this stone heart cry.

Though it was the deity, Antony, that drew me to this project, I actually prefer some of the tracks that he doesn’t sing on. Notably track 3 You Belong sung by Nomi, that sounds like Jesus Loves You-era Boy George. It also has a haunting, slightly sinister air that reminds me of the "one of us" refrain from Todd Browning's Freaks.

My other favourite is not-on-the-album-but-on-the-single Shadows, with the utterly cute voice of Kim Ann Foxman. She shares the slightly brattish quality of Max from some of Tricky’s albums.

I made sure I downloaded the disc from 7 Digital to make sure I got a PDF of the CD booklet that they don’t have on pooey I-Tunes. If I don’t have a “proper” copy of the disc, now at least I can turn it into a craft project. No less than 12 pages of artwork tumbled onto my desktop so I am hard at work matching them up to print off (with colours brightened, I can’t help myself – I HATE pastels) into a properly ordered, double sided brochure that I can trim, score, fold and lovingly staple ... I’m only sorry I don’t own a saddle-stitching machine.

Honestly, this downloading might not be as convenient as they try to make you believe, but it certainly keeps you busy.

And did I mention that I have tickets to see the band at Soho Review Bar in June? Well I do, so there!

Lauren Watch

Oh joy of joys. Rumour has it that Lauren Harries is to be given her own TV show. She will be expected to carry out a series of unpleasant challenges such as mucking out cows. I can’t wait to see her with manure all over her sling-backs.

This short piece on Digital Spy also reveals that she *was* booked for Celebrity Big Brother, but it was all axed when that stupid Jade Goody started on about poppadums – DOH!

There’ll be more Lauren news forthcoming when she returns for this season of David Hoyle’s Magazine. This time she’ll be sober, apparently, which probably won’t be nearly as much fun.

I thought we might celebrate with another quick chuckle at this picture of Laur with her brother Adam ...
“What have you kids been told about playing with mummy’s make-up?!”

The Wedding Song Goes On and On

I decided some time ago that the only weddings I would attend would be sham ones. I was perfectly within my rights, therefore, to take part in The Wedding of the (Leap) Year (of the Rat) yesterday evening, when the lovely Dusty Limits pledged his troth to a trio of delectable grooms, all in the name of cabaret entertainment. It was one of the best nights I’ve had in ages.

Though it loosely followed the form of a genuine service, the wedding was anything but conventional. It took place at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s club and featured a host of burlesque stars in cameo roles. The wonderful Lucifire was Reverend for the evening and led the proceedings, while her husband, Dave Tusk, was a hilarious pageboy, in charge of guarding the rings (“the precious things”) and generally being a bit scary.

There were “readings”, calls for objections, late arrivals and children throwing tantrums. Bourgeois and Maurice appeared to sing the bride’s vows and Tricity Vogue, Fancy Chance, Miss Behave and gawd knows how many others appeared to give sermons, act as best men or absent fathers and what have you. One of my favourites was Mamzelle Fifi who was a spurned lover who had returned from the dead to object to the union, accompanied by dry ice and screams of horror from Dusty.

After the service came the “deception” with speeches, plate smashing and, finally, the disco, provided by my very own self. I was supposed to doing two hours but the other DJ turned up with no music (!) and so I ended up playing for four. It was a great atmosphere and I had lots of positive feedback, so was happy as a pig in poo.

The photo at the top shows Dusty with his grooms – Ruby Blues, Kate Friend and Naomi Blum. I have stolen it from AbsolutQueer’s Flicker site. You can see my rather less impressive gallery here.

If you’re really bored you can also see what I bought with some of my wages. I know you’ll love it, it’s a glittery Liberace-type toilet seat!