redhairedqueer

Magical Wank

2011-09-27T12:53:00.008+01:00

Had to write a review for a job I applied for so I thought I might as well pop it on here ...

Neil Watkins – The Year of Magical Wanking
Project Arts Centre, Dublin (Dublin Fringe 2011)

The sold-out success of this year’s Dublin Fringe Festival, Neil Watkins’ The Year of Magical Wanking is a brave and brutally honest window into the private world of its author.

Contained within the stark set of a jagged white rectangle marked in tape on the floor, the semi-autobiographical monologue presents a series of snapshot scenes concerning issues of personal doubt, addiction, torment, shame and self-destructive behaviour. While not without its light-hearted moments, the piece is not afraid to confront the ugliness of life and give voice to the seldom-discussed nagging doubts and internal turmoil that plague many a lonely evening.

The play is written in loose rhyme and the discipline of the verse is a stark contrast to the unstructured lifestyle it narrates, as Neil acts out unsatisfactory encounters with a variety of characters while getting wasted at parties or attending therapy sessions. One of the chief examples of his acting talent comes during a heated confrontation with his drag alter-ego, Heidi Konnt, a part-Swiss / part-Nazi creation who won him the title of Alternative Miss Ireland in 2005. He has now retired the character and the two meet to exchange a ferocious battle of words, with Neil flawlessly switching between identities as they spar mercilessly, exchanging a quick-fire montage of insults, frustrations and rebukes.

Through the journey of exploration and discovery, the play ends on a note of self-acceptance and quiet optimism, with the viewer feeling cleansed, confronted and comforted. This is a truthful and revealing performance that deserves the attention of a wider audience.

Right Nasty Radio

2010-02-14T11:59:00.007Z

I'll blog again soon, I promise. In the meantime check out my brand new PODCASTS. SCREAM!!!

This is an early evening set I put together for David Hoyle's 'Licking Wounds' at RVT in January.

Early Evening Right Nasty

Dawn Right Nasty's Podcast

And this one is highlights of my set at Pussy Faggot in NYC, 14 January 2010

Late Night Right Nasty

Dawn Right Nasty's Podcast

Right Nasty TV

2010-01-03T11:05:00.005Z

On the Couch with David Hoyle
A film by Nathan Evans (with me in it!)

Foggy Notion

2009-12-10T12:01:00.010Z

Marilyn Manson – sort your flippin life out. I came to your show at Brixton last night expecting some serious rock THEATRE. I didn’t come to look at a wall of dry ice with some pretty lights flashing behind it.

We don’t care if you’re a bit old or a bit fat or whatever it is you’re so desperate to hide, we want to SEE A SHOW.

Someone I follow on Facebook went to see Alice Cooper this week and was talking about how he impaled a ninja with his mic stand and then got beheaded with a guillotine; then he strangled a nurse and got hung but came back from the dead for some more impaling. I’m not saying you should do the same thing but COME ON!

You’ve made a career out of creating amazing visuals - the Mickey Mouse ears were a particular favourite - and last time I saw you, you were ON STILTS and your band members were stood on raised platforms in big boots. There was a keyboard on a spring and at some point a huge pulpit descended and you stood behind it to deliver a sermon. WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED??

Do you know what happened last night? PEOPLE WERE LEAVING - leaving in droves when we headed for the exit, stomping off to the bar down the road, their faces twisted with disappointment.

I’ve only walked out of a handful of gigs in my lifetime and YOURS is now one of them. The last one was Sisters of Mercy. You may remember my review 'Sisters of Murky' when I recreated an image of their stage set. I shall demonstrate it here for your reference:

Compare and contrast it with my artist’s impression of your show:

You see what I’m getting at? SLIPPERY SLOPE!

The last gig I saw was Psychic TV at The Tabernacle a few weeks ago. Genesis P Orridge is 60 in February but he doesn’t feel he needs to hide from his audience, in fact we could have reached out and touched him if we'd wanted to. His show was absolute GENIUS and I danced so hard it felt like an incantation. Watch this video, then use this man as an inspiration and stop wasting our time you silly bastard.

Planet Earth

2009-11-29T20:15:00.002Z

Environmentalists – piss off. For years you have been moaning at me for taking a bath, then you started banging on about carrier bags, and now you’ve decided it’s ILLEGAL to buy a 100 watt light bulb. What the fuck is your problem? Some of us LIKE TO BE ABLE TO SEE PROPERLY and sitting in dim lights makes our eyes hurt and gives us headaches you silly twats.

Why the hell have light bulbs become such a problem? You want to save some energy? Fine – TURN THE FUCKING HEATING DOWN. Where? EVERYWHERE – on public transport, in office blocks, in the shops... I’m sick and tired of suffocating in over heated stores only to get to the cash desk to be told, “No madam, you cannot buy a 100 watt bulb because it’s bad for the environment ... and do you really NEED a carrier bag for that large print book you’re buying because it’s the only one you can read in the dark?” HELLLOOOO!!

Personally I think I should be allowed the bulbs as I am far too tight to have the heating on full time. My cat will testify to this and has been setting about making herself fat to compensate. Don’t you admire that cats can do that – make themselves fat in the winter to stay warm and then thin in the summer to be cooler? That’s a real talent - and one in the eye for the body fascists when you think about it.

Do you remember the olden days? People used to wear woolly jumpers if it was a bit nippy. It worked a treat and I don’t believe we’re suffering from a sheep shortage. Thousands of small children are being denied exploitative labour thanks to your insistence in running round in a t-shirt in all weather. Think of that next time you flick on the central heating.

I’m not taking it lying down and have bulk ordered a supply of light bulbs from eBay, so you haven’t got the better of me yet. I’m going to put one in every room, even that little storage cupboard in the hallway. My flat will be lit up like Blackpool Illuminations and there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it. So go and stick that in your recycling bin, I’m off to let a tap run.

Ever Get The Feeling You've Been Cheated?

2009-11-24T12:39:00.008Z

Reasons why I hate Paris and all known Parisians – and no, this isn’t racist, it’s because they let me down, ripped me off and done me up like a right kipper. Allow me to explain ...

I hopped onto the Eurostar yesterday for a little adventure en France. Paris was already being shady when I got there by DELIBERATELY making it rain, but I didn’t let that deter me. I decided to take a 25 minute walk up to Sacre Coeur, thinking this would give me a chance to stretch my legs and take in the sights and sounds of the city. Little did I know this path would take me through one of the most unpleasant neighbourhoods I have ever encountered. It felt like a giant, outdoor version of Primark on a Saturday afternoon. FLAWED!!

Got to the Sacre Coeur and it was beautiful and everything I hoped it would be. Idyllic, one might almost say, except for the high number of African males who were loitering in the area and, for reasons I didn’t bother to query, were intent of wrapping a piece of brightly coloured ribbon round my finger. Persistent little buggers they were, and far too touchy-feely for my liking. I humoured the first one, was polite to the second, barely tolerated the third but by the fourth I had ruddy well had enough of it. And where was a ‘gendarme’ to tell them all to ‘allez off’? NOWHERE, that’s where. DISGRACEFUL!!

I was going to be a lazy bastard and get the ‘Funicular’ up the hill to the actual cathedral instead of braving the steps, but there was a school party of very loud children waiting for it, which didn’t look like ‘fun’ at all, so I decided to walk it and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected.

So for the next hour or so I was lulled into a sense of FALSE SECURITY. The Sacre Coeur is very, very large and impressive - here is my picture of the outside, shot at a fashionable jaunty angle. The inside is breathtaking with sculptures and tapestries and an enormous, ornate and light filled alter. I walked around the entire room and was tempted to take a few sneaky pictures but it seemed incredibly disrespectful. It must be bad enough, if you are on some kind of pilgrimage or there to pray, with a load of slack jawed tourists swanning round without idiots like me taking photos.

From there I went to the charming little town of Montmartre round the corner, which is about as stereotypically ‘Parisian’ as you can imagine – dinky little buildings and narrow, winding cobbled streets where artists sit and draw portraits. The people of Montmartre are more laid-back and jolly than other Parisians, perhaps a little smug at living in such a lovely area. I had gone there to check out the Dali Museum, which is pleasant enough but there isn’t much of it. There’s some interesting un-wearable jewellery, the lips sofa and a rather nice giant snail, but all in all I didn’t feel it was worth the 10 euros entrance fee.

After that I needed a sit down so headed for Le Metro to get across town. Now here’s where the ROT started to set in as only ONE of the four train tickets I had carefully saved from last time was still working. What’s all that about? TEEF!!

So I got across town and sat having a pizza across from the Pompidou, musing at how excited I was to be going to see the Jim Hodges exhibition in the main galleries. On Sunday I had lunch at Heathrow with Justin Bond and Our Lady J, who are friends of Jim Hodges and had described his work as ‘amazing’ and ‘beautiful’. I was thinking that, if I was an artist, I would be DELIGHTED to have an exhibition on at the Pompidou...

So I trotted over to the tubular construction as fast as my chubby little legs would carry me and, to my horror, I was confronted with a closed door and a sign reading thus:

"DUE TO A STRIKE THE POMPIDOU CENTRE IS CLOSED"

Ladies and gentlemen, I was PISSED OFF BEYOND COMPARE. You total Parisian CUNTS.

I tried to be stoic and pretend it would be nice to have a few more hours to explore the centre of Paris, but it wasn’t. I hadn’t made any back-up plans and I wasn’t there to go shopping ... but do you know where I ended up, you work-shy French layabouts? GALERIE LAFAYETTE, that’s where.

I ran into Owen on Oxford Street last week and he was bemoaning the inadequacy of the Christmas lights and saying how Galerie Lafayette had done it so much better. Fair enough, he has a point. Take a look at this and then compare and contrast it to John Lewis’ pathetic offering:

But the real point is this: instead of admiring SERIOUS ART, the highlight of my trip became a window display of some cute animated bunnies frolicking in champagne glasses in an extremely well-thought-out-and-executed window display.

ARE YOU HAPPY THAT YOU’VE REDUCED ME TO THAT, Parisians? Yes, yes, I can see you all sat there SMIRKING.

And it doesn’t end there does it, you bastards? I decided there was only one possible solution – to buy myself a present from the clothing section. But OH NO, you’re a bunch of short-arses and there was no way you were going to stock clothing to fit around my ample frame was there? The only thing I could find to fit me was a SCARF. Now it’s a very nice scarf but I DIDN’T NEED IT it so now I have TOO MANY SCARVES and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT Paris. And you knew, YOU KNEW that the lights in the shop were making it look sage green when it is, in fact, GREY, God how I HATE you.

But don’t think you got the last laugh because you know that bottle of wine I bought at the train station? It was DELICIOUS. SO THERE. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Dear Me

2009-11-03T15:07:00.004Z

That nice Joseph Galliano who used to run Gay Times has brought a book out, the big show off. It’s a collection of letters people have written to their 16-year-old selves. Justin Bond did his a while ago, so I thought I’d have a go …

So you’ve left school, dyed your hair black and bought those PVC trousers you weren’t allowed to have because they were “tarty”. A bold step forwards for the mousey teenager who used to worship ABBA … so why are you so terrified?

I know you were raised to think you had to grow up to be a wife and mother but believe me, that isn’t necessary. In fact, you don’t need to have a ‘partner’ of any kind if you don’t want one, pay no attention.

It’ll take you a while longer to sort yourself out than your contemporaries because first you need to go out and find ‘your’ people, but they are out there. There weren’t that many of them at school and there certainly aren’t any at that crappy job you’re doing, but you’ll find them. Stick with that job for now because it’s giving you a bit of money to go out and explore. You can worry about further education later.

Talking of school, you’ll find this amusing … in a couple of decades time there’ll be this new thing called ‘the internet’ (just go with me), you’ll look up the names of some of the people that the teachers said you should be like, and they’ll have done absolutely NOTHING. They’ll still be living in the same area, seeing the same people, married to each other and breeding kids. You’d rather die than do that wouldn’t you? Well, don’t worry, there’s no need.

I don’t really believe in doling out advice because you’ll figure it out sooner or later, but I will give you two big pointers:

1) Leave home as soon as possible, don’t be a fool like I was and stay there till you’re 23. You can do without the creature comforts – yes, it’s nice to have a video player and a stereo, but the sense of freedom you’ll get from having your own place is far more rewarding. Even if it’s just a little bed-sit – do it. For one thing it’ll stop those reoccurring nightmares; those black figures that try to choke you in your sleep are your parents. They’re good people but they’re holding you back, they don’t encourage you to express yourself properly.

2) On the subject of self-expression - the shyness. You’ve had trouble with it all your life and no one has taken the time to try and help. Later on you’ll self-identify it as high-functioning autism. Do yourself a favour, go to the library and read up about it; knowing what it is will make the world of difference.

Anyway, I’m not going to pretend it’ll all be plain sailing, you’ll have to take the rough with the smooth along with the rest of us, but ultimately it’s worth the while. You’ll meet some amazing and talented people who will support and inspire you.

You’re not going to take over the world, but you’ll have little victories, and you’re not going to allow the world to crush you either.

Trick or Treat

2009-11-01T18:59:00.005Z

Hallowe’en – it’s sort of like Gay Christmas isn’t it? If that’s the case then yesterday I must have been the gay equivalent of the harassed housewife as I put myself under a ridiculous amount of pressure to complete a costume and carve a pumpkin. None of this was completed until 6pm and I was starting hyperventilate. God help me if I ever had to do anything that was actually important.

I arrived at the Retro Bar resplendent in my new threads and clutching my vegetable topiary, to find that the efforts made by my fellow punters could only be described as POOR. I was, in fact, the SOLE entrant in the fancy dress competition and the only other pumpkin was provided by Gerald, who I had cajoled into entering on Twitter.

So the long and short of it is, Hallowe’en was a pretty profitable evening for the House of Right Nasty. Firstly the pumpkin competition was declared a tie, then my team won the pop quiz and was awarded a bottle of champagne. The fancy dress competition was CANCELLED, which annoyed me as I was expecting to compete for a cash prize. However, the cash prize was used for a creative writing contest and I won that anyway so HURRAH – EIGHTY QUID!! Fantastic!

We had to complete a story about what had happened to Joan Dairy Queen, who was the absent supposed-to-be-co-host for the evening. My tale involved me having a cloven hoof (a lifelong ambition) and turning into a wolf and eating him. I guess I forgot that I’m vegetarian.

If you haven’t already seen these on Facebook, my photographic highlights follow. The first is at home as I forgot to take any pics of myself at the bar.

The many and varied entries to the Pumpkins Carving Contest. Mine's the shit one on the right. I really felt Gerald should have won but I was happy with a tie as it meant I got two free drinks!

Our incomparable host, Ms Myra Dubois.

Jamie the door whore, who fell asleep on a pile of diamante.

Gerald with cock cake.

Alex working bearded drag realness.

Paul working 'jaundice'.

Felix

Lesley - attempting to hide behind a cobweb FAIL.

Philip Normal

Skull and candles on bar top.

Talking 'bout a Revolution

2009-10-30T11:34:00.004Z

It’s the candle lit vigil against hate crime at Trafalgar Square tonight. I’ve thought about it long and hard but I’m not going, does that make me a bad gay?

I’m glad it’s happening and don’t get me wrong I AM NOT ATTACKING THE ORGANISERS, but there are just things about this event that don’t gel for me.

A group of people holding a vigil in memory of their friend, Ian Baynham, who was violently murdered in the Square a few weeks ago, that makes perfect sense and I have the utmost respect for it. But do we really think this action is going to challenge hate crime?

Come to think of it, why isn’t it to challenge HOMOPHOBIC crime? Homophobic attacks are on the increase but we still have to be limp-wristed and inclusive and campaign for ALL HATE CRIME. Why can’t we just stand our own ground for once?

Why can we not LET THEM KNOW WE’RE ANGRY? If there’s going to be a full-scale, organised event to challenge homophobic and/or hate crime, I’d rather march through the streets and have my voice heard – you know, an old-fashioned demonstration like they used to have. Back when Gay Pride was Gay Pride and not LONDON Pride. Back when Gay Pride was to challenge homophobia … but they tell us we don’t need to do that anymore don't they? It’s a thing of the past. Is that why we’re getting our heads in?

It’s all so passive, why are we waving candles when we could be kicking chavs? Queer gangs should be running amok around council estates intimidating people. Instead we have '2 minutes silence at 9pm' hmmm … the homophobes must be shitting themselves.

So while I support the people who will be attending the vigil, I will be sitting at home and silently seething with fury. I do my bit for gay rights walking round with a boyish haircut, flat shoes and a bag saying Pussy Faggot. Queer visibility all day every day, not a token gesture.

Mother Ruscha

2009-10-23T17:40:00.004+01:00

The guide booklet for the Ed Ruscha exhibition at the Hayward Gallery states: “There are no rules for looking at my paintings ... There’s no right or wrong way to approach my work, each viewer will come away with his or her own associations anyway. And that’s the way it should be.”

I like that a lot.

One of my biggest ambitions is to open a queer arts venue in that big space on Charing Cross Road –the building that was the Marquee for a while but is now a dreadful sports pub called the Montague Pike or something. One of the rules is that there will be NO SCHOOL OR COLLEGE PARTIES - nobody being dragged around by a know-it-all telling them what to think and what to feel when the look at the exhibits. How arrogant!

Instead there will be glittery sofas where people can relax and enjoy the works while sipping a finely mixed cocktail. There will be ambient music, tasteful lighting and a strictly no cunts allowed door policy. Sound perfect? Yes, I thought so, but let’s face it ... it’s not going to happen.

I lack the necessary drive or whatever it is to develop such fanciful notions. Try as I might, I can’t even manage to find my way out of a shite job in local government, never mind open up an elitist art salon in London. I was born into the wrong life, I’m convinced of it. My parents used to say, “I think we got the wrong one when we picked her up from the hospital.” Is it too late to go back and press charges?

Anyway, let’s focus, where were we? Oh ... ED RUSCHA, yes. After that auspicious start I was sad to find the show a little disappointing. It’s not awful, it just never really gets going. There’s no atmosphere and there's not really all that much to look at. Even though I like to wander round slowly and absorb all the pieces, I was still all done in about 30 minutes.

It’s hard to think that this is the same place that had the wonderful Walking in my Mind until a few weeks ago, where I spent ages visiting and revisiting each of the rooms, experiencing their individual magic.

There were two pieces I enjoyed a lot, my favourite was this one - Wen Out For Cigrets N Never Came Back.

I’m always enchanted by the suggestion of abandonment and the enormous sense of freedom that comes with it. I’m not sure where the streets below are but it reminds me very much of New York, and I love the romanticism of NY being the kind of place you can get lost in. Or of just checking into the Hotel Chelsea and never leaving, living among all that history and creating random bits of art.

The other one I loved was this – Not A Bad World Is It?

I think maybe I should buy a print of this and put it up on my wall at the day job, next to my pictures of drag queens and kittens – the things that remind me there is a real world out there when I’m having problems staying upright in my chair.

It’s kind of the antithesis to Banksy’s paintings where he will take an idyllic country scene and then put across a barrier of police tape or a surveillance system. They always make me smile.

I’m thinking of the Anish Kapoor at Royal Academy next ... or maybe Pop Life at Tate Modern. I’m put off by the fact it’s at Tate Modern though. Anyone been?

Start Your Engines

2009-10-10T15:59:00.011+01:00

Apologies once again for my lacklustre approach to updating this thing, but hopefully you’ve all been hooked on Rupaul’s Drag Race like I have for the past few weeks and haven’t even noticed.

Isn’t it fantastic? The best kind-of-sort-of-reality TV show EVER - I’m going to be heartbroken when it finishes.

In case you’re a complete spactard and don’t know what I’m on about, Rupaul’s Drag Race features nine queens from across USA competing to be America’s next drag superstar. It was shown on American TV earlier this year but has only just made it to our UK TV sets.

The contestants are assembled below and, in approximate order of preference, they are: Nina, Jade, Shannel, Bebe, Ongina, Victoria, Rebecca, Tammie and Akashia.

They are set weekly tasks by Rupaul who stops by to give them advice and judges their efforts at the end of the show. The two who have put in the weakest performance then have to LYPSYNC FOR THEIR LIVES in a final head-to-head competition, and the loser has to sashay way.

During the first show I instantly fell in love with EACH AND EVERY ONE of the contestants (except perhaps Tammie) and it was sad to think that each week one of them would be asked to leave.

First to go was Victoria, who failed the ‘make a fabulous garment out of a load of old rubbish’ task. I was kind of upset about that as she was the only fattie and I quite liked there being a fat girl there. Still, I hadn’t really had time to get too attached to her and she did seem to have had an awful lot of botox. I don’t really understand why fat people need botox, isn’t that just for the skinnys?

The winner of that first task was my absolute favourite, Nina Flowers. Nina has this amazing androgynous look going on with a bald head, tattoos and 17-inches of make up. As Rupaul says in Supermodel, “she is FIERCE!” She is also by far the nicest and most level-headed of the group when being interviewed in male drag as her alter-ego, Jorges Flores. Just have a look here – GORGEOUS!!

By episode two the cracks were beginning to show when the contestants had to form two rival girl groups. Group captain, Akashia was proving herself to be majorly FLAWED in the personality department with strops and sulks and bitchy comments. When she ended up in the final two I hoped we were rid of her, but her rival Tammie didn’t put up a fight so she lived on to annoy us another week until she got her comeuppance.

Episode three was an odd one with the contestants having to produce an Oprah-type TV show, then for episode four they had to produce an ad for MAC. This time Rebecca proved herself to be a pain in the arse by attention seeking and basically being rubbish. (Actually Shannel was a bit annoying too but she has beautiful eyes so I forgive her.)

Rebecca was rightfully cast down into the final two but, in what I consider to be a dreadful miscarriage of justice, my other favourite, the beautiful Jade - who reminds me of Suppositori Spelling - was announced as the loser.

Rupaul, what were you thinking? Look at this picture. LOOK! How could you dismiss her? You cruel, CRUEL drag queen! I will never trust you again.

(She wants to be careful with those acrylics mind, she'll have somebody's eye out.)

I think my favourite challenge was this week when the queens were matched up with fighty butch lezzas, who they had to attempt to make feminine and turn into replica models of themselves. I loved that Nina Flowers was dwarfed by the six-foot Amazonian she was paired with, and I loved seeing the most butch of the girls curl up in horror at the thought of wearing make up!

Ongina was this week’s loser, which upset my fellow Drag Race addicts Toblarina and Joe Pop, but I wasn’t too bothered. She was a bit too perky for me.

So now we’re down to the last four and I have gone and spoiled it for myself by accidentally finding out who the winner is. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you, but you must promise to offer me grief counselling when it's over.

When does series two start?

I'm a Hog for you Baby

2009-09-21T09:50:00.009+01:00

As you may already know, one of my favourite things in the whole wide world is the zoo. I am particularly fond of Gay Sunday at London Zoo - a day when the faggots and muff tuckers get in cheaper and have a special little NO STRAIGHTS ALLOWED area to sit on the grass and drink cocktails.

I went to the first Gay Sunday back in 2006 and there were plenty of homos in attendance, unfortunately yesterday they were somewhat slimmer on the ground. I hope this doesn't deter the zoo from carrying on the tradition next year - and, as an FYI, if they could make it GAYS ONLY that would be even better.

My other favourite thing at the moment is my brand-new-even-though-I-couldn't-afford-it camera (well Kate's pictures of the Drag Ball came out better than mine and I couldn't have that could I?) It's a Sony Cyber Shot W190 in black and it's LUSH, so obviously it was in and out of my pocket with wild abandon yesterday. I managed to take a mammoth 64 snaps but don't worry, I've trimmed it down to 19 or so to put up here.

We started off near the bird enclosure. I'm not so keen on birds as they're not very cuddly, but did take a bit of a shine to the vultures. This one was totally givin' me evols.

While these two stubbornly refused to pose for the camera.

Penguins, of course, are the cutest of the bird genre and who could resist this adorable couple? I haven't identified their sex but assume they are conforming to the Gay Sunday agenda.

If you liked it then you should have put a ring on it ... penguins dancing to Beyonce.

The highlight of any trip to London Zoo is MEET THE MONKEYS - the enclosure where little furry spider monkeys run around and swing about above your head and in the trees. I think this one was still in a K Hole from Saturday night.

Monkey and foliage composition.

I got told off for taking the next picture by some old battle-axe of a zoo warden. Apparently I was too close and the monkey was about to steal my camera and then bite me. You can see how ferocious it looks!

The meercats must be sick and tired of 'amusing people' shouting 'simples' and asking if they are updating their website. I certainly was after 30 seconds of listening to it. But perhaps not as bored as when we visited the hippos or gorillas and heard lots of HILARIOUS remarks such as "eh, that looks like you John" or "isn't that your mum?" Fuck's sake. Why can't there be a zoo where there are no other people?

Prairie dogs. I can't think of anything to say about them.

Lion stalking ducks (out of shot.)

Toucan

Gays

Exotic bird perched in tree. Lovely plummage isn't it?

Another thing I got sick of was straight blokes who think they know it all lecturing their girlfriends who, being in possession of vaginas, must know absolutely nothing. Next to a sign clearly marked AFRICAN HUNTING DOG, a man was confidently informing is girlfriend that she was beholding a hyena.

Then, next to the following enclosure, a male homo erectus was informing the female of the species that this was a meercat. No it's not, you twat, it's a bleedin OTTER!!

Still from Ring Of Bright Water.

I have only one cuddly toy in my house and it is a bean-baby giraffe called Johnson. Just thought I'd mention it.

On the way into the aquarium I complained bitterly about people who take photographs of the fish tanks. I then proceeded to do just that.

Stingraaaay, STINGRAY, du-du-du-la, doowop, doowop

I adore the Americans but it cracks me up that they call this an Ee-moo. EE-MOO - hahahaha.

The End.

We'd Better WORK

2009-09-07T13:01:00.005+01:00

Thank you for your patience ladies and gentlemen, and if you could now please take your seats I will reveal, for your delectation, my polka dot outfit as worn at last night's Ballo in Mascara ball. Ta da!

The definition of my face seems to have been lost in this picture but never mind, it's the costume you're looking at!

Ah! That's better ... here are my chins.

I went to get ready for the event at Kate's house, we intended to act like 17-year-olds, giggling and talking about boys. Sadly I was blighted by the most horrendous of girly dilemmas - A MAKE UP MALFUNCTION!! You see, I was intending to have a white face with painted on turquoise polka dots ... I started at the hairline and all was going well, but by the time I got down to my chin I noticed that my forehead had started to melt in the heat and ugly milky rivulets were heading down toward my nose. No amount of corrective surgery could stem the flow and so this fabulous idea had to be abandoned in favour of a more subtle light day make up.

What do you think? Is the eyeshadow a little garish? Any comparisons to 'a young Su Pollard' will NOT be well received.

We did get a few funny looks on the tube, I must concede. But why??

The evening started with a cabaret section featuring Jonny Woo and Bourgeois and Maurice. This is me with Maurice ... with her hair and my spots, this took for some very tricky camera lens manipulation.

With the lovely Dusty Limits. To be honest, we've both looked better!

Dusty hosted the Silent Divas section - a selection of London's finest lypsinching to opera. I didn't have a very good view so there are no photos, but Fancy Chance put on a very good show.

At the top of the stairs I ran into Ingenue St John, who looks suspiciously like Joan Collins in this snap.

Back on the stage was Jonny Woo as Mr Snorts - "just don't mention the nose."

Horsemeat Disco's Jim Stanton with impressive gothic backdrop.

The evening concluded with the third annual Bistrotheque Drag Ball - one of the most hilarious and crazy spectacles I have ever witnessed. House of Scottee totally worked the floor and were the very deserving winners.

But this was my favorite costume of the night - plastic lady with banana hair and scottie dog. I might even admit that her look was *slightly* better than mine!

House of Egypt pyramid. John Sizzle is in there somewhere, along with Caron Geary.

Thai lady boy?

Timberlina turning it ON !

Kate insisted on a picture with the marvellous Dickie Beau ...

... and became ridiculously animated when she spotted Mika. I think they make a slightly sinister couple myself, it's something about the eyes. I'm thinking Fred and Rosemary West.

With Tim Whitehead, promoter of a million fabulous shows.

Thom Shaw looking ever so slightly scary.

And finally the very dashing Roy.

On my way out of the venue I went for a wee and overheard the following conversation:

Mystery voice 1: "I just can't believe we came here and hardly anyone took our photograph."

Mystery voice 2: "We were ON THE NEWS, Peaches"

Mystery voice 1: "Oh, were we? OK"

Yes, it was Peaches Geldof, who hadn't made even the slightest effort to wear a costume. I laughed until my tits fell off.

Needles and Pins

2009-09-04T15:57:00.003+01:00

It’s a little known fact that my first job was working in a sewing factory in Bootle. I started off on a YTS Scheme in 1981 and I believe they paid me the princely sum of £26 per week. Later they took me on full time and increased the wage to around £28, so no matter what I go on to say you can’t deny that they were generous.

People used to smirk when I told them where I worked and ask if it was like Mike Baldwin’s factory on Coronation Street. The characters were slightly less colourful than Vera Duckworth and Ivy Tilsley, and a lot less bolshie. They were mostly nice enough, but there was also a hint of Patti Smith’s Piss Factory – ambition-less women telling me I’d spend my whole life in a sewing factory and never amount to anything. Their only escape was to breed, but then once the kids had started school they’d be back again, running up over-priced evening frocks for women who led the type of life they could only dream about, but had convinced themselves they never wanted in the first place.

My favourite time was always Christmas when they’d spend an entire day planning a trip out for the evening. By the next day the enthusiasm would be replaced my mumbles and lack of eye contact when their husbands had told them they couldn’t go. Or maybe some of them were allowed out for an hour or two so long as they went home and made the tea first. Oh the joys of liberation!

I suppose I learned a fair amount about life while I was there, most of it negative, but figuring out what you definitely don't want is progress along the route to finding out what you do want. And it did teach me how to run up a nice seam.

You see the reason I have commenced on this ramble is that I have spent the last week running up a costume for Ballo in Mascara at the Royal Opera House on Sunday. I am cock-a-hoop with excitement at the prospect of this evening, which looks set to become one of my entertainment highlights of the year. There’s Jonny Woo, Bourgeois and Maurice, Scottee, music from Horse Meat Disco and a great big drag ball at the end organised by Bistrotheque. Have you ever heard of anything more perfect?

It’s the first time in about 20 years that I’ve made any real attempts at dress making, but I’m rather pleased with the results. I don’t want to reveal the outfit just yet, but I’m not dumb enough to try and compete with the drag queens. There’s no glitter, feathers or frills on my ensemble, but I will confess that it’s a Leigh Bowery-inspired creation. I’m not one of the people who get massively excited by Leigh Bowery, but he did come up with some frightfully good looks, so I’m claiming that my outfit is an ‘homage’. This is purely because I consider the phrase ‘rip-off’ to be so ugly.

Come back next week when there shall be photos galore, or better still go and get yourself a ticket...

I should mention that I was eventually sacked from the job at the sewing factory, but I’ve been glad to have been able to put those latent skills to use. I can see myself going on to run up an entire new wardrobe.

I Want Candi

2009-08-16T23:50:00.013+01:00

Nice day on Saturday so I thought I’d set off for a day of relaxing with the gayers at Milk in the Park in Spring Gardens, Vauxhall.

I bought my ticket the night before because it gave me an excuse to go into Master U, the pervy leather shop on Kennington Lane where you have to ring the bell to gain entry. I was hoping for mannequins with studded leather masks, ball-gags and perhaps a horse’s tail or two, but it’s actually rather sparse inside and more like a workshop than a torture chamber. No one glared at me coldly or made me feel like I might not get out alive, in fact the staff were very friendly and welcoming. I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Come the glorious day, I found that I had been abandoned by my ‘date’ for the afternoon, and having been frisked, had body cavities searched and my over-the-counter pain killers confiscated as suspicious contraband at the entrance, I didn’t start the event in the best of moods.

I stomped across the grass towards Horse Meat Disco’s jolly red and yellow marquee to catch a bit of Candi Staton and suddenly I was stopped dead in my tracks. OH MY GOD! How good is Candi Staton?? I LOVE HER!!

She’s 66 years old, approximately 2 feet tall, but AARRGGHH ... the VOICE and the ENERGY and the SINCERITY. She was fucking amazing! I’m gutted that I didn’t see all of her set. I’ve heard she did seven songs and I saw precisely three-and-a-half of them, but I was in bits for pretty much the whole time anyway.

I didn’t recognise the track she was singing when I entered, but later a fantastic version of Young Hearts Run Free broke into a short clip of Amazing Grace, which gave me a very wobbly moment. Then when she led into You Got the Love I was positively choking into my Kleenex Mansize. I was all waving arms and shrieking like a drunken Sunday night at Marvellous.

Want pictures? Here you are then. And no, they’re not blurry, they’re ARTISTIC!

Sadly Candi couldn’t stay to do an encore because she had to catch a flight to a gig in Scotland, but the host, Jonny Woo, dragged her back on stage for a bow and led a chant of CANDI! CANDI! CANDI! CANDI! By the time she left the stage she was blubbing too – adorable!

A few beers to settle my nerves and then I headed over to watch the Tranny Netball. I had been all about the Tranny Netball expecting it to be a right old hoot, but I confess I was just a weeny bit disappointed. There was lots of prancing about and some very impressive acrobatics from a tranny doing handstands in heels, but aside from that there really wasn't much action during the 20 minutes or so I stood watching.

Or maybe I just gave up because of the conversation that was happening beside me. A group of people were discussing netball at school and “what position were you?” One of the braggarts claimed that he was Goal Attack, which reminded me that I was always Wing Defence - that's polite way of saying shit.

Standby for tranny pics …

Bar-bar-bican

2009-08-06T22:15:00.008+01:00

Bumholes. Went to see David Byrne at The Barbican on Monday but totally spoiled it for myself by buying a crap seat. It’s not like they didn’t warn me it was crap, it was clearly marked “restricted view” but I reasoned that the close proximity of row-H-to-stage would make up for being ‘side on’. I had seen Antony from a similar seat and he doesn’t move around much and doesn’t use much light so it was fine. But David Byrne’s show relies on being able to see the full spectacle – the light show, him bouncing around, the backing singers, the ever-so-slightly-annoying dancers. I could only see a fraction of those things from where I was seated so I didn’t enjoy it anywhere near as much as the Royal Festival Hall show a couple of months ago. I should have thought it through.

I do like a nice trip to The Barbican though. As I had time to kill before David’s show I went up to the Radical Nature exhibition in the Art Gallery. I wouldn’t necessarily call this exhibition ‘art’, it’s more gardening really. There are displays made up from trees, plants and big clumps of grass. It’s supposed to make you think about the environment but like zzzzz, yeah, whatever. I just like it because it’s all nice and green and relaxing.

There is plenty there to amuse the budding dendrophile (note: Justin Bond claims this is somebody who gets an erotic charge out of nature, while the Urban Dictionary claims it is somebody who fornicates with trees. I personally enjoy neither of these things, although I do get a little bit turned on from getting my toes wet in the rain when wearing sandals.)

I particularly enjoyed ‘Green Room’ – a little miniature garden inspired (the notes tell me) by the traditional landscaped gardens of British stately homes. It’s built inside a wooden box that you step into and has mirrored walls that make it feel a lot bigger than it is. Even though you can’t close the door behind you when you go in, you still instantly forget the rest of the gallery behind you and feel calmed by its tranquility.

Much as I enjoyed the Green Room, my favourite thing – and the reason for my visit – was Mark Dion’s Mobile Wilderness Unit: Wolf. This is a large taxidermied wolf on top of a tow cart and it’s just GORGE! I stood staring into its eyes for ages and really wanted to touch its furry ears. It goes without saying that you weren’t allowed to touch it, but I was naughty and when the guards weren’t looking I gave it a quick stroke. It felt just like Jason from RVT’s alsatian, which is no great surprise really.

The nature theme continues outside by the bar where there is a big wooden hut called I am so sorry. Goodbye. It’s a dome shaped building with a space-ship transparent bit at the top. At first I thought it was just to look at but you can go and sit inside and have a nice cup of tea of you want one.

I preferred a large glass of Merlot and sat at a mini wooden table looking through the window watching the fountains outside. Lovely!

Hang Him On My Wall

2009-07-29T18:13:00.010+01:00

I finally went to the Tate Modern today. It’s only taken me three years to get round to it and now I wish I hadn’t bothered – it’s RUBBISH!

I set off all full of enthusiasm, but already sensed I’d had a wasted journey when I walked through the door. It’s all just so UGLY ... and sprawling ... and full of wasted space ... and it took me a few minutes to figure out that if you enter via the river entrance on the second floor (which I did) you have to go downstairs to the first floor in order to get the elevator to the third floor where all the galleries start. As you can probably imagine, after all that, I was already getting in one of my ‘moods’.

THEN I had to navigate my way around the scourge of all art galleries - the middle class parent. In this case BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE of the elevator with her big, fat arse (yeah, I know, look who’s talking!) while she instructed her charges on gallery etiquette in VERY. LOUD. CRISP. AND. CLEAR. TONES, the way they always think they have to speak. And I mean really, do they actually believe that dragging their disinterested pre-schoolers round exhibitions will result in them growing up to be the next Picasso? Take ‘em to the park, you silly cows.

I tried my best to find something to interest me in the first rooms, I really did. I went for the Poetry and Dream section because I like a nice bit of surrealism, but it just wasn’t working. I decided to cut my losses and head of to the fifth floor for the pop art, which is much more me, and I was confident this would save the day.

I enjoyed the smatterings of Lichtenstein and Jeff Koons, but dear God, how poorly exhibited? Most of the rooms reminded me of school classrooms with the desks and chairs taken out to make way for the sixth formers end of term display. There was no atmosphere or sense of respect for the works. Would it really kill them to tart the place up a bit?

Around the corner I grew horribly excited when I spotted Andy Warhol’s pink cow wallpaper in the distance. I know it’s a cliché to love Warhol but I can’t help it, I took a deep breath and headed off towards the cow room, thoroughly expecting to be blown away and guess what? It’s a flippin DISASTER!

Aside from the wallpaper there are a handful of black and white prints that are surely the least interesting Warhols EVER. The highlight is a couple of guns but they don’t work on top of the wallpaper AT ALL and then that’s it - Done. Over. Nothing to see here. I was practically apoplectic with rage.

The only part of the trip I really enjoyed was looking through the enormous print catalogue in the gift shop. I think the experience can be best summed up by a couple I heard talking by the exit...

Lady: Well, at least you can say you’ve been now darling.
Man: Yeah, I won’t be rushing back.

Tate Modern - BOO! Sort your blummin life out.

Up The Beach

2009-07-22T18:46:00.010+01:00

What the world needs in these troubled times, I feel, is more of my rather inferior picture galleries.

Lucky, then, that I've been out to Brighton today for a trip to the seaside. Thanks to a tip-off from Toblarina, I bought my ticket for an earth shattering ONE POUND AND FIFTY PEE in the Southern Trains 90% off sale. So not only was it a lovely day out, but a bargain to boot. Hurrah!

From the train station I headed down through the Laines for a stroll along the prom. Did you know that Brighton Pier first opened in 1899? Well here is my artistic impression of what it might have looked like back in the olden days.

There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that I mucked about with the colour of this picture because it was massively over exposed, and I resent any implications otherwise.

So now, WELCOME, and please join me along my picturesque guided tour ...

This is the Turbo, which I absolutely DID NOT go for a ride on. As far as I'm concerned, rollercoasters are for looking at, not boarding. And I have to say this was substantially less impressive than the Cyclone, which you may remember from my Coney Island Image gallery.

Obligatory seagull ...

I went on this Horror Hotel ghost ride last year when we went to Brighton for Posh Paul's birthday. It is unutterably poor.

But we somehow failed to notice that spooky monsters appear from the windows and look down at you while you're standing outside - STOP, YOU'RE SCARING ME!

SCREAM !!!!

I didn't go on this contraption either. Who on earth would, I beseech you?

A much more sedate form of entertainment. Sadly I was refused admission.

So after stopping off at the amusements and winning £2.10 on a friendly slot machine, I headed back up towards town to admire the view.

Across the street I beheld this waterless fountain. "What's the point?" you might wonder, and I'm afraid I can't tell you, but the old giffers will sit and look at this for hours.

Beautiful Pavilion with annoying people spoiling my fabulous picture.

And finally my favourite exhibit from the Brighton Museum, which is in the grounds of the Pavilion.

There is a small section devoted to dirty weekends in Brighton, and this advertiser boasts, "TITS AND TACKLE - ALL IN ONE - TWICE THE FUN." She also claims to be an 'O & A Expert' and I confess I have no idea what this refers to. Oral and Anal?

Answers on a mucky postcard.

Suffer Some

2009-07-16T17:34:00.002+01:00

I had always insisted I’d never go to The O2 because I didn’t think I’d like it. Well now I’ve been so I can say with all confidence – I don’t.

It’s not that they’re not trying hard – for a venue of that size it’s as well staffed, well laid out and well organised as it could possibly be. It’s just too blummin big.

I stuck to my guns when Prince played, I didn’t even give in for Smashing Pumpkins and the lovely Billy Corgan, but for some reason the double header of Jane’s Addiction and Nine Inch Nails was the one that made me think I should give it a try.

It’s not like it was a wasted evening, but while I’m reliably informed it was they who were on the stage yesterday evening, for all I could see it could have been a very convincing covers band. I was expecting big screens on either side of the stage, so I could at least get a projected close-up of my heroes, but none were to hand. So now I’ll always picture them as being an inch tall wearing little teeny-tiny costumes.

I didn’t let this stop me enjoying the magnificence of Jane’s Addiction, however. I could feel the chills rising even as the opening bars of Three Days rang out. So instead of watching mini-Perry Farrell, I closed my eyes and relived that splendid moment, back in 2003, when the full-size version strode out onto the stage at the Forum, dressed from top to toe in brilliant white with an enormous feather hat perched on his head. It was possibly the finest rock entrance in history, in my esteemed opinion.

The set list was the thing of dreams, all those old favourites I love - Pigs in Zen, Mountain Song, Whores. We even got a beautiful acoustic version of Jane Says for the encore. I was moved to say the least.

I’m not such a huge fan of Nine Inch Nails, so in the vast auditorium they started to lose my attention. The other big problem is the sound. It’s like seeing a band at a festival where it’s great if you can get close enough to the speakers, but beyond that half of the sound disappears before it gets to you.

I do remember a stunning version of Terrible Lie but then it all started to merge into one a bit. What I really wanted to hear was Head Like A Hole and Hurt, but a quick peek at the set list on their website during the afternoon had revealed they were saving the best till last. I’m ashamed to say wanted to do the middle-aged thing and leave before the end to avoid the traffic, so I watched them for an hour and then scarpered. When did I suddenly become so very old? I used to SO look down on people who did that!

It was a good night, but in a better venue it could have been amazing.

Paris - Une Histoire Photographique

2009-07-11T10:55:00.015+01:00

Yeah, like I'm really gonna write this is French. In fact, during the 27 hours I spent in Paris I managed to speak French just twice, and on both occasions it was when I was ordering wine!

I kind of enjoyed the international stubborness. I'd ask somebody a question in English, they'd reply in French. I'd say something else in English, they'd respond again in French, and then we'd nod and go our separate ways.

I wasn't sure I was going to like the place at first. I had booked a hotel near the Eurostar station because it was cheap and it seemed like it would be a convenient location, but it's a bit like being dropped smack in the middle of Kings Cross or somewhere - busy, dirty and kind of ugly. So I dropped my bags off and headed for "Le Metro" and soon tipped up here, which is a much more suitable location: (Click sur les images pour les grande versions)

This is a pleasing fountain just outside The Louvre. The Louvre is a bit big and a tiny little bit impressive. Regardez the next image:

I walked through that doorway you can see in the middle and around the grounds of the building. I peeked through some of the windows but didn't go inside.

Here is a statue of a man on horse that I took a bit of a shine to.

So now I had got into the swing of the touristy, sight-seeing lark, I headed across the park to witness this - Place de la Concorde. This photograph looked AMAZING on my camera, but hasn't quite turned out as well as expected. Don't you HATE when that happens?

Anyway, I liked the Place de la Concorde, even though there was lots of scaffolding and building work going on in the immediate area which kind of compromised the magnificence. It you look closely you will see it is basically a load of women with their titties out getting splashed with water. And I can see no problem with that.

I was a bit knackered by this point so I got back on Le Metro and went a couple of stops to Le Champs-Elysees. I think my expectations were a little too high as I wasn't exactly bowled over by it's retail offerings, I also forgot to take any pictures which is a little pointless when one is constructing une histoire photographique. I had a quick look round Virgin (remember them?), Sephora and Louis Vuitton, but I felt a historical monument was calling so headed off to Arc de Triomphe, where thankfully I remembered I was in possession of a camera.

I don't know what it is but I'm rather fond of arches. I love the Washington Square arch in Manhattan and I have to say this Parisian offering matched up rather well. There was some big do going on while I was there, lots of soldiers and other people in uniform but don't expect me to tell you what it was all about because I couldn't be bothered asking. I was impressed that some of them had guns though, and great big truncheons.

After this I went to see Antony and the Johnsons at Salle Playel and photography was STRICTLY PROHIBITED. It's a shame because Antony was wearing a beautiful dress specially created for the event which, he told us, was to honour the spirit of his dead cat. He also said the cat's spirit would be entering his body that evening and living inside him from then on. Yes, he is a little bonkers.

There were two highlights of the show - one was Epilepsy is Dancing and the second was a FAN-RUDDY-TASTIC version of Fistful of Love (my favourite) which had me choking back big sobs. Just as we thought he had finished (and the applause was DEAFENING) he started up again with a stripped-down riff of "give me that poisonous love" with just vocal, piano and drums, but then it built and lifted as the string section joined in and I thought he was actually trying to subject as to death by beauty as every single nerve ending and sinue of emotion was stretched and strained to breaking point and we COULD NOT TAKE ANYMORE!

Needless to say, I was exhausted after all that excitement so went back off to the very-nice-despite-the-nasty-location hotel for a beer and a nice sit down.

Next morning I marched off to the Pompidou Centre to see some art. Isn't the Pomidou Centre FAB? You go in and buy your ticket and then you travel on a big conveyor belt up that big tubey bit on the side until you get to the top.

Here is the view from the sixth floor:

And this is the passageway on the fourth floor.

Quite frankly, that was enough excitement in itself but there was tons of other stuff to be gazed in awe at inside. I wasn't too fussed with the massive Kandinsky exhibition in Gallery 1, he doesn't really do much for me. But I LOVED the Calder stuff in Gallery 2 - there were lots of wire sculptures and a whole scene of a cirus with little wire figurines making up lion tamers, a sword swallower, exotic dancers etc. I didn't take any pictures in there as I think that people who keep clicking and flashing away with their damn cameras in art galleries should be subjected to death by the guillotine.

Elsewhere, in the modern art section of the building, I impressed myself by immediately recognising some work by Annette Messenger. "Look at me being all knowledgable," I thought. But as I saw her show at Hayward Gallery just a couple of months ago, I think it would have been a little embarrassing if I hadn't remembered it.

I had to limit my trip there to just two and half hours, but you could honestly go there for the whole day. Goodbye Pompidou Centre ... I'll be back!

And hopefully when I come back you'll have fixed up the Stravinsky Fountain around the corner, which I was very much looking forward to seeing but, to my dismay, looked like this upon my arrival - no water a total lack of joie de vivre. What a disgrace!

After lunch I went for a stroll along the Seine and I have no idea what this building is but I'm sure some smart alec will tell me.

I was on my way to Conciergerie to look at the prison cells and dungeons. The picture below is the church down the road and the queue to get in here was much longer than the queue for Conciergerie.

Why people are more interested in seeing old religious buildings instead of places of torture I really have no idea, but in the end I couldn't be bothered standing in line for either. I looked through the windows at Conciergerie and it looked really beautiful, but despite the number of people waiting to get in, I couldn't see a single soul inside, which led me to think they don't let you get too near the good stuff. So I carried on along the Seine, past this lovely boat, until I got to Notre Dame.

Notre Dame must surely hold the world record for longest queue of people EVER (even longer than the Empire State Building in my limited experience) so I didn't get to do a Quasimodo impression. But it was a very nice way to end my whistle-stop trip of Paris landmarks.

Here is my attempt to be "serious" by presenting a detail image - it's of the whirly bit in the middle, just in case that's not glaringly obvious.

Au revoir!

Love Sweet Sound

2009-06-25T11:10:00.012+01:00

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

2009-06-13T20:46:00.004+01:00

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

2009-05-19T00:17:00.005+01:00

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

2009-05-10T21:42:00.008+01:00

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

2009-05-03T20:58:00.010+01:00

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!

2009-04-20T14:17:00.012+01:00

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

2009-04-10T14:36:00.003+01:00

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

2009-03-28T18:51:00.005Z

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

2009-03-21T20:51:00.001Z

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

2009-03-13T15:22:00.008Z

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.

Vision Thing

2009-03-08T18:56:00.005Z

This blog's become a bit like an unkempt garden hasn't it? Once it was all flower beds, neat and tidy with herbaceous borders, now it’s becoming neglected – there’s grass poking through and I can hear the neighbours looking over the fence and tutting.

It’s not for lack of things happening, in fact I managed an impressive ELEVEN consecutive nights out over my birthday, which I’m quite proud of - life in the old dog and all that ... No, it’s down to an unshakable bout of apathy.

I’ve been considering acupuncture to get me out of this reverie, have you ever tried it? There’s an article about it in Gay Times and it sounds very impressive – it can help you overcome depression, illness and lack of focus by unlocking 'blocks' that are preventing your mind and body from working in harmony. It’s a bit pricey mind. Maybe one of you could fashion a voodoo doll of me and stick pins in it, see if it has the same effect?

Anyway, yesterday I got up early for a Saturday and went Walking Down the Kings Road, as Squire once sang. I had decided on a cultural trip to the Saatchi Gallery. I wanted to see some Grayson Perry exhibits as I’ve just started reading his autobiography and thought it would be fitting to view some of his work at the same time. In council speak this is called "taking a joined up approach", supporting the notion that most people who work for councils are barely literate.

Sadly, despite featuring him on their website, the Saatchi Gallery is not currently displaying any Grayson Perry, instead they have a marvellous exhibition of Middle Eastern art that was more than worth the visit.

Sometimes I think I prefer photography to art, because at least then I know what I’m looking at. This was the way I felt in a few galleries where there were picture with lots of flashes and sparks and colour. All very nice, but how the hell are you supposed to know these represent the Gulf War or a car crash in Baghdad until you read the brochure?? It makes me feel a bit retarded.

In amongst the portraits and scenes from Middle Eastern life, there were a few homo-erotic images. I particularly enjoyed the fact that the exhibition brochure makes absolutely NO REFERENCE to this. I was enamoured mostly with a gallery of transsexual imagary, it combined works by Ramin Haerizadeh and Sharin Fakhim. Ramin uses computer generate pictures of himself to produce stunning portraits of what I personally regard as Tranny Bears. His lips are full and his eyes are shut as he is revelling being clad in glorious fabrics and rubbing up against other equally blissed out versions of himself.

What on earth do you think these mucky pups are up to?

Sharin Fakhim’s works are figurines of prostitutes - some female some pre-op trannies - constructed from fabric, clothing, kitchen utensils and anything else she could get her hands on. The works sit with their legs open, waiting. Old pieces of rope make up penises and in one case there is a small bowl of pearls used as a vagina. There is a strength to the works, but their bent, twisted limbs also make them appear vulnerable.

My other favourite was the final gallery, where 13 life-size sculptures of old men in wheel chairs move slowly around the room, occasionally banging into each other. Withered and toothless they make a sorry sight, but their dress suggests they were not always so helpless and they are meant to represent former world leaders or military figures. The reaction of the small crowd gathered in the room was interesting – the younger people found it all very amusing, but a couple of older people seemed to think it was a little offensive.

On a final note, can we have a show of hands on this one? The brochure claims that the rough shapes in this picture are “evocative of aeroplane or theatre seating”, whereas I see a load of people rimming each other. You?

See the full exhibition on the Saatchi Gallery website.

Bite Me

2009-02-23T12:53:00.004Z

Fourty four today, WOO!
Fourty four today, WOO!
I’ve got the key to the door, never been fourty four before ...

Some people get maudlin around their birthday but not me, yay! I love it. I’ve already been celebrating turning 44 since Friday so jeez, where ya been? Pick up the pace!

First I went to see Ingrid Pitt at The Barbican. Yes, INGRID PITT, sex-pot extraordinaire and star of Hammer Horror classics such as Vampire Lovers, Countess Dracula and, erm ... some other stuff.

Apparently some people have never heard of her so on Friday I had to go to Google to find a picture of her. This one made my eyes pop out ON STALKS like cartoon’s do and I did a love wet RIGHT THERE in my chair.

When I saw Vampire Lovers when I was 15, and saw her going round biting the breasts of young virgins, I finally knew ONCE AND FOR ALL that I was one of those dirty queer girl-on-girl types. Ergo Ingrid Pitt was the first woman I ever fancied when I actually knew what it was and didn’t just think it might be one of those schoolgirl crush things. Yikes!

So there she was on Friday looking ... well, a little bit old and frail really, BLESS. She had to be helped down the stairs and was huffing and puffing a bit when she got to the bottom, she also has to wear dark glasses, but she’s still a game old bird.

She was supposed to be introducing a film - The House That Dripped Blood – but all she did was molest the director who was also there, kissing him endlessly and telling him she could eat him. Then talking about his two sons who were so beautiful she could just take them home ... I don’t think she said a word about the movie. She’s so bonkers she’d make a bat laugh!

The film was a strung together collection of short pieces about a creepy old house and the misfortunes that befell its inhabitants. There was a great story about a little girl who got into witchcraft and made a wax effigy of her father that she stabbed repeatedly to inflict pain on him before finally throwing him on the fire.

In Ingrid’s bit she starred with Jon Pertwee who bought a cloak that made him turn into a vampire. On hearing the news Ingrid just couldn’t WAIT to get a piece of the action, she managed to wrangle the cloak from his paws and was soon in full vamp mode - hissing, screaming and flapping around the belfry. YOW, she looks so CUTE with fangs!

The Mad Mad Daddy

2009-02-05T19:21:00.011Z

Certain people from your past, who you've never met and would be kind of terrified if you ever got the chance to, will always be important for the vital role they played in firing your imagination or showing you crazy fantasy worlds that you would never have otherwise conceived of.

One such person, for me, is Lux Interior of the fabulous Cramps. He and his flawless accomplice Poison Ivy have been up near the top of my idol list for almost 3 decades, and I was heartbroken to learn of his passing this morning.

The first time I saw The Cramps was in 1981 at the Royal Court Theatre in Liverpool when I was a wide-eyed 16-year-old. Back then I was naff enough to turn up at a venue before the doors had even opened, but such youthful naïveté brought its own reward on this occasion as, while myself and my friend Alison were standing in line, the band turned up in a taxi and we saw them disappear through the stage door.

I vaguely remember seeing Lux and Kid Congo, but I must admit I was focusing most on Ivy who was looking suitably disinterested and aloof. I was horribly impressed and think it might have been at that precise moment that I decided on a future career as a red head.

Once inside the hall we rushed immediately to the front row, as the upside of teenage enthusiasm is you can withstand the crush, and the wait, and the discomfort of the crowd just to get a good view of your idols. We might not have been quite so keen if we'd realised that the support act was The Meteors. This was a rockabilly band that had a really weird fan base - they would "chicken" dance throughout the set and rip at each others’ faces with their finger nails. Determined not to lose my prime spot, I was coping with the slam dancing, but when somebody nearby suddenly started clawing away at my cheeks, I took fear and fled.

Furious and trembling at the back of the room, I was tearful I might not get my deserved eyeful of Lux and Ivy, but thankfully once the Meteors set had ended their triumphant fans gathered at the bar to compare scars and praise each others’ bruises, for all I know they might have even scampered off home in search of plasters and Dettol, but we were able to forge our way back to the front and reclaim our viewing area.

The finer details of the show have been lost with time, but I do remember a specific incident. Lux had jumped down into the orchestra pit and was taking a good look at the punters. Singing Under the Wires with its line, “I'll let my fingers do the walking", he grabbed gently hold of my little teenage tit and I was unsure what to do. I looked over the other side of the stage at Ivy and she curled her nose in disdain and sneered at me, I can barely think of a happier moment. I spent about the next two hours excitedly repeating, "Ivy sneered at me," and received much admiration.

I'm not sure how many times I have seen the band in total, but I've certainly been to at least one date from every UK tour since the early eighties. I’ve seen Lux’s cock more times than I care to mention, have seen him pour wine over himself, climb up speaker stacks in high heeled shoes, swallow microphones, lie on the floor twitching ... have heard him scream, shout and make chicken noises. And I’ve loved every single damn minute.

I had another personal encounter in ‘89 when they did a signing session at the Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street. It was for the release of the Stay Sick album and I stood in line for about 2 hours with this girl I went to college with, Katie. We were finally ushered forward and there I was – face to face with Lux and Ivy!

I gave Ivy my name which she duly noted and scrawled it onto my cassette sleeve along with her signature. No words of greeting were offered but I wasn't bothered. The trademark surly demeanour was perfect and I probably would have wet my pants if she'd spoken. Lux was a little friendlier but the only one who was really chatty was their super-sexy bass player, Candy Del Mar. Drummer, Nick Knox looked like he'd rather be anywhere than sat there signing our records. Ha!

The last show I saw was in 2006 at the Astoria (now also laid to rest). By this time Lux was 60 so his performance was slightly less flamboyant than the 80s, but there was still the wine, the skin-tight pants and the screeching, and he still had the crowd in raptures.

Only the other day I was searching for news of their current happenings and hoping some new dates might be on the horizon. Some people just seem like they should go on forever.

I’ll miss you, Lux.

Romance is Dead

2009-02-03T17:23:00.005Z

I’m a bit bored of the snow now really, aren’t you? It’s all a load of fuss about nothing. Still, at least they’ve had the decency to stop the trains running so I haven’t had to suffer the day job. Working from home = bliss. If you have to do piss-awful employment at least it spares you the indignity of commuting and having to sit in a room with other people.

I’d like to say I’ve spent this enforced confinement engaging in ambitious projects, making plans for the future or at the very least cleaning the bathroom. Of course I have done none of these things and have just sat about like a fat lazy bastard. I made the excuse I had pains in my stomach but I think that might just be due to too much slouching.

The only thing that’s been busy is my fingers. No, not like THAT, dirty monkey, I’ve been booking up tickets for the theatre. Me and Toblarina now have not one, but TWO highly unromantic, get-yer- hands-off-me nights planned for Valentine’s. On the 13th we’re seeing On The Waterfront with Steven Berkoff – a play about a load of straight blokes having a barney. Then on the 14th we’re seeing Plague Over England – a play about a load of straight blokes picking on homosexuals. Doesn’t show them in a very good light really does it? Anyone would think I have ISSUES. Whatevs.

I’m especially excited about Plague Over England, which is set in 1953 and based around a real life true story. Newly knighted Sir John Gielgud gets arrested for soliciting in a public toilet and fears a public backlash. But he finds much support through his fan base and subsequent events take some steps towards the decriminalisation of homosexuality in England.

To my shame, my most abiding memory of John Gielgud is from Spitting Image when he was “dear, dear Johnny”. He used to hang out with “dear, dear Larry” and was constantly falling asleep, they had to prod him awake with a stick. God knows why I found this so amusing, but I did.

BUT, as you know, I love a good “us against them” drama and I’ll probably get all fired up and start blubbing, just like I did watching Bent a few of years ago. I’d better not have a drink before I go in or I might start yelling at the stage in a Tourettes-type outburst.

We have fabulous seats – row C right in the centre - so if you hear any ructions coming from that general direction, just pretend you don’t know me.

Speaking in Tongues

2009-01-30T15:37:00.005Z

Regular readers may remember my outburst a while ago when I went to a Madame JoJo drag night and found myself trapped between two hen parties. You might wonder, then, what on earth possessed me to buy tickets for an Eagles of Death Metal Ladies Night at Soho Review Bar. Well, it’s simple really – Josh Homme.

I heart Josh Homme and I had an idea that just *maybe* if I went along and stared at him REALLY HARD and used ALL MY MENTAL ENERGY, then all the little tranny ghosts in the venue would use their powers to help me and then this morning when I woke up I would actually BE HIM.

I felt my resolve weaken instantly when we walked into the room and were hit by the caterwauling clatter of harpies. I had reasoned that as it was a rock gig it would be largely populated by rock chicks, and there were some people there who weren’t total muppets, but there was kind of an invisible divide across the room with cool people at the back and tragic munters in ridiculous outfits down the front.

It makes me wonder what they’re thinking when they go out to the shops – flicking through the racks going “no … no … no” until finally they chance upon the elusive outfit - a sailor dress with an ENORMOUS bow and a neckline that plunges down to the navel, or a white witchy dress that could have come from the bargain basement of Clintons at Hallowe’en time. I think that there is something clinically wrong with many heterosexuals, either wanting to look like that or wanting to fuck something that looks like that, it’s all mad. MENTAL.

The worst thing of all was the toilets, not so much the queues but the endless, mindless quacking about toilet rolls. This continued ALL NIGHT, different groups of idiots, SAME CONVERSATION – “Oh, I can’t believe there’s no loo roll”. GET OVER IT BITCHES - you’d have though the world was ending.

Finally the band took to the stage and lead singer Jesse started handing out kisses, so it was all swoony swoony screamy screamy. (Don’t tell her I told you this, but I even had to restrain the Hayloid from going down in search of her own tongue sandwich, I blame the cocktail I made her drink earlier at Enclave). Anyway, after the first couple of tracks one girl decided to announce it was her birthday, so she got called up on stage for some special attention. Whaddaya know if suddenly it wasn’t EVERYBODY’S birthday and at least 10 more of them climbed up on stage to manhandle the band members at various intervals.

The really amusing thing is they all go for the bass player, Dave. Now he seems like a nice guy but he is getting on a bit and has jowls and a turkey neck. Would they be so keen to make his acquaintance if he was Dave from Accounts at their day job? Hmm, I don’t think so.

We stayed for most of the gig because the band was pretty fabulous but finally we could take it no longer. The cool crowd at the bar was getting progressively thinner and the harpies were getting louder and shriller, there's only so much fun you can have laughing at them and pointing.

We went to the pub to drown our misery because, as you may have already gathered, THERE WAS NO JOSH HOMME; he was absent, removed, gone missing.

DENIED.

The End is Nigh

2009-01-26T20:11:00.003Z

No blogs. Nothing happening. Nothing to say. I guess it must be January then. BORE.RING.

I’ve even got bored of watching telly now. The Celebrity Big Brother outcome was a letdown, Coronation Street hasn’t moved on since I left it two years ago ... the only salvation is Undercover Princes. Have you seen it?

They’ve got three over-privileged members of Asian and African royalty and brought them to Brighton to find love. One of them’s gay, one is homophobic and the other’s a bit of a wet lettuce. None of them are particularly likeable but the gay guy’s very funny. I was a little distressed when he thought he might be turning bi last week, but the sight of him watching lesbian porn while clutching his groin and moaning “Oh my God, I am getting full erection”, was, whilst very disturbing, worth the lack of queer integrity.

There were also the faces of stone on the other two while the gayer was upstairs *with a boy* having a bit of noisy but very vanilla hanky panky. They were pretending they were worried about his reputation and the feelings of his subjects, but you know they were just peeved because they have got NOWHERE with the lovely ladies of Brighton - and no wonder really, they’re completely clueless.

Meanwhile, in REAL LIFE, there has been one light at the end of the January tunnel – my stunning appearance at last week’s Polari. I had been asked to go and talk about tranny stalking, and proffer dog-eared old copies of Tranny Hag, in the middle slot between two proper authors who’ve done books and stuff.

I was a little nervous by the time the day came, but I was only on for a few minutes so wasn’t too bothered. Paul Burston insisted on introducing me as “a lesbian” which gave me the red mists, but proved to be a good opener - I stormed to the mike and declared, “Actually I’m queer, not lesbian, and don’t make that mistake again Mr Burston.” The faces of the crowd were a picture – those laughing and those wondering who the insane militant freak was.

Anyway, I quacked on about Pete Burns and Justin, got a few laughs so I think it was OK. Rupert Smith told me afterwards, “Everyone thinks you’re really weird now”, so that felt like business as normal. He could have had a point because although lots of people took free copies of my magazine and sat reading them, not a soul attempted to talk to me. Ha ha.

This week’s looking lively - I’m working with Ophelia Bitz tomorrow, going filming with David Hoyle on Wednesday and then, OH YES ... come along to the Peter Tatchell Fundraiser Event at Phoenix Theatre Bar on Wednesday evening. I’m not DJing or anything so you’re spared that, I’m just helping out, but there’s a great line-up including David, Miss Kimberley, Dickie Beau and Bearlesque, and it’s all for a very good cause so you’d be a tit to miss it.

Thursday I’m seeing Eagles of Death Metal at Soho Review Bar and then it’s Leee Black Childers at the Southbank Centre on Friday. Hurrah – the return of civilisation.

Drug of the Nation

2009-01-15T20:52:00.001Z

I don’t do being ill well, so when I was suddenly struck down by a chesty cough that made me sound like I’d smoked about a million Woodbine last week, I went into total hibernation. I didn’t leave the house to go further than the local shops for a whole week and I have to say, it was actually rather nice.

I find that if I do the day job and do nothing but sit at home in the evening I go mental, but if I cut out the day job and just do the sitting at home, it’s quite bearable. I’m losing the plot a bit now, mind you, having been back at the Office of Perpetual Misery ( ™ ) for three days and still no sign of a social event.

The worst thing is, I’ve found myself slipping back into watching telly. I gave all that up ages ago and I really hadn’t missed it, but last Wednesday I found myself plugging in the Freeview box and reaching for the remote control.

So now I’m addicted to Celebrity Big Brother and am back on a steady diet of Coronation Street. I can just about cope with that, and I’m not ashamed of dipping into the odd episode of Father Ted or Family Guy, but last night I found myself LAUGHING OUT LOUD to some rubbish called The IT Crowd and then, worse still, TV Heaven/Telly Hell. What is to become of me?

To my credit I did take in some serious cinema at the weekend when I went to the ICA’s Destroy Every Closet Door season. I bet you hoped I’d have shut up about New York now but I haven’t, because one of the other things I saw when I was there was Milk – the fabulous new Gus Van Sant bio-pic starring Sean Penn as former gay San Francisco supervisor and all round good-egg, Harvey Milk. The film is so powerful it had me blubbing at the end. I don’t think I’ll be spoiling the plot too much by telling you he gets shot, and the film closes with a very beautiful scene of thousands of supporters holding a candlelight vigil right down The Castro and onto Market Street.

It all moved me so much that I rather loftily thought I should check out the documentary, The Times of Harvey Milk, which is currently showing as part of the aforementioned ICA season. I reasoned that a proper documentary would be a more informed product than a Hollywood blockbuster-style movie, but I was wrong. In fact the film version does a much better job of showing Harvey’s background and explaining his motivation for standing as supervisor, and also of introducing some of the other characters who were instrumental in his campaigns and success. I recommend you go and see it immediately.

While I was at the ICA I also caught The Celluloid Closet, a rough guide to gay presence in the history of cinema. I’ve always been too lazy to read the book of the same name so was glad that somebody had the foresight to make a film version. There were some great clips from The Hunger, probably the second ever dykey film I ever saw after Vampire Lovers, and my all time fave Torch Song Trilogy.

Best of all, Harvey Fierstein was one of the interviewees in Celluloid Closet and then the narrator in The Times of Harvey Milk. I saw him when I was in New York, did I mention?

Oh well, gotta go now, Channel 4 is calling - I wonder what Coolio’s been up to ...

Coney Island Baby

2009-01-06T19:06:00.004Z

Each time I’ve been to New York I’ve planned to take a trip to Coney Island to see the funfair but never got around to it. As much of it is due to be ripped down next year for redevelopment work, I thought I’d better make sure I got there this time before I missed out forever.

Another advantage of going during this trip is that it was cold and wintery and I wanted to see it when it was all closed down and faded. I’m delighted to say that it really was like walking into a real-life ghost town.

I decided to get off the subway a stop early to visit the Aquarium before walking to Surf Avenue to see the sights. But I got HORRIBLY excited when I left the station and was walking over the bridge outside to find that suddenly the famous Cyclone was RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. I got quite giggly and awe struck as I stopped to savour the views of the rest of the street below.

I realise now that I should have done the trip the other way around because, much as I loved the aquarium, I kind of rushed it as I was itching to get back to see the main purpose of the trip – and it really is a great aquarium, it deserved my full attention! You start off indoors with lots of tanks of exotic looking fish, then you go outside to meet penguins, sea lions and huge walruses. Around the outside area are a number of themed buildings with a variety of exhibits, and my favourite turned out to be the Alien Stingers.

I’ve never really been much of a fan of jelly fish before, as the Alien Stingers turned out to be, but perhaps that’s because I haven’t seen them displayed so magnificently. Each tank was backlit to give the creatures a sci-fi kind of feel and I could have watched them bloop up and down for hours.

I also adored the sea horses and fell in love with a very beautiful, brown eyed seal.

After a quick look around the disappointing gift shop (why do they always insist of stocking loads of very poor soft toys?) I headed back outside to the boardwalk to take a look at the sea and view that funfair properly for the very first time.

There were a few people about but all the faded paintwork and closed down shutters gave the place the feel of an un-used film set. I was delighted that it was a grey and overcast day which added perfectly to the bleakness of it all and I felt like I had actually found my nirvana.

I particularly liked the Shoot the Freak booth where, according to a very knowledgeable man I bumped into, some guy rented an empty lot and made a fortune by dressing in a silly costume and charging people to shoot paint balls at him – genius!

A picture paints a thousand words so I will now hand you over to my fabulous Coney Island picture gallery. Usually I brighten the colours of photos on this site to give them a David Lynchian “perfect word” kind of feel, but these I have left suitably grey ... enjoy!

Take me to the Coney Island image gallery.

I'm Your Puppet

2009-01-05T23:59:00.002Z

I spent much of Joey Arias show at the Here Arts Centre cringing at the corset he was wearing. It pulled his waist RIGHT IN so that his hips stood out at right angles beneath it, like on an old wooden marionette. As someone who is not prepared to suffer ANY physical discomfort in the pursuit of style, I found this impressive and horrifying in equal measures. I also started to wonder if he’d “done a Cher” and had a couple of his hips removed, it just didn’t seem possible that any human being could contort themselves into such a shape. Scary!

For his Arias with a Twist show, Joey has teamed up with puppeteer Basil Twist to produce a multi-media show that features lights, projection and many fabulous puppets alongside the live performance.

When Joey first appears on stage he has been captured by aliens and is strapped to a silver table that spins around and flips him up and down as he is singing - clearly this man has no concept of nausea. Throughout the show he is thrown into different worlds for each song so the scenery is constantly changing. There’s a jungle where he is pestered by snakes, an incident involving magic mushrooms that results in him being thrown to hell where he dances with two amazing devil puppets. There’s also a mannequin jazz band, a troupe of plump lady dancers, a rotating plinth with high kicking legs sticking out of it...

I think my favourite bit was a pastiche of King Kong (or perhaps Attack of the 50 Foot Woman) with a giant sized Joey clomping his way through the streets of Manhattan. Oh, and did I mention there’s a scene where he gets attacked by a giant octopus? Silly me!

Most of the songs were unfamiliar to me so annoyingly I can’t remember much about them. I know there was a version of All By Myself and no doubt a smattering of Joey’s trademark Billie Holliday numbers. To be honest I was too busy enjoying the spectacle to pay too much attention to the actual content of the show.

On the way out of the theatre I stopped to buy a souvenir fridge magnet and admire a display case of some of Basil Twist’s other puppet works, when suddenly I heard a familiar voice behind me. I looked around and there was Joey, wearing a stunning red dressing gown and chatting to a couple of fans. I’d like to be able to amaze you now with tales of my stalking prowess but, I’m ashamed to say, I bottled it and didn’t say a single word to him.

*Hangs head in shame* – I am a stalking FAILURE.

Nights on Broadway

2009-01-03T20:53:00.007Z

Pretty much all evidence of Christmas had been removed by the evening of 25 December. All the shops would have been shut by then anyway and, certainly in midtown Manhattan, for all the restaurants, bars, theatres and fast food joints, it was business as usual. And there was I, hotfooting my way up to 52nd Street for my first ever show on Broadway – Hairspray, starring my long-time idol, Harvey Fierstein.

I was in a state of some excitement but, I must admit, for the first ten minutes or so I was a little nonplussed with my theatrical experience. As this was BROADWAY I was expecting a really elaborate theatre and great service with people ready to cater to my every whim. So when I walked through the door and was frog-marched *immediately* to my seat with a brisk “that seat there, no photographs”, I was a little bit taken aback. Where was the nice programme seller ... and what of my pre-show drinkie?!

I got up to explore and eventually found a Mr Pinkies stall selling tshirts and, down the stairs, ah sweet salvation ... a small bar. En route I had noticed a few children clutching Hairspray drinking glasses with blue lids and a straw, I was suffering from severe drink vessel envy. I was delighted to find them lined up on the bar top. “Could I have a double Jack Daniels and coke...”, I requested and, brandishing the coveted plastic item, “IN ONE OF THESE?!” Well, so what, I’m English, we’re allowed to be eccentric and, now stocked with alcohol and proudly clutching my sacred chalice, I was ready and willing to take my seat.

The show was a colourful and entertaining spectacle, although the £85 price tag was niggling me slightly. From my fabulous fifth row seat I had a great view of Harvey, who got a loud cheer when he appeared on stage and was very much the crowd’s favourite. I can’t think of anyone who could make a better substitute for Divine and he played the role with the just the right amount of cheerful bitterness and eye-rolling. That growling, gravelly voice suited the character perfectly, not least when taking phone calls from Tracy’s admirers, “Yes, this is Tracy Turnblad’s residence ... no, I’m not her FATHER” (cut to black).

As in the film I kind of preferred it at the beginning when Edna Turnblad is in a housecoat and slippers, before the Mr Pinkie’s Hefty Hideaway glamour makeover. Though Harvey looked amazing both in a red satin with white fur trim, slightly Father Christmas-sy number, and also this mesmerising mother-and-daughter ensemble.

From my close vantage point I was amused to note that most of the teenage characters were played by actors who were at least in their 30s, including Marissa Jaret Winokur as Tracy. Besides Harvey, my other favourite was Susan Mosher as Penny Pingleton’s mom / the gym teacher / prison warden. She played each of the characters with the same borderline hysteria and stood head and shoulders above the head of the cast. I think it could only have been improved for me by having Queen Latifah, who appears in the film version of the musical, as Mouthmouth Maybelle. She kind of makes me feel a bit funny down there.

The show quite rightly ended with a standing ovation and, on leaving the theatre, I decided to end the day with a peek at one of my other favourite New York locations – Times Square. So here, for your delectation, is Times Square on Christmas evening – no snow, but plenty of tourists!

Fairytale of New York

2009-01-01T18:11:00.005Z

Well firstly let me say, if I was under any illusion that I would have New York to myself over Christmas (which I suppose I kind of was) I was wrong, wrong, WRONG. Midtown Manhattan was literally crawling with people who don’t like Christmas either. Even entire families, stubbornly refusing to stay at home with outsize roast dinners getting on each others’ nerves – the very cheek of them!!

I had thought that going up the Empire State Building on Christmas morning would be a nice idea but guess what? So did every other visitor to the city! Ha ha – I walked past at about 11am and the queue was about the longest I’ve ever seen it. I didn’t fancy standing about with a load of wittering foreigners, so I had to make do with a photo.

Don’t you love the Empire State? It’s a much better New York icon that the rotten old Statue of Liberty.

Continuing uptown I realised that the Americans are not ashamed of cashing in on festive boredom. On a normal day on 5th Avenue you will see a few yellow-shirted City Tour reps trying to encourage you go on bus tours and what have you, but on Christmas morning there was an entire fleet of them, knowing they could make an easy buck as the options for day trip fun were somewhat limited.

While most of the big shops were shut, there were no end of cafes and restaurants open so no one had to go hungry. There were also plenty of opportunities to buy electrical goods or jeans, these stores being largely operated by Asian people. Quite frankly if you own a retail premises that didn’t open up then you’re stupid, as every available establishment was packed to the gills, from Virgin Records on Union Square (yes, they still have proper Virgin not bleedin Zavvi!) to the hideous Shoe Mania, which even at the best of times resembles a shoe jumble sale and is the least enjoyable shopping experience EVER.

But anyway, I digress - my mission was to press on uptown to Central Park to see the animals at the zoo. The park was fairly busy but it had a nice, friendly and relaxed atmosphere. I’m not sure of the relevance of this bridge but it appears on all the postcards so I thought I’d better take a picture of it - look at all the little duckies!

There had been some snow the previous day, and a little of it still remained on the grassy areas of the park, allowing me to take this very festive snap of a friendly squirrel.

New York squirrels are so big and fat that they clearly have no need to hibernate and were out foraging for nuts. Hurrah!

I regret I have no photos of the zoo, I can’t think why I forgot to take any, but had a lovely time feeding goats with a small amount of grain that you can purchase for 50 cents and be rewarded with a soggy handful of goat spit. I also saw penguins, a polar bear, sea lions and very cute monkeys.

I considered taking a ride in a horse and cart as I exited the park, but at $34 for 15 minutes it seemed a bit excessive, and most of the people I saw looked bored shitless with the whole experience by the end of their trip anyway.

I opted instead for the subway and headed back to the Chelsea to prepare for my big Christmas treat – Hairspray with Harvey Fierstein on Broadway! Details to follow ...

Gone Away

2008-12-23T15:34:00.002Z

Oh dear, it looks like redhairedqueer closed down early for Christmas this year. Still, back next week with lots of New York stories. Hooray!

Dream of Life

2008-12-13T16:12:00.005Z

If you’re a huge Patti Smith fan then you’ll probably want to see Dream of Life, now showing at a small number of cinemas across London. If you have little more than a passing interest, then I probably wouldn’t bother.

Considering the film was ten years in the making, it really isn’t all that.

Yes, there’s a lot of intimate, original footage – Patti at home, Patti with her parents ... at the Chelsea ... with her kids – and there’s some great live footage too. I loved the clips of her talking to camera being witty and engaging, but overall the film lacks any real structure.

You’ll cut from a live performance to her sitting having a jam session with some guy, but you never quite figure out what his name is (it was Sam Shepherd). Or she’ll be walking along a beach talking to someone and you’re thinking, “Is that Flea from Red Hot Chilli Peppers?” Then after a few more minutes of studying him, “Yes, it is.” They have an interesting conversation about pissing and she claims she can go into a bottle. She might be the great god Patti Smith, but I still don’t believe her.

Then there’s another scene of her walking round a town and the soundtrack is her reciting some poetry, finally she arrives at Rimbaud’s grave so you’re, “Oh right, so now I get it, we’re in France! Why didn’t you say so?”

I don’t mean to be too negative nancy but the film does rely on you already knowing a lot about Patti and having knowledge of her friends and influences. There are some great bits – I liked her showing us the little urn with some of Robert Mapplethorpe’s remains in that she always carries with her; and I loved the clips of Benjamin Smoke about whom she wrote Death Singing – but I was just hoping for a little bit more. I would have liked to hear from her band, who didn’t really get to say anything, and more stuff about her early career, which was mentioned but kind of rushed over.

They showed a preview of Milk before the film started, I’m hoping to catch that in New York. I saw Peaches Christ in a crowd scene!

Members Only

2008-12-10T23:23:00.011Z

D’you know I’m sick of getting messages and letters from venues I’ve been supporting for decades asking me to become a “member”. Always with the underlying threat that if I don’t sign up and give them a wad of cash I won’t be invited to presales for any of the performances, and when I finally do get to buy tickets I’ll be sat at the back with all the other losers.
WTF?

I’m as keen a supporter of the arts as anyone, I’m never home for God’s sake, and I never ask for freebies when my friends are performing. But if I were to fork out for membership at all the places where I have frequently spent money for the past 20 years – that’s you Southbank Centre, Barbican, BFI and ICA – I’d be down about 150 quid, and I’ve got holidays in New York to cater for.

The latest is the Soho Theatre wanting me to give them 50 quid to be a “friend”. I’ve spent a bleedin’ fortune in that place since Kiki and Herb were invented and anyway, their seating isn’t allocated so the threat of pre-sales ain’t gonna wash with that one. Although they clearly know how FURIOUS I will be if I can’t have my usual A1 ticket number the next time Justin’s on there. Gah! You sneaky bastards.

Of course I realise that these establishments are under financial pressure and need to raise funds in order to survive, I just don’t think doing so at the cost of the less affluent customer is the right way to go about it.

It hacks me off it’s always going to be the rich people who have the decent seats and often not the loyal fans. Who’s to say the rich people are the most deserving? At Antony’s show at the Barbican a prime front row seat was occupied by someone in a brown suit with a mullet hairdo. What kind of a world are we living in when those type of antics are condoned, I ask you?

So I’m holding out for now but I fear there’ll be a time I get pressured into it. If perchance you’ve had a whip round and are wondering what to get me for Christmas ... a Southbank membership would make a lovely gift.

The Quality of Mercy

2008-12-07T16:03:00.002Z

Had a traumatic experience yesterday – I went to Poole. I was under the impression I had been there before and remembered it as a charming and quaint little town. Not sure where I was confusing it with but as soon as I stepped off the train one thing became apparent – I had taken a trip to White-Trash-On-Sea.

There were hoodies and sports casuals for miles, the horizon only being broken by the staple of any suburban setting, a small gathering of old-school Goths. Obviously I only scratched the surface, but it appears to be the kind of place you have a day job, raise a family and that’s all. I went into the elegantly named Dolphin Shopping Centre and nearly convulsed at a market stall - there one could take along a collection of photographs to have them arranged into a stunning collage spelling SISTERS, MY FAMILY or OUR WEDDING. It was simultaneously eerie and hilarious.

They do, however, have a very nice Arts Centre and I was there to see (all-male theatre group) Propeller’s production of Merchant of Venice. I studied this play at O’Level and hated it - though not as much as Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy, the mere mention of which still makes me nauseous - and was curious what I would make of it now.

I have no idea why they foist this stuff on 15-year-olds because, like Animal Farm which I could make neither head nor tail of at school but learned to love later, Merchant of Venice makes so much more sense when you’ve an extra 28 years on the clock.

Propeller have controversially set the play in a prison, so the actors are playing the role of prisoners, playing the role of actors. I loved that this added another subtext to the production and I’m always a sucker for a prison environment. It also gave them greater opportunity to develop one of the ethics of Propeller – to present gender as performance.

With an all-male cast that also covers female roles, their delivery is neither drag, transgender nor female impersonation; they simply cast male actors in the roles of women. Sometimes this is used to comedy effect – a big burly bloke in a corset with his nipples poking out is always going to be funny – but sometimes it can be elegant and beautiful and make use of the power of suggestion.

The role of Portia is played flawlessly by Kelsey Brookfield. While he is very obviously a man in a bad wig, high heels and ill-fitting bodice, his movement and mannerisms in this female role are so well researched and practiced that you have no problem in accepting him as a woman. In the bar after the show I eavesdropped a conversation where someone was saying the success of Portia’s role lay in the actor’s ability to walk in heels, which altered his stature and way of walking.

We have been taught that only women wear heels so once we see them, why, who else could be wearing them but a woman? Even more interesting was that one of the another actors was involved in the conversation and said that the rest of the cast now treat Kelsey differently, they regard him as a woman and he sits separately from them and doesn’t talk to them, the gender gap has become too apparent.

There’s lots of violence in the production as Propeller are also a very physical company – you get nipple twisting, ball crunching, a man having his eye ripped out (with stomach-churning ping-of –snapped-muscle-tissue sound effect) and a fair amount of blood. I loved it!

The company are now going on tour and I’ll be seeing them do Midsummer Night’s Dream in Kingston in February. Check their website for details if you fancy it.

Elf Dance

2008-12-06T21:36:00.001Z

One of Santa's little helpers, by the name of Kevin Perrett, just sent me this. I have to admit, I LOVE IT!! (View until 15 January)

http://elfyourself.jibjab.com/view/ZGR53t3Sler4yOUzRrGG

Deck the Halls (no, REALLY!)

2008-12-05T10:37:00.009Z

I know this is callous but you know what’s getting on my nerves? I have this great Christmas planned but every time I bump into some one and want to tell them all about it, they start on about how they’re spending the day with a dying relative or a seriously ill friend. So instead of bouncing up and down and babbling I have to be all sad-faced and listen sympathetically to their tale of woe.

What's all that about?? I mean, c’mon, give me a break already, aren’t I allowed to be happy?!

So, basically, what I'm saying is, if you’re spending your festive season surrounded by disease and mortality - I'm sorry, but can you just look away now please as the following paragraphs are going to be searingly inappropriate.

So back to ME and my four day Christmas indulge-o-fest in New York City, which has taken on a whole new and thrilling dimension. The soundtrack at Right Nasty Mansions has been a deafening tap tap tap of computer keys, kerching of cash registers and *squeals* of delight as I have cooked up a cornucopia of artistic treats.

It started a week or so ago when I booked to see the New York Dolls at the Fillmore. Imagine, I thought, the New York Dolls IN NEW YORK, how fantastic! Well OK, to be fair, Arthur has died since I first saw them, and I absolutely hate Sylvain, so really it’s just David Johansen … but it’s still a legendary and highly influential band in their home city, right? Well, to be honest, it'll be great, but I’m a little bit over that particular reservation already, because it has been overshadowed by further discoveries...

On Tuesday night I was looking at an NY tourist website and I noticed that HARVEY FIERSTEIN has gone back into Hairspray on Broadway!! SCREAM!! I love Harvey Fierstein - Torch Song Trilogy is one of my favourite movies ever and, WELL, I thought, wouldn’t it just be FAB to go and see Hairspray right on Christmas Day? SO I AM! Not only that but I’m in the FIFTH ROW! It’s a more-than-a-hundred-dollar extravagance but what the hell, it’s Christmas!

So now you’re thinking, “Woah, steady on there, that’s a little bit *too* thrilling”, but WAIT – IT’S NOT OVER!! My finger tips are still bruised from rushing-purchasing a ticket for JOEY ARIAS at the Here Arts Centre!!

I love Joey Arias – Too Wong Foo is one of my favourite movies ever and … oh wait, I’ve already done that stuff haven’t I? But he’s FABULOUS in Wigstock and for this new show, Arias With a Twist, he has hooked up with a “puppet theatre wizard” called Basil Twist to produce a fantasy piece with lots of colour and loud music and movement. There’s a blog site with lots of pictures and I can’t wait to see my own face up there in January. (Disclaimer: this may not actually happen)

Did I mention that in between this I’m staying at the CHELSEA HOTEL, and planning a nice Christmas stroll round Central Park ... perhaps a horse and carriage ride? This is going to be the best Christmas EVER.

That's a Weave!

2008-12-02T19:58:00.000Z

Well, there I was, best tie on and all hyped up and excited about going to see Wig Out, but whaddaya know ... it’s a little bit rubbish really. There’s no discernible plot, all the lines end with an exclamation mark and it’s really just a lot of flouncing about.

It’s almost impossible to follow what little there is of a storyline because no one lets anyone else finish a sentence, and if you hadn’t seen Paris is Burning and weren’t familiar with the drag slang terms, you’d be even more lost.

The show opens with three shouty girls who act as narrators, “Blah blah exits stage left” they inform you, and I can really do without that kind of distraction. They also keep clicking their fingers in the air and are, I suspect, what one would refer to as “rude girls.” I kept expecting them to kiss their teeth.

Some of the individual performances were good – ReyRey, the mother of the house, is suitably camp and sassy. Though I can’t for the life of me figure out why they had Ebony in the cast and then wasted him in a barely noticeable, non-speaking role.

Most of all I liked the little Leigh Bowery-type man at the beginning of the second act. He told off someone in the audience for eating popcorn, which finally felt like REAL drag, then he did a great dance to White Stripes with a little cute goth kid, but for the most part it was all a bit … *drums fingers and looks around* … boring!

I spent much of my time trying to figure out where I’d seen one of the main actors before and then I realised – BROOKSIDE! It was Leon Lopez who played Jerome Johnson - nephew of down-trodden-nice-guy Mick, and cousin to Leo and Gemma. He went out with that greasy-haired "blonde bombshell" Nikki Shadwick who was the sister of “our Emily”, played by scouse trollop Jennifer Ellison.

Now, there is a reason for this meandering because, for reasons I cannot establish, I used to have inappropriate wet dreams about Jennifer Ellison. What on EARTH was I thinking?!? I don’t find her IN THE TINIEST BIT attractive, but once woke in an advanced state of arousal after having a dream about her acting all sultry while wearing a big white fur coat and, come to think of it, probably no knickers. I had to wash my mind out with bleach. At the same time a friend was having a similar problem with Katie Rogers – what were they putting in the transmitters at Brookside?

I’m off to the theatre again at the weekend but this time it’s for Merchant of Venice. I’m trading the tat for a good bit of culture but don’t worry, there’ll still be men dressed as women.

Smells, Wigs and Sin

2008-11-30T13:29:00.010Z

Don’t you think straight people have a funny smell about them? Especially the men. We had a heavy metal band on at Kunst on Friday and there was an entourage of ‘extreme males’ assembled when I arrived to soundcheck. I mean, they were pleasant enough but I just don’t know ... first there was the loud, faux-confident way of speaking with that dialogue that’s just lots of monosyllabic vowel sounds; but then there was this weird odour that sort of mixed dankness with human hormones and it was just ... icky.

They wreak so much destruction too, after their 25 minute set there was broken glass everywhere, a monitor cable had been damaged beyond repair and a drunken punter had to be forcibly removed from the premises. You don’t get all that with a nice bit of queer cabaret. Tsk!

That aside it’s been a pretty quiet week which has led me to plummet into a spiral of depression. From today on though the next month is booked, booked, BOOKED. I’m off to see Naked Civil Servant at the BFI later with David Hoyle, then tomorrow I’m very excited to be going to see Wig Out at the Royal Court. I bought tickets for this ages ago and can’t wait to see lots of new drag stars running around and strutting their stuff.

I was very nearly involved in the casting for the production. The director got hold of my details as a tranny stalker and wrote and asked if I could recommend anyone for the lead roles. I suggested a few names but none of them seem to be appearing, and come to think of it I never got a word of thanks, but hey ... that’s show biz.

Later in the month I will be venturing to the Festival Hall for the Justin Bond and Tiger Lillies Christmas Show. Their pantomime Sinderella looks like it could possibly rival David Hoyle’s Wizard of Oz night for number of times a naughty word can be shouted across the South Bank – there’s certainly plenty of cunts and fucks. Oh Matron!
Take a look at this fabulous preview clip on You Tube.

I can’t wait to see it when they’re in full costume, especially Justin in a Cinderella ball gown (assuming there is one.)

In other news my business cards have arrived and I’m delighted.

Now I’ve just got to remember to give them out to people. Sometimes I have this habit of acquiring something and thinking that’s enough. Like buying a book and then thinking I have a knowledge of its subject without realising I have to open it up and actually read it. I’ve only got a hundred cards so I can’t give one to each and every one of you, but so you don't feel left out here’s a copy you can print out and keep. Never say I’m not a giver.

Oh well Wotever ... nevermind

2008-11-24T15:31:00.006Z

FURIOUS this weekend as the back dated pay rise I had been promised at the day job, and had been liberally spending in anticipation, spectacularly failed to appear. This had led me to sink into the world of OVERDRAFT, surely the most depressing of the financial conditions.

My days have therefore consisted of cut-price pizzas, ‘worth it’ DVDs from Woolworths (Austin Powers, since you asked) and own-brand supermarket pet food for the cat (who's not impressed!) I even attempted an evening of sobriety on Sunday but didn’t make it long past seven thirty before going out to brace the freezing cold in search of a bottle of Chateau Cheapskate from Tesco. I may be poor but there are limits, I still have my dependency issues to finance.

Still, it’s not all been drab. On Saturday I had my first ever gig at Club Wotever, who have decided to branch out south of the river and were holding a night in Camberwell. It was at some middle-of-nowhere location called the Sun and Doves, but turned out to be a tip-top evening. One of the turns was Sjaak, a man-in-a-frock opera singer who once guested at VauxhallVille. He always puts on a good show but often includes a song about killing kittens, which I really can’t approve of!

It was good to see Jonny Slut who stopped by for an hour or so. He’s just dropped out of college because the degree course he started was full of 20-year-olds. We had a good old grizzle about young people and how they PRATTLE and we really get tired of listening. Life can be hard when you’re over 40 and consumed by a terminal bitterness.

Was a good crowd at the venue and I was pleased there was lots of dancing throughout my set. Three tubby trans lads grooving on top of a table right near the DJ booth made me a little nervous of an impending health and safety disaster, but it’s nice to witness such enthusiasm. I’ve heard my set was described as “the best wedding I’ve ever been to” (?!) and Joe Pop complimented my “post ironic dance tunes” so, um … I think they liked it! Hopefully they’ll invite me back when they do some nights at the Vauxhall Tavern next year.

In an attempt to woo further DJ employment I also, this weekend, ordered my first ever batch of business cards! They’re going to be black with orange writing and a nice little picture - DEAD LUSH, I’m hoping. They should be here in about a week, can’t wait to see them.

As a complete aside, walking past the post office today I couldn’t help but be impressed by the special 2nd class stamp for this year’s festive season. Cross dressers on her majesty’s Royal Mail, who’d have thought it? The American’s might have a black man for their President but we have drag queens on our Christmas postage stamps – so there!!

People Are Strange

2008-11-18T12:49:00.009Z

I don’t watch telly these days so I’ve only seen one episode of Beautiful People, but I bought the book the other day from Prowler and it’s hilarious! The author, Simon Doonan, dedicates most of it to reminiscing about the colourful and varied characters that surrounded him growing up in Reading.

There’s a lot of affectionate reference to his mother - a strong, stylish woman who not only looked after her immediate family but an assortment of other needy relatives and friends. There’s crazy aunties, a lobotomised grandma and a plethora of curious personalities encountered on a trip to Butlins.

It makes me feel like my own childhood was quite dull and boring, but thinking about it I’ve remembered a collection of rather more colourful or "diverse" characters that I came across along the way.

I think I’ve mentioned before the two women that lived together that my mum would firmly refer to as THE SISTERS, as clearly any exposure to homosexuality would cause your child to grow up to be one. Just a few doors up from them was a very glamorous woman who looked like she had stepped out of a 1950s fashion catalogue.

She was always flawless with perfect long dark hair, Betty Boop lipstick and seamed black stockings. Her pristine appearance led her to be treated with suspicion by her fellow women folk, who suspected her of having ideas above her station. She had two kids but I think she must have had them before she moved in because there was lots of harrumphing about it - “Hmm, you can’t imagine that one pregnant, can you? It would ruin the line of her frock. Do you think she bothered with the hair and lipstick when she was eight months gone?” I started to feel like I was the offspring of Cissy and Ada off the Les Dawson show.

Further along was a slightly pikey (white) family with two fat daughters. The mother took a job at a local takeaway and then gave birth to a third child who was quite clearly half Chinese. No one said a blind word about it as it was considered impolite to mention these things back in those days. I think the father was overheard to have expressed his concerns but, to his credit, he carried on regardless.

Darker happenings further along this cosy domestic setting at a house where a generally odd-ball family resided. The parents both suffered from mental illness and as their first son, Malcolm, got older, it became obvious that he too was as barmy as a fruit bat. All hope rested on the youngest son, Rupert, who seemed in full possession of his marbles. He became the talk of the street when he signed up to join the armed forces but, sadly, the day before he was due to leave decided to hang himself in his bedroom. My guess is he had joined up to escape the clutches of his insane family but in the end just couldn’t go through with it. I don’t know what happened to the rest of them.

Often, around the estate, you would see a man who was constantly walking. He had some kind of ailment so his head permanently lolled to one side and sometimes he dribbled. He would just walk and walk and walk, at all times of the day and night you would see him. He never said a single thing to anyone and was clearly perfectly harmless, but he would sure as hell creep me out if I encountered him at two in the morning.

I don’t look back on these people with any affection, but it does make me wonder what other David Lynch-ian characters were lurking behind the façade of the respectable suburban town I was living in. I think I had some eccentric relatives on my father’s side but I didn’t meet them as they were all off doing their own thing. I know he had an Aunty Charlotte who had a husband and two children she showed very little interest in. When the husband died and the children had grown, she took to wearing leathers and hanging round with a biker gang. It’s clearly where I get my unconventional streak from.

I would like to give a final special mention to my friend Kathy’s mum, Pauline Walker – a staunchly religious woman; a prolific breeder and member of the Union of Catholic Mothers. She stopped Kathy from "playing out" with me when we were teenagers as she said I was encouraging her to go shop lifting. In hindsight she was probably right, but really … where’s your sense of humour?!

What are Words Worth?

2008-11-16T18:49:00.011Z

As they used to say on Chigley, “Time flies by when I’m the driver of a train ...”
The weeks just keep WHIZZING by at the moment. It’ll soon be time for me to jet off to New York for Christmas and, despite my having been a bit blasé about the “credit crunch”, I’ve had a bad month for handbag and I’m getting a bit *eek squeal* about how much this unnecessary four day extravagance is going to cost me. With the pound to dollar ratio going upsy dutch it’s going to be way more than I’d bargained for and there’s still the Boxing Day sale at Macy’s factor in. GODDAMNIT!!!

I suppose I could save a few bob by staying in but that would be, like, WAY BORING. In fact I’ve recently expanded my social horizon by attending a couple of queer discussion groups – how 80s! The first was actually a bit of a snore fest – Improbable’s Disgruntled and Disgusted proposed to discuss Do gender and sexuality still matter - and if they do, what do we do with them?

The premise sounded reasonable enough but after a ten minute intro assuring us that “everyone’s view is valid” and “anyone who sits at your group is the right person to talk to,” I was starting to feel a bit bilious. It was becoming apparent that the representatives of the Royal Vauxhall Tavern – me, Nathan, Timberlina, Michael Twaits and a few adopted brethren who are always up for a bit of a barney – were really not suited to this world of touchy feely.

As I sat down to my first discourse my doubts became a certainty. Entitled “Should we embrace or reject the clichés?” I was arrogantly assuming this debate would relate to some of my own pet subjects – like the battle between those who celebrate queer stereotypes and those who dismiss them as damaging the public face of the gay community. No such luck.

What we got was along the lines of “Well, you see, like, I do a lot of feminist performance but I have long blond hair so, like, people fink that’s weird and that you can’t really be a proper feminist.” I had an inkling that it wouldn’t be considered “valid” to shout, “Oh for God’s sake get over yourself, you soft tit!”
So instead I rolled my eyes and went to purchase another can of Red Stripe from the bar.

It got better later on when a group of us were sat with Stella Duffy – the host for the evening – who suggested we should organise a similar event on a grander scale and invite representatives from Stonewall to talk about how we can move the queer / gay community forward and stop all the in-fighting. In particular - as it was the eve of the Stonewall awards that were being protested by trans supporters for their nomination of Julie Bindel as Journalist of the Year – we discussed their decision to disenfranchise themselves from the trans community, despite having named their organisation after the event where DRAG QUEENS AND TRANNIES stood up to police brutality and launched the beginnings of Gay Liberation. They should really hang their heads in shame.

My next parlez vous was Gay Mentors, a group that I’m a little bit uncertain about. It’s basically been set up to support people who are going through life crises or are interested in self help, and those who want to mentor them. I don’t actually feel I fit into either of those categories, but I had sod all else to do and Stewart Who and Dickie Beau where involved so I thought, “What the hell?” It turned out to be an interesting event, not least because of the presence of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.

I saw a few of the original order in San Francisco at a Gay Pride event I went to there years ago. I seem to remember a few of them whizzing round by the Castro on rollers skates and I was in love. In SF these bonkers drag queen nuns are still going strong; they work actively in the community to promote human rights, tolerance and spirituality. They also raise money to provide grants for events and organisations working in queer or sex positive projects.

There are now orders across the world and I’m not too sure how long the UK group have been operating, their web site is still under construction, but I was fiercely jealous when one of the young guys at the meeting said he’d been invited to join them. WHY DIDN’T THEY INVITE ME??!!

At the moment I feel I’d be much more interested in helping with the work of a bunch of bonkers nuns and having them represent me instead of trusting my civil liberties to Stonewall.

I Love the Nightlife

2008-11-08T20:00:00.012Z

Had the kind of night out I haven’t had since the demise of Marvellous at Act Art 6 last night – performance, film, art, glamorous people ... and all topped off with a much needed bout of crazy dancing.

It was Kate Pelling who talked me into going because her film In Pursuit of Elvis (Elvis in Pieces) was showing. I did the camerawork for it, so I got to walk around saying "I made this" in a stupid voice every time they played it and well, you know ... it’s the little things that amuse me.

I’d never been to Act Art before but was horribly impressed. It was held at The Arches near London Bridge and there were separate rooms for video, live acts, music and what have you. We spent most of the night in the performance room, being cabaret groupies, and saw some quality turns.

It was the people I already know who I liked best – my fave was Ryan Styles who did a superb piece that involved him standing on a pile of plates in high heels and filling glasses full of water from little teat titties down his front. Then he smoked a handful of cigarettes before pulling a mask down over his face as his balloon heart inflated out from his chest and burst as he died. Aw!

Scottee did three songs from his Buy a Better You show ... and a little later Feral from Cantankerous, who sometimes used to pop up at Marvellous, did a fantastic three song set. She used to be MC Kinky back in the day and much of her music has the same ragga inspired dance sound that Boy George uses. You should totally check out her track Dskasting on Beatport.

One of the surprise highlights for me was Andy Bell. I’ve always liked him but he’s never been one of my favourite performers and I’ve never seen him live before. Well, I did stand next to him in the queue at Tower Records once but that doesn’t count really, does it? Anyway, he came on to sing about six tracks, just using backing tapes, but he was FABULOUS! I suddenly realised that Erasure have provided the soundtrack to so many great nights in my life, right back to my early clubbing days at Jody’s in Liverpool. I felt myself get just a little choked at this discovery, especially when he did Stop! which has always been a favourite.

My other how-come-I’ve-never-seen-this-before highlight was Mark Moore’s DJ set. I’ve always loved S’Express, and the Theme From ... is a regular highlight of my own DJ mix, but for some reason I’d never seen him gigging before. Uh, HELLO – exactly HOW COOL is he, please?! From the first few bars of the opening track I was, like, SCREAM! He played the wickedest mix of Love Can’t Turn Around by Darryl Pandy – one of my top five favourite dance tracks EVER – and I was right up and strutting like a mad person.

You know what else I loved? Those of you who’ve seen him before will be, like, “DUH! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” but instead of headphones he uses a TELEPHONE to cue the tracks up. Yes, yes, I know I’m totally behind the times but I thought this was HILARIOUS and now I want my own gimmick.

Perhaps I could get a pussy phone like on Graham Norton?

Sweet Seduction on the Silver Screen

2008-11-04T20:38:00.011Z

I’ve had a bit of a moan about the Hayward Gallery in the past for not really doing things properly, but for their latest exhibition – Andy Warhol: Other Voices, Other Rooms - they’ve redeemed themselves.

From the moment you walk through the door it’s like you’ve moved into another world, with moo cow wallpaper and the strains of the Velvet Underground emanating from around the corner. The strange thing about the first room, dubbed the COSMOS, is that the most familiar works – the Marilyns, the Mick Jaggers, the soup cans etc – are way up high at the top of the wall so you can’t get a close look at them. Instead, the focus of the room is three giant projections of SCREEN TESTS – short, silent films that Warhol shot where his subjects sit staring blankly at the camera. Down the far side of the room is a huge archive of books, polaroids, magazines and all manner of paraphernalia, but I glossed over that pretty quickly to head into the enormous audio visual rooms that form the basis of the exhibition.

The TV-SCAPE room has flat screens and headphones where you can watch excerpts from the Warhol Diaries. I watched Andy getting dressed up in drag to be photographed and while doing so mused that he really makes the worst drag queen – he doesn’t hold himself with enough poise or dignity. Also lacking dignity is a painful clip of Candy Darling singing that I wish I’d never watched as it damaged my illusion of her as flawless and iconic, it's just AWFUL!

My favourite part of the exhibition is the big wrestling-style ring in the centre of TV-SCAPE where you can watch all of the 42 shows that Andy made for cable and MTV. You sit on top of Hollywood Star seats that tell you who appears in each programme. I watched a few clips of Debbie Harry, including one of her with long dark hair looking *gorgeous*, then I was delighted to find an entire episode with Divine and a very young John Waters being interviewed about film making and their crazy Baltimore neighbours.

I sat contented and giggling throughout as Divine had his make-up applied and put on a huge blonde wig that he decided made him look like Pebbles from the Flintstones gone mad. It also included this clip from Desperate Living with Edith Massey as the merciless Queen Carlotta, it reminded me that I *have* to get this on DVD, I haven't seen it in over a decade.

On the way out of TV-SCAPE I stopped off at the video wall and watched a clip from a video called The Fight, which was Warhol’s last attempt at creating a soap opera. Featuring Brigid Polk and Charles Rydell, it is basically a couple continually ripping the hell out of each other and contains some *fabulous* insults. For example, to the somewhat over-weight Brigid, “Buttons? When did you last fasten a button? You haven’t stretched anything around that hemisphere in twenty years!” Classic! I wish I could find somewhere to watch the whole thing, there were no seats by this particular screen and it got a little uncomfortable standing.

Into the FILMSCAPE room, which is impressive but a little over powering - comfortable, swirly couches fill the room, which is dominated by screens showing around 20 of Warhol’s films. There's Chelsea Girls, Empire State, Sleep, Blowjob ... my only disappointment was that it didn’t include Prison. I’ve had a poster for this film on my wall for ages - affectionately refered to as "the big blue arse" it shows a big naked blue man staring through the door of a prison cell - but I’ve never actually seen the movie.

On your way out you walk through a small room filled with helium filled silver clouds and, for once, you’re allowed to touch the exhibit (wow!), plus a small gallery of black and white photographs. I was curiously drawn to this one and hoped it would be for sale in the shop afterwards. Alas ... no.

An Audience with God

2008-10-31T16:07:00.012Z

You know, if I were ever to meet Antony Hegarty I think I would just fall to my knees and weep. I would be rendered incomprehensible by feelings of awe and admiration and completely incapable of speech.

When his voice breathed out into the darkness at the Barbican Hall last night it caused an actual physical reaction – like when you step into a hot bath and your body briefly tenses then relaxes with contentment. I wrote in Boyz magazine that he sounds like tears falling on rose petals – it’s a line I’m very pleased with and it’s true, it’s a perfect blend of simultaneous pain and beauty.

At the Barbican he is backed by the London Symphony Orchestra and takes on an even more ethereal quality, the instruments match the delicacy of his vocal and lend it more power with crashes and loud crescendos. It’s not quite as moving as hearing him alone with his piano, but it’s no less impressive.

I was big and brave and didn’t cry last night, but I was treated to many of my tear-jerker favourites – I Fell in Love with a Dead Boy has particular significance in being the first track of his I ever downloaded, then there was Rapture, For Today I Am A Boy, Cripple and the Starfish. There was even a cover of Beyonce's Crazy ... but best of all was River of Sorrow. I nearly screamed when he announced this as at previous shows I’ve seen he either hasn’t done it or has invited that pesky Marc Almond to sing it.

He told us the story behind the song – that it was written for Martha P Johnson (after whom he named his band Antony and the Johnsons). She was a young tranny hooker in Manhattan who did a lot to help young street children. Her body was found floating in the Hudson River after she told friends she had been seeing images of her dead friends and relatives in the water. He was so engaging telling the story and I wished he would speak more often.

There were lots of tracks from the forthcoming album and I think it’s going to be amazing. I’ve been a tiny bit disappointed with the Another World EP as the songs aren’t as personal as usual. I like him best when he’s being slapped around a bit, but I’m confident the new record will be up to standard. And at the moment I’m so in love that I’m going back tonight for second helpings.

I looked on the website when I got in after last night and there was literally ONE SEAT remaining. I said a prayer of thanks to God and the baby Jesus - the seat is so high up I’ll probably see them there - but watching Antony from up on high seems strangely fitting.

My Lady Story

2008-10-27T20:05:00.007Z

Phew, just about coming back down to earth after one of the best weekends ever.

It started off with the final VauxhallVille on Thursday, which was a strange feeling. Kind of like the end of school when it’s a little bit scary but you know it’s time to move on and feel excited about what might be coming in the future.

VauxhallVille has opened the doors to a world of opportunities I wouldn’t have had two years ago. It has allowed me the privilege of working with some amazing talent – not just the regular team of Nathan Evans, Bearlesque and Timberlina; but also guests such as Taylor Mac, Jonny Woo, Ida Barr, Lucifire ... the list is endless.

If it hadn’t been for Nathan encouraging me to learn how to run the sound and lighting, there would have been no Mister Sister, I wouldn’t be at Kunst and I wouldn’t be running detention for the next month and a bit at Topping and Butch’s School Gang – SCREAM!

And Kunst has totally been the weekend’s highlight. We had a fantastic crowd, top turns from Bourgeois and Maurice and Gypsy Wood, and I actually thought I might do a sick while we were waiting for Our Lady J to appear.

I had got there early to rig up pretty pink lights and I knew the keyboard and mic were working perfectly so there was really no need to worry, but when Dusty Limits stuck his head up in the DJ booth to shout, “They’re on their way”, my stomach suddenly started making like the middle of a one armed bandit - spin, spin, spin ... YIKES!

There was a palpable air of excitement as we’d been plugging her appearance through the evening, and finally that big blond mane appeared through the doorway. We whisked her backstage to get ready then she came out to sing three tracks – first Pink Prada Purse and then a Julie Andrews number as she revealed she’d had a childhood crush on her and used to make out with the picture on the back of the album sleeve. She also used to walk around the house speaking in an English accent to the bemusement of her mother.

I wish I could remember the title of the third track but the set was going down so well that by this time I was basking in the glow of triumph and perhaps even the teensiest bit emotional. She left the stage to tumultuous applause and cries for more, but classily refused to perform an encore.

I received endless thanks from people for booking her as everyone had fallen totally in love, she has *such* charisma - someone on Facebook commented they never seen a more photographed act at the Tavern, they were clicking away like no one’s business. MORE!!!

Justin Bond and Novice Theory had come along with her and I loved watching them later in the evening, freaking out to my music. It was the best night we’ve had at Kunst by a long chalk and Dusty Limits and I aren’t usually ones to blow our own trumpet, but after Friday - ROOT TOOT TOOT – we rule!!

The Money Shot

2008-10-20T22:20:00.003+01:00

I told you there was a better pic. Ain't we sweet?

With much thanks to Matin.

One Track Mind

2008-10-19T19:13:00.012+01:00

If you didn’t come here looking for yet another Justin Bond update then look away now. But then again, what the hell were you expecting?!

I’ve been back to Lustre twice since my last posting; the first was the press night on Tuesday which turned into a horribly drunken affair. All manner of London cabaret celebrity was in attendance – Ophelia Bitz, Ryan Styles, Dickie Beau, you name ‘em ... The aftershow was a heady mix of insincere air-kissing and glamour. I had a lovely chat with Our Lady J and I seem to remember we even held hands. Then I spoke to Bourgeois and Maurice and told them their song Dull People almost drove me to suicide – they were thrilled.

From being thrown out of the Soho Theatre at 1am, already somewhat troubled by alcohol, the entire party travelled, en mass, to the Green Carnation where we bullied poor Aubrey into giving us a private function room equipped with Jack Daniels, vodka and the tiniest smattering of mixers.

Needless to say the end is somewhat blurry, but I remember chatting with Geo, aka Novice Theory; music from Our Lady J and Justin; and an awful moment when a gatecrasher decided to perform a dreadful song for us and was accompanied by deathly silence and wall-to-wall looks of absolute horror.

The next day I woke somewhat bleary eyed and got a text from Dusty Limits to tell me he had the kind of hangover usually reserved for only the evilest of Nazis. It was here that I remembered it was true – I HAD FORCED HIM TO BOOK OUR LADY J FOR KUNST THIS FRIDAY!! So now she is the special late night guest headliner at our pre-Halloween party. Hurray!! I think I may possibly CHOKE with excitement. And take a look at this picture I stole of her from Facebook ... TOO FIERCE!!!

Yesterday I was back for my third night at Soho Theatre and was initially furious at being stood up by my “date” at the last minute. That didn’t last for long though as, hey bongo, in through the door trotted Antony Cotton - star of Coronation Street, Queer as Folk and my Justin-stalking trips to Manchester! We were soon reacquainted and chattering happily before moving upstairs for the show.

In the bar I spotted some chaps who looked familiar and it turns out they were from modern beat-pop combo The Feeling. By coincidence I sat next to them for the show and they loved it – especially Justin’s stories about Anne Frank and practicing witchcraft in Imagnens (sp?) in San Francisco. Didn’t get a chance to talk to them because straight after the show we were Duckie-bound for Justin's 3-song guest performance.

CRAWLED through the West End in a cab – me and Antony on the back seat – and arrived at the Tavern to find everyone on good spirits but the place was RAMMED. You couldn’t get a pin between ‘em throughout Justin’s set, which was fantastic, but I would be grateful in future if patrons could please note the following – do not push past me with drinks when I’m watching Justin; do not stumble into me on your way to the toilet; and above all do not gurn into my face and think I will be pleased to see you when your huge cranium is blocking my view of the stage. Honestly, he was only on for ten minutes!

From where I was stood I couldn’t see much of Lady J on the keyboard, just shocks of blond hair from round the side as she shook her head about and I started laughing as I realised one of the reviews I read was spot on – she really does behave like Rowlf from off the Muppets. Ha ha, bless her.

Justin was mostly busy with his flocks of admirers, but I managed to get some time to fawn over him. Here is a pic of us sharing a ‘tender’ moment, courtesy of Matin ... there should be a genuine one to follow.

Love and Lustre

2008-10-12T18:44:00.007+01:00

Hey everyone – Justin Bond is back in town. Hooray!

I took my first visit to his show Lustre at the Soho Theatre on Saturday. It was kind of killing me that it opened on Thursday and I had already missed two, so I arrived a full hour early to be on stalking duty and assemble my entourage at the head of the queue to be sure of a front row placement.

I wasn’t disappointed and found myself smack bang in the middle where I could feast my eyes unhindered on his curious range of, erm, revealing costumes - from a gown made of ribbons to a mesh wrap adorned with battered balloons that had a rather uncomfortable looking nipple poking through.

The show is a celebration of all things trans – kind of a pre-Christmas grotto for the gender dysphoric. It opens with subtle lighting and a chant as Justin and the very lovely Our Lady J take to the stage. I can’t remember what the first track was but I’m going back six more times so eventually it’ll register. I do know there were no Bambi Lake numbers (boo!) but there was the Benjamin Smoke stuff that I love so that made me very happy.

Along with gazing adoringly at Justin, I also got to swoon as Lady J sang her Pink Prada Purse song that I first heard at Queer Up North. I really must take a moment here to rhapsodize about Our Lady J – not only is she unfeasibly beautiful but also quite unreasonably talented. I mean come on – give us a break from having to be impressed would you? We’re only human!

I urge you to buy a copy of her EP – Live at the Knitting Factory – on the way out of the theatre. It includes a track called Picture of a Man, which is worthy of the praise I usually reserve only for Antony and the Johnsons when it comes to producing flawlessly perfect and wonderfully moving pieces of music - her voice just makes me MELT. Our Lady J should be made a huge international star IMMEDIATELY … although I kind of like it better that she’s just our little secret.

Elsewhere on the bill was another New Yorker, Novice Theory, who plays accordion and sings from up on the balcony. He will be appearing every evening and also has an EP for sale. I haven’t bought it yet but I have been listening to tracks on My Space and they are amazing – simple and stark but incredibly well-written. I look forward to hearing more.

The guest act on Saturday (and there will be a different one each night of the run) was Bourgeois and Maurice, who you will remember appeared at my short lived club night Mister Sister. They sang a song about stalking (did they know I was coming?) and picked on Toby to be the object of their affection. We all found this horribly amusing except, as you might imagine, for Toby, who lives in constant fear of audience participation – ha ha.

The show is on until 1 November so there’s really no excuse to miss it. I’ll be there on Tuesdays and Saturdays if you want the chance to sit near me – if you don’t AVOID!

Byrne Baby Byrne

2008-10-04T17:56:00.006+01:00

If I was forced at knife point to choose just ONE BAND that were my favourite band of all time, I would have to go with Talking Heads. They’ve never been my top fave at any given moment, that accolade has gone to such artists as Blondie, The Pretenders, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Prince, Pearl Jam (during my wilderness years) and yes, before one of you fuckers reminds me, ABBA. But Talking Heads have always been consistently in my top 5 since I was 15 and, probably because I’ve never quite played their albums to death like those above, I’ve never got tired of hearing them.

My infatuation with Tom Tom Club since the demise of Talking Heads has been well documented, but I’ve also remained a loyal fan of David Byrne and enjoyed following his career through its various incarnations. I particularly love the Rei Momo album which has Kirsty MacColl singing some fabulous backing vocals, DavidByrne is a firm favourite and I’ve even enjoyed some of his world music compilations.

I had a SCREAM moment years ago when he was performing at Shepherds Bush Empire and came into the Blockbuster store where I was working just around the corner. This is the single ONLY good thing that happened while I was working there, but you would have been impressed with the speed with which I sprinted across the shop floor and practically vaulted the counter to get to serve him. It had taken me a minute to realise that the man with the long black hair who looked a little bit like David Byrne actually WAS David Byrne and then ... yikes! I wanted to gush and babble and tell him how he was one of my biggest heroes but I was quieter back then and the words just echoed around my cranium, never making it as far as the lips. He was very polite though, as you would imagine, and I think I still have his signed American Express payment slip somewhere.

There was another SCREAM of a different variety when I decided to play his first Brian Eno collaboration, My Life in the Bush of Ghosts – a pretty terrifying album - when I was driving home late one evening. The lights had gone out on the dual carriageway I used to speed along to get home to Hounslow, and so I found myself hurtling into the pitch blackness with Jezebel Spirit, a song about exorcism, screaming “OUT JEZEBEL OUT. OUT. LET JESUS IN” at full volume. I was so scared I couldn’t even let go of the steering wheel to turn the cassette off, I didn’t need to backcomb my goth hair for weeks afterwards, it was permanently EEEEK!!!!

David kind of lost me for a while around the Grown Backwards era, I didn’t much like the album and I also seem to recall I tried to get an interview with him for Virgin but he said no. Bastard. Anyway, all is now forgiven and I’m pleased to say he is back with a new album - Everything That Happens Will Happen Today - which is another Brian Eno collaboration, and they're going to be playing the Festival Hall next April.

The album is GENIUS, superb vocally and a little bit Talking Heads in parts. You can listen to it FREE online using this nice little clicky thing, but I’m sure you’ll all be nice little art supporters and also buy a copy.

If you’re quick you might also be in time to get a seat for the London shows. I’m quite pleased with my ticket; it’s for the front row of the rear stall on this bit that’s kind of set apart from the rest of the audience. They’re a bit blummin pricey but as Brian Eno’s involved I’m hoping there will be some nice visuals.

I'm all EXCITED!!

Suffer Little Children

2008-09-29T15:17:00.004+01:00

Phew, I’m a bit knackered today having spent yesterday afternoon trolling round Vauxhall in the wake of an alcoholic tranny.

We were shooting with David Hoyle for a film clip to be used on the last night of VauxhallVille. Looking like a cross between a startled kestrel and a witch, he sashayed along Vauxhall Bridge, around the back of the Tavern to chat with the gurning punters and then over to meet the animals at the City Farm.

The bit on the bridge reminded me of Hallowe’en when you can go out dressed in the most outrageous outfit and people just WILL NOT look at you. Only a few startled tourists showed him any interest, the English people just stomped past with faces like thunder, huffing their disapproval. I liked it when he ran into a couple of young black women and told them he was off to do a reading at church before taking tea with the Archbishop of Canterbury. I don’t think they were sure if he was taking the piss or really was a bona fide nutter.

He was more warmly greeted, as you might imagine, on the grassy knoll to the rear of the Tavern, where sun worshipping clubbers were happy to chat between sips of Red Stripe, but for him the highlight was City Farm where he was immediately embraced by the children who volunteer to help out there at the weekend. They excitedly flocked round him, leading him to meet the pigs, goats, ferrets and horses, competing with each other to give him the most attention.

He talked later about how he enjoyed the fact that children are much more accepting than adults and how the judgementalism based on people’s appearance is something that seems to develop later in life. Now personally, if there’s one thing I hate more than children it’s precocious children - pint sized things with squeaky voices wittering on like 50-year-olds and far too comfortable in their own skin, I could have quite happily stamped on them … but I did see his point.

It reminded me of a clip from the Klaus Nomi documentary when someone talks about Klaus going to a garden party and because of his alien image no one would speak to him. Finally a young girl of six went up and asked him if he came from outer space, he replied that he did and the two of them sat and drank tea while the rest of the party carried on around them.

The results of our labours will be shown on at the final VauxhallVille on 23 October. If you’re one of those people who is always telling me, “ooh, I keep meaning to come to VauxhallVille,” then get a move on slowcoach – there’s only four more left.

Short Trip Down Memory Lane

2008-09-21T13:37:00.002+01:00

I was working at the Tavern last week and somebody requested the Revolting Cocks' version of Rod Stewart's Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?

I didn't have it with me, in fact I'd forgotten I even owned it, but yesterday I got it out for a quick listen.

I was hereby reminded that not only is it one of the finest cover versions of all time, but it came in a special little CD bag that looks like it's got wee in it.

I love the olden days.

*wipes away misty tear*

Desperate Living

2008-09-20T11:08:00.011+01:00

Why does everyone think I’m a drug addict? Yesterday I was skulking at my desk in the day job when everyone else was at a leaving drink at the pub (no, I never join them) when some geezer from the next office came in...

Checking round to make sure that no one else would overhear him, he started asking me where he could score drugs in Vauxhall. Apparently he was in Area at the weekend and the prices “on the floor” were too expensive. As I’m a DJ he assumed I must be down with all the dealers. I don’t know a single one of them! I’ve never taken a substance that can’t be bought at the local chemists in my lifetime, as Jonny Woo once said – don’t do drugs, do DRAG!

Tut – honestly!

By coincidence, a drug reference was my favourite laugh out loud moment at John Waters’ show at Hammersmith on Thursday. “Ecstasy is a drug that makes you like everybody?” he questioned. “That sounds like my idea of HELL.”

I ruddy loved being so close to John Waters - he's one of my few still-living idols that I hadn't yet had the opportunity to witness.
The show was like some kind of gay pilgrimage; trundling across the street from the tube station were all manner of freaks, weirdos and batty boys - or, as I prefer to call them, my people – and why the hell not, he is trash royalty!

John’s delivery is kind of like machine gun fire, there’s no wandering round the stage um-ing and ah-ing and pausing for breath, from the second he walked on stage he launched straight into a dialogue about how he’d accepted the engagement by wondering, “What would the Lunts do?” From then he talked about his experiences in Baltimore ... shop lifting ... anecdotes about Divine ... his film making career. A lot of it was familiar from the This Filthy World DVD, but it didn’t matter that I’d heard it before, I was in the presence of JOHN WATERS!!

I particularly love his bit about bears and isn’t it bad enough you’ve told your parents that you're gay, you don’t have to go back and tell them you’re a bear to compound the issue. Oh, and his bit about gay marriage and how he’d always considered it one of the privileges of being gay that you didn’t have to do all that shit. I’d love to see him and Penny Arcade in a head-to-head, that would be flippin HILARIOUS!

Less amusing was the Q and A that came directly after the main performance. The general public are largely undeserving of an audience, and this was no exception. “Have you ever met Charles Manson?” they gushed ... “Have you ever met John Wayne Gacy?” For God’s sakes. I enjoyed his response to a sad sap who asked if he could hug him – a firm, “NO, I don’t even hug the people I care about” – but really, who allows these people oxygen?

Even among my kind of people, there are assholes.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2008-09-15T21:12:00.007+01:00

I had a bit of a sulk on in July because I failed to score tickets for Monkey: Journey to the West at the Royal Opera House. I’m kind of glad I didn’t now though cos it’s coming back, and even though it’s going to be at the smelly old O2 they are building a special Monkey World theatre tent to stage it. Designed by the Monkey team, it will have its own bar and restaurant and even a Chinese foot massage parlour. I am literally cock-a-hoop with excitement.

Monkey, is case you’ve been, like, living under a stone, is the opera creation of Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett, the people behind Gorillaz. I was never a fan of Blur but Gorillaz are GENIUS, especially the second album which is a work of sheer beauty. Dirty Harry - YOW!! In fact, anything that can make me happy to listen to a choir of children is beyond genuis, it's achieving the unthinkable! But anyway, back to the opera ...

It’s based on a 16th century Chinese fable about spiritual change and growth.

“In a mythical time, on the Mountain of Flower and Fruit, Monkey was hatched from a stone egg. So begins the tale of the Monkey King, our headstrong, self-important hero. After crossing the all-powerful Buddha, Monkey is given the opportunity to redeem himself by travelling to India with the young monk Tripitaka to bring the Holy Scriptures back to China.”

The performance features 40 Chinese acrobats and is like an enormous circus with aerialists, dancers, singers, amazing costumes, video and animation.

Just look at all the fabulous things that happen!

I’ll be all eyes-agog and jaws wide open and COOOO.

To delight myself even further I think I’m going to travel there on a Thames Clipper ship. I just don’t know when to stop myself, do I?!

So One Dimensional

2008-09-05T12:35:00.003+01:00

Well I mentioned I had been writing an article for Boyz and now you can totally read it. It’s on page 8 of the magazine or you can view it online if you must.

You’ll drop down dead with shock when I tell you the subject - it’s all about Justin Bond! I know, typecasting myself or what? But if you look closer you’ll note that it’s not really all about Justin, it’s all about ME, which is surely more entertaining.

Reminds me of the opening line of his show last night at Bistrotheque, which went something like, “I read the story of narcissus and found it really dull, not nearly as interesting as the story of my life.”

I’m thrilled with the way the article turned out, but I was a little taken aback by the accompanying illustration. Who knew that beneath my flawless visage lay a really ugly cartoon just waiting to get out? I mean, look at me!

At least Justin has a jaw line, I look like I was drawn by someone with Parkinson’s Disease!

Ha ha, I don’t mind really, but it was a bit of a bolt from the blue. Dusty Limits asked, “What next, the Dawn Right Nasty action figure?” I am in negotiation with Mattel as I type ...

No Evil

2008-08-30T16:15:00.008+01:00

I know dears, I know, it’s appalling the length of time since I’ve been on here. I’m so ashamed I can barely look in the mirror. Will it help if I say I haven’t been idle? I’ve been working on getting fit again, writing an article for Boyz (should be in this week’s edition – a FULL PAGE, if you please) and organising a fabulous show at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Me, pulling off a successful club night, can you imagine? What was I thinking?!

Most of the credit goes to the act I booked – David Benson with this marvellous show Think No Evil Of Us. I was just smart enough to realise it would work (pats self on back) and persuade other people to take the chance.

The show is part autobiographical and part David impersonating Kenneth Williams, you can read my review of when I first saw it at Bloomsbury Theatre two years ago. Parts of the text have always stayed with me and I thought it would be great to see it again in the intimate surrounds of the Tavern.

Thanks to the gift of Facebook we had booked half the space up before the doors even opened. The show was so powerful that, far from the rowdiness of the RVT’s two main busy nights – Duckie and SLAGS on Sunday – you could have heard a pin drop throughout the performance as everyone remained engrossed in the story.

I was DJing before, during and after the show and was slightly nervous because my old friend Mark Wood, an actual famous DJ from Readers Wifes was in the house (he's the blond one), and I got even more spooked when I looked across the room and saw Princess Julia. SCREAM!

The weird thing with Mark being there was that if I hadn’t met him all those years ago when I worked at Virgin, I might not be doing all this. He was the one who introduced me to the Retro Bar and Duckie and a whole new scene that I didn’t even know existed.

God knows why I had been too gormless to find it for myself, but there you have it. I can’t really remember what I used to do about 10 years ago. I think I just stayed at home and watched telly. I know I was constantly BORED.

Then it was two of the Readers Wifes pop group who persuaded me to have a go at DJing, something I’d never considered previously, and the rest, as they say, is history.

It’s weird to think that one person can have such a powerful effect on your destiny, and even though working at Virgin led to me being made redundant and later facing near bankruptcy, I’m still glad I did it to have made such a good friend and had the course of my life altered.

I dread to think would have become of me otherwise.

Hoops Upside Your Head

2008-08-16T14:59:00.001+01:00

Hey kids, have you heard about the new craze that's sweepin' across town? Hula Hooping is BACK and EVERYONE is doin’ it ... well, um, that is to say, Toby got a Hula Hoop and I decided to copy him.

This morning I took receipt of what I can only describe as an enormous ring – fucking massive in fact, and much to the amusement of the postman. “Is it for dogs to jump through?” he asked me when I went to collect it from the Post Office. Hmm ... that sounded better than, “I’m going to swing it around in the sitting room and try not to bruise my kneecaps”, but I opted for a quick, “erm, no, I work in a theatre,” before heading sharply for the door.

Half an hour to rid the bugger of its four-deep layer of cellophane wrapping once I got it home and now, of course, I discover I can’t hula for toffee! I think 10 seconds is my new world record, I don’t think I’ll be making it to the 2012 Olympics.

What do you reckon ... ?

All the Fun of the Fair

2008-08-11T00:47:00.005+01:00

With the day job threatening to drain me of the last remaining millilitres of my will to live, I am glad to have had a lively weekend of cabaret activity to act as hedonistic CPR and encourage my heart to carry on beating.

I can’t complain that this weekend was lacking in variety. It all started off on Thursday when I worked at Glitterous at the RVT - a new night hosted by Zak Black and my tranny de jour, Miss Kimberley. There was music, dancing, speciality acts ... and despite a slightly cunty crowd (posh people who drink champagne and then talk through the acts) it all went down pretty well.

Zak and Miss Kimberley put in great musical performances – the latter proving she’s not just a pretty face, she can also bang out a mean Billie Holiday number. There was a fab stilt walker / angle grinder / fire breather who breathed so much fire we had to send her outside or the whole place would have been turned to cinders, and my personal favourite - a fierce drag queen called Flame (who I’ve so far been unable to find online – boo!) who strutted and lip-synched to Whitney Houston and Lonnie Gordon. He reminded me a bit of my San Franciscan idol, Kiddie – the same sturdy male build with strong androgynous features. I gave him lots of extra lights and dry ice to make him look ultra fabby - I hope he comes back again soon.

They had told me there would be TV cameras at the show so had dyed my roots in preparation. This turned out to be a BIG FAT LIE, but I need to look my best for my next two appointments, the first of which was another Wizard of Oz night at the Royal Festival Hall.

This week Dickie Beau was left in charge of running the show and had assembled a cast of friends to appear with him. I loved Ingenue St John - a New York queen who performed to Rihanna’s Good Girl Gone Bad, and A Man Da Pet driving round the auditorium in full drag in a motorised wheelchair throughout the interval was inspired, but some of the rest of it was a little bit shaky. Lisa Lee and Lavinia Co-op weren’t really able to show off their talents as the scarecrow and tin man, and I obviously don’t “get” Nando Messiah who I haven’t liked on any occasion I’ve seen him performing.

Quite rightly Dickie was the highlight of the evening, turning in a couple of amazing performances in his psycho Judy Garland drag. The show climaxed with his superb Blackout - a lip-synch to Judy Garland talking about her life. It starts off chatty and self-deprecating then ends up manic with her ranting about the way the public has treated her as she falls of her chair and spits blood. It’s a mind-blowing performance that had me in tears the first time I saw it, and even had me a bit wobbly on this fourth occasion.

You might think that had been enough excitement but no, the best was yet to happen! On Saturday I went to the Miss Behave Variety Nighty at Roundhouse which, aside from giving you a crick in the neck from watching the aerialists, is a work of sheer ruddy brilliance.

The Roundhouse is the perfect venue for this mixture of old-time cabaret and circus. There was sword swallowing and weird tongue-twisty-ness from Miss Behave, music from Dusty Limits and Frank Sanazi, fire from Lucifire … and those weren’t even the best bits! There was a groovy hula-hooper, a buff young trapeze artist, a superbly pretentious young hoop aerialist by the name of Bret Pfister, and I think my favourite of all was a tiny woman called Marjo Nantel who did aerial stuff using ribbons. I’d never seen this kind of act before and I can’t believe that somebody would be content to hang upside down held only by two lengths of fabric wrapped round their ankles, much less flip themselves back up and then do the splits in mid-air. YIKES! It gives me the heebie geebies just thinking about it.

I urge you to get tickets before the end of the season. As the straight couple I heard on the way to the toilets were moved to comment, “Well, it’s certainly different.”

Culture and Cunts

2008-08-04T23:14:00.014+01:00

On Friday evening Toblarina and I went to the Psycho Buildings exhibition at the Hayward Gallery. It’s a collection of works where artists have created habitat-like structures, most of which you can actually climb into. I like huge installations that you can become a part of rather than just staring at a canvas on a wall.

The first exhibit was made out a sheer fabric a bit like nylon tights, and even though we got shouted at for touching the cloth (lighten up!) we were still proud that we managed to identify all the major components of the piece – there were tits that smelled of pepper, a clove “love” (read boy’s tinkle), stone lips and a fog-like roof area that was vaguely shaped like a frog.

After that we went round the corner to a big metal tunnel that you could walk through and halfway across, if you looked up, you could see a blinding light through a gap at the top. Of course we then ran upstairs like excited children to look down through the gap and wave, but nobody waved back at us, so that was a little disappointing.

My favourite bit was a room filled with 250 dolls houses, it seemed very isolated and had a very tranquil feel, but this leads me on to one of the two things I hate about the Hayward – they never quite do things properly. If this had been one of the top galleries in America then the room would have been isolated from the rest of the exhibition, huge black curtains would have hung over the exit to block out external light and noise so that you could go into the room and completely immerse yourself in the experience, but here you could still see people wandering by and were distracted from the drama of the piece by sound of their inane prattle.

The other thing I don’t like is their exhibits will usually have one main centrepiece, but to take part in it will require a good half hour of queuing. Thus, although we were able to get into the huge transparent dome that has been built on the roof of the building and feels like being trapped inside a giant beach ball, we didn’t get to go on the mini row boats on the other side as the queues were just too damn long and waiting would have put me in too bad a mood to enjoy it. Surely it couldn’t be too hard for them to adopt some kind of time-slot thing so that everybody gets a go, even if they are chronically impatient.

Anyway, our heads full of culture, we then made our way to the Clore Ballroom in the Festival Hall to await the arrival of David Hoyle and guests for their evening as part of the Wizard of Oz season. Nathan Evans introduced the show and warned the people who had just wandered out of the musical, perhaps with wee kiddies in tow, that, um, something naughty might be about to happen.

He placed an egg timer on the stage to allow those of a nervous disposition to leave the room and for the time being David was contained behind a camera - his image being projected onto a huge canvas in the role of Oz, the all seeing, all hearing and rather bad tempered ruler of the kingdom. Fred Bear, Fancy Chance, Thom Shaw and Dickie Beau appeared as the tin man, lion, scarecrow and what have you, as Oz bellowed at them looking nasty and green and menacing.

Just as the last grains of sand were draining away, David emerged in bowler hat and fright make-up to launch into his usual tirades and assaults on the senses of the audience. I doubt very much that the chambers of the Royal Festival Hall have echoed so much with the word “cunt” in their entire existence. The inappropriate nature of the venue just made it all the more amusing and really, who has the right to claim they are offended anyway? It’s not like we complain if they want to listen to classical music that we find boring.

So there were celebrations of “queer” and spirited social observations in among the occasional return to the Oz theme. David sang a song, threw interpretive dance shapes and then he and his assembled cast covered each other in paint and ran off outside to the fountains. I wish I had followed to see the faces on the passing tourists – a mad Northerner in green make-up, a tiny girl with tattoos and her tits out, a bear and a couple of fairies all screaming and running through the water.

And people say the British are too reserved.

Lazy Fat Cow

2008-07-29T23:27:00.003+01:00

If there’s one thing this cycling lark is teaching me, it’s how desperately and UNUTTERABLY unfit I am. I didn’t manage to acquire a bike until this Saturday, for reasons I won’t bother to go into, so I’ve only been out on it three times and each time I have found myself DYING. It’s not lack of strength, it’s the complete absence of any form of stamina.

I’ve been going to the gym regularly for about 7 years but whereas at the start I did lots of different activities – step, circuit training, yoga, weights – over the years the variety has dropped off and my cardio efforts have become nothing more than a token gesture. Ten minutes on the cross trainer? Yeah, that’ll do, I’ll bugger off and spend an hour in the resistance room now.

So I have a fair amount of muscle, but lungs like yesterday’s tea bags – watery brown, squashed up, limp and disregarded. I was hoping to find myself whizzing around the park by now but I’m having to confine my trips to the evening so as to not be overtaken by three-year-olds on plastic tricycles, their little confused faces looking up at the red-faced, panting sweaty woman crawling along next to them, muttering words that daddy says they can’t repeat at kindergarten.

Tonight I made a breakthrough by cycling to the gym, the door staff looked most impressed to see me turn up, bike in tow and already bearing a healthy glow before my workout. I just hope they don’t check my membership too closely and realise that I live only TWO STREETS AWAY!

Part of the problem is that Crystal Palace is so damn hilly. Obviously I was aware of the big ones, but I hadn’t quite noticed that pretty much everywhere is either slightly uphill or slightly downhill, so it’s either too much effort or none at all. I thought I’d found a nice big flat car park where I could do circuits, but tonight there were a few cars parked bearing amorous couples and I didn’t want to be mistaken for a dogger.

Still, I’ve got to stick with it, I’ve been shamed by older people with far more energy over the weekend – firstly the game old birds in the B52s, then on Friday night at Kunst a guest singer who must have been pushing 60 but stayed up on the dance floor all evening without showing the slightest sign of fatigue. I envied her staying power while Dusty Limits stood lusting at the twenty-something toy boy she had in tow who was probably wondering if even he could keep up.

It’s easy to make the excuse of being over 40 but really, it’s far too early to sit back and think, “that’s me done.” I’ve probably still got a few miles on the clock and I don’t think I could sustain my lifestyle on a disability pension. It’s time to sort me flippin life out.

Here Comes a Bikini Whale

2008-07-25T16:57:00.002+01:00

Took a couple of days off work this week to celebrate the fact that the B52s were in town. So then what did I do? Drank a stupid combination of alcohol at Trannyshack on Wednesday night and completely fucked myself up, that’s what. I am an IDIOT. So rather than spend Thursday planning an outfit I lay in bed whimpering and wishing the grim reaper would take me, then practically crawled to the gig choking on a mixture of self-loathing and self pity.

Still, I truly enjoyed the show because really, how could anyone NOT enjoy a B52s show? It’s a dazzling spectacle of colour, kitsch and camp with fabulous party tunes and some of the smartest, wittiest lyrics.

My eyes seldom strayed away from Kate Pierson who is quite possibly the coolest man, woman, animal or bird like EVER, and who didn’t stand still for a single second. The half-ton of red hair on her head GLOWED as she pumped her arms and moved from one side of the stage to the other. I simply cannot believe she is sixty years old, I haven’t had that amount of energy since I was about 10.

The set was a mixture of old and new, with the older tracks predictably getting the best responses. I loved Give Me Back My Man, Love Shack, Rock Lobster, Channel Z and most of all Strobe Light and Planet Claire. I still adore those beautiful noises Kate makes at the beginning of Planet Claire that sounds like they’re straight out of the intro for a dodgy sci-fi B movie. They make me come over all unnecessary.

The set was complemented perfectly by an amazing light show throwing kaleidoscopic shapes up at the back wall that twirled and bounced reflections across the stage, the ideal backdrop for the circus-like interior of the Roundhouse. It was an evening of near perfection.

Think Once, Think Twice, Think BIKE

2008-07-19T16:30:00.010+01:00

I forgot to mention that the thing that drove me crazy in Munich last weekend was blummin cycle lanes EVERYWHERE. The outside half of pretty much every walkway is allocated to bikes and I was forever wandering into them and getting shouted at. In the end I had to walk round mentally repeating “don’t go in the cycle lane, don’t go in the cycle lane” continuously, because the second my mind wandered then so would my feet and I’d be back walking in the wretched things again.

I was so furious and exasperated by the end of it that I vowed on my return home I would write to Boris Johnson, Gordon Brown and all manner of politicians that I’ve never even heard of and beg, nay DEMAND, that they didn’t see fit to adopt the same practice in London, it makes going for an afternoon stroll so stressful.

Today, in a remarkable turnaround of opinion, I went out and bought a bike. This was prompted by one of the other legacies I brought back with me from Munich - the shock sight of myself naked in an unpleasantly lit full-length mirror in my hotel bathroom. It wasn’t that I held any illusion of myself as being the body beautiful, but I had no idea I had a stomach that actually DROOPS. After a short-lived resolution that I would pay a visit to a dietician, I instead decided to embark on a programme of increased exercise.

The bike is to be collected tomorrow after it has been through its Halfords’ safety to check to make sure it is fit for human habitation. I admit that I’m nervous as – and I can’t quite believe I’m old enough to type this, but – I’ve haven’t ridden a bike in over TWENTY FIVE YEARS! There’s the old adage that you never forget so I’m hoping that’s reality. I really don’t want the indignity of having to go back and enquire after adult stabilisers.

I had a quick sit on it in the shop as I wanted to make sure the saddle would be comfortable on my delicate bumhole, and there was a certain familiarity. I’m trying to think of a good place to practice, there’s the car park outside my flat but the neighbours can witness my humiliation, or there’s a quiet road near the sports centre but then it’s further to limp home if I sustain an injury (makes mental shopping list – PLASTERS!).

So at the moment I’m sat wistfully with my ridiculous new cycling helmet and a bike lock. I only plan to do circuits of the park for the time being so I’m not entirely sure these items are necessary, but it’s good to be prepared and I didn’t want to come back from the shop empty handed.

By this time next year I shall surely be ready for the Tour de France!

Drowning in Munich

2008-07-13T17:18:00.010+01:00

Well I had quite an adventure in Munchen, thanks for asking, though unfortunately not all of it good. For a start off my plane was dramatically CANCELLED, meaning I had to catch one a full 2 HOURS later that was going via GENEVA. I have never considered visiting Switzerland in my lifetime, and who knew I was going to wind up there on Friday? Still, it’s a very nice airport to spend an hour and I love how these places live up to their stereotype - the retail area is veritable cornucopia of watches, chocolate and a few cheeses. Sadly no snowstorms of the Alps were available.

So finally I got a connection and made it to Munich. Checked into my hotel just ONE HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES before the Big Art Group’s show was due to start - FULL STRESS MODE had now been achieved with sweat springing out of my face at great speed. I must have looked like that old Spitting Image puppet of Gazza when he was crying.

CALM DOWN, I told myself. 45 mins to have a shower and apply fresh make-up, I can still easily make it. So ... I had just finished applying a perfect line of liquid eye liner when CRACK BANG PSSHHHHHTTTTT – a thunder storm from hell proceeded.

Went outside to face a TORRENTIAL downpour with blinding lightning flashes but thankfully before I got too drenched I came across a fantastic taxi driver, he took me RIGHT TO THE DOOR of the venue even though it’s forbidden to drive that close and security where banging on the windows and shouting rude words at him in German. Ha ha - what a star!

So anyway now, GOOD STUFF, GOOD STUFF, GOOD STUFF – The Big Art Group’s show was AMAZING! The audience is basically contained in the centre of a huge installation – there’s action happening on stage and giant projections on all four walls of the room.

A group of crazy people in fishnet masks and mad wigs act out a story with some of the stuff being projected in real time onto the screens. From raised pillars on either side of the stage Nath-Ann Carrera and another guy go-go dance and get to wear the fiercest outfits – shorts and tops made entirely from mirrors that beam points of light out across the crowd; also dog masks and beautiful capes in purple and gold with big gold pointy cod-pieces.

I didn’t really pay too much attention to following the storyline, I was too busy enjoying the spectacle. It’s about a girl called Alice, played by the fabulous Theo Kogan, ex of Lunachicks, who is living out her dreams of becoming a star, Justin Bond is kind of her accomplice. They sing songs at centre stage and the drama kind of circulates around them.

Along the way there is some stuff about fisting and video projections of a hairy drag queen shoving his hands deep down between his thighs and bringing them out covered in what one can only hope is chocolate; confetti falls down from the sky, there’s loud music, bright lights and a great feeling of being uplifted. No sooner had the show finished when I wanted to see it again as there was so much to take in that you couldn’t possibly digest it all in one sitting.

Afterwards Justin introduced me to some of the very friendly cast and sat around chatting and drinking. I’d like to fill you in on the conversation but I was drinking Wild Turkey on an empty stomach so the finer points of the later evening are lost. I think Justin decided to write my obituary or something, anyway, we had a cool evening - it was a laugh!

Next day I took a trip to the town centre – Marienplatz – to check out the sights. Saw some nice fountains and waterfalls (they seem to like them there) and some v. poor drag queens on a stage they had erected for Munich Pride. Beer Gardens EVERYWHERE, I’ve never seen so much of the stuff. These people must be permanently sozzled, perhaps it’s a response to the weather as about 2 hours in it once again started pissing down and I felt so ill and wretched and I just wanted to be made to feel happy.

I went and joined Justin and Nath-Ann for lunch because I thought the only thing that would cheer me up was to see that beautiful face. The magic of Munich just wasn’t happening, I didn’t see much of the town but what I did see didn’t really inspire me. We went for a walk along the river which was nice but by then I was unfeasibly tired.

We were all booked onto the same flight back, which thankfully passed without incident, and I was so glad to be back in London. Justin said it might have been the last the Big Art Group perform that particular show and it was magnificent so I’m really glad I made the trip in time to see it but really, airline shenanigans and vicious weather – BOO!!

It wasn’t quite the dream weekend I had expected.

Weekend of Magical Stalking

2008-07-07T23:21:00.011+01:00

Highlights of this weekend – trendy cabaret, plate smashing and chilling out with hippies at Oval.

Justin Bond was in town so it was best-stalking-foot-forward and my first port of call was Bistrotheque on Friday. Justin was performing there for two nights but I could only go to one so, needless to say, I was in a slight panic - I had to arrive super-early to grab the seat allocation man and secure myself privilege booking.

Do you think an hour and a half was a little excessive? Well, who cares, because I was delighted to be rewarded with the FRONT ROW CENTRE table. Justin was performing literally INCHES in front of me and at one point I was sure I could even smell him.

It was a fabulous show of old favourites – Bambi Lake numbers, Low Spark of High Heeled Boys and Benjamin Smoke’s Clean White Bed (hoorah!) – plus some new original songs that he wrote while getting back to nature at fairy camp. Taylor Mac apparently inspired his new confidence in song writing by telling him it’s easy – all you have to do is write a monologue and then stick a few chords behind it.

He looked radiant and quite rightly won the hearts of the assembled crowd, which was kind of a who’s who of London minor celebrity – Jonny Woo, Bourgeois and Maurice, Ryan Styles, Ophelia Bitz – also Brendan Courtney who I’ve known for ages but only recently realised is from the Clothes Show. Needless to say, there was schmoosing to be done and cheeks to air kiss and I went off home full of joy and jubilation.

On Saturday I took a few hours out from Bond-chasing to go to Pride. Toby and I watched the march from outside Debenhams (we seem to be moving down market – last year it was John Lewis but, thanks to the credit crunch, next year it will probably be Primark). To be honest it was a bit over long and lacking in floats of any great interest. I still took a load of pictures but I can’t let you look at them yet, because I haven’t got to talking about Gay Shame or Queerbash.

So, good things about Gay Shame:

Bearlesque – especially their dance with lights and neon tubing to Smack My Bitch Up
The Readers Wifes’ set
The trans man / drag king Truck Stop.

The bad things? Um ... pretty much everything else really, I hated it. Too hot, too packed, too expensive and too plain ugly. Thirty minute queues for the bar? Give me a break. Plus I kept missing Justin because you didn’t know what was happening from one floor to the other. Grr.

Still, there was one glorious highlight – the Anger Management Booth. Was there ever a sideshow made that would suit me better? You were given two clay balls and a plate, you wrote the name of someone you hate on the plate, hung it on the wall and then threw your balls at it. Fabulous!

My choice of name was rather unoriginal – “mum” – but oh the joy when it came down-a-crashing. In fact I was so euphoric I went a step further and jumped on it, little shards of anger firing off in every direction. It was delicious. I still had one ball left and somebody had left a plate there labelled “dad” well, it only seemed fair, so I also gave that one a good walloping.

Resisting the urge to go back for another session I caught Justin’s last number, 22nd Century. He sang it from on top of some scaffolding, stamping his feet on the rather unstable looking wooden flooring. I was moved to point out to him that I had just run into his boyfriend Nath-Ann who covered me in glitter, and now here was Justin covering me in SAWDUST. How we laughed. I gave up after that and went home.

The next day was an altogether more successful excursion – Queerbash, an independently produced, DIY event that was like taking a trip back to the 80s. It was held at the Synergy Centre in Oval, a curious little place on a backstreet that’s kind of like the Drill Hall used to be before it went a bit up-market. Entry is by donation and there’s a nice little cafe selling worthwhile drinks with no nasty additives, there’s lots of art and leaflets and signs of some unmittigated do-gooding. It smells of wholesomeness and josticks and I have to say, I quite liked it.

Justin and Nath-Ann were billed to be playing from 4.15 til 5.15, I knew there wasn’t a cat’s chance in hell of that happening and they finally turned up about 5.30. They did a few acoustic numbers at about 6 and then we sat around chatting and watching the other performers – some talented young bands singing quirky songs with political and social messages and a crazy drag queen called Infidel Castro. The bands restored my faith in the young as it was good to see there are still discontented youths who are trying to change the system, not just the ones we see in the media buying Wiis and doing "binge drinking". I think being idealistic is a good way to be when you’re young – where else are tomorrow’s cynics and fascists going to come from?

Anyway, for their second set Nath-Ann did a great solo piece that was originally by a band called The Coven, it was all about scary witches and Justin and I chuckled it was like the Retro Bar set to music. Justin then joined him to do some previously unrehearsed collaborations including, again, that amazing Benjamin Smoke song and other highlights from his Bistrotheque selection.

It was the perfect relaxed Sunday evening and ... oh, wait, what was that? Shut up and show us the Pride photos? *sigh* ... here you are then.

Sparks

2008-06-30T15:24:00.006+01:00

We had an angle grinder on at Kabarett this Friday. I had never seen this act performed before but now I’m hooked – MORE ANGLE GRINDING PLEASE!

It’s kind of like a human firework show but you don’t get neck ache from having to look up at the sky and you don’t have to listen to other people going “whooooo!”

Basically it involves someone wearing a pair of metal pants and sawing away at them with a grinding tool so lots of little sparks fly out. By altering your body position and the angle of the tool you can cause the sparks to fly in different directions and the result is totally fierce.

I started off grinning maniacally and by the end I was almost in tears with the sheer beauty of the performance – I even decided I’d quite like to have a go.

Dusty Limits, who knows about these things, has assured me that “it’s easy”, but I’m not quite so convinced. I like that it’s something you can do without having to take your clothes off, though you’d have to wear flame retardant togs otherwise you’d set yourself on fire and end up looking a right pillock.

I’ll probably never find the courage to try it out myself but have dispatched Dusty to see if he can arrange a little treat for me and have Lucifire come and do some when Kabarett relaunches next month as KUNST.

We are very proud of our new name … it makes us giggle like silly school kids.

Look Mum, I'm in Boyz!

2008-06-28T13:35:00.002+01:00

I could show this to my mum but she wouldn't be terribly impressed, so I'm going to show you lot instead. Please just humour my inner child for a moment ...

Knock Me Down With A Feather

2008-06-25T23:20:00.001+01:00

Excuse me while I wipe a tear from my eye. It appears the public at large has just woken up to the fact that the country is still rife with homophobia. Well, I ask you! Who knew?!!

Such a sorry reflection of the nation that it’s been an advert for Heinz that has brought about this shock discovery – they blow up our pubs, kill people on Clapham Common … nope, doesn’t register. But stop us from advertising deli-style mayonnaise and it’s all oooohhhhh, we’re not having that are we? Bitches! It’s even made the front cover of the Metro today – remarkable!

You can read what Dickie Beau had to say about the advert cos he’s said it better than I could. I don’t doubt for one minute it’s a calculated move by the advertisers, it seems highly unlikely that they were trying to seduce the gay market, especially as the guys in the clip aren’t even homos. It’s hard to see what people were even complaining about since it’s just “mum” being replaced by a New York Deli Chef. Though I quite like the “straight home sweet cheeks” line, that’s mildly camp.

So now the gayers are threatening to boycott Heinz products – nice bit of drama – though personally I couldn’t be arsed about the sales figures of Heinz products, if it shakes the gay world up and makes it a little less complacent then it’s all for the better.

I’ll see you at the Pride march next Saturday.

Time to Bounce

2008-06-22T21:53:00.004+01:00

Kind of annoying isn’t it when you’ve waited for something and waited for something and waited for something …drumming your fingers and ticking off the days on the calendar … finally it comes along and then WHOOSH - it flies by so fast it’s no sooner started than you find yourself whip lashed and revolving unsteadily from the velocity of its passing.

I’ve waited almost five years to see Tom Tom Club again since they last played in London, then on Friday night there they were - with a whoop, a holler and a funky bassline - live on stage at the Festival Hall as part of Meltdown.

The set opened, as it often does, with a stretched out mix of Suboceana – delicious, dark beats flowing over the heads of the auditorium while the band gazed out smiling happily at the attendant crowd. Immediately I wanted to be up and jiggin but sadly, while the Festival Hall brings a great sound system, impressive lighting rig and enormous stage, it also has that irritatingly oppressive atmosphere, so we all remained seated, grooving quietly from our chairs.

Next up was Punk Lolita from The Heads album No Talking Just Head, then later Man With The Four Way Hips, She’s Dangerous, Genius of Love, Wordy Rappinghood … none of them seeming to have aged by a second.

Mystic Bowie was in full effect at centre stage, dreadlocks flicking and leather-clad hips shaking. To his left, my once-crush Victoria was fierce in a skimpy blue mini dress providing backing vocals and tambourine.

Right in front of me, by luck of ticket purchase, was the divine Tina Weymouth, working the neck of her bass like it was a instrument of pure pleasure – this is all the more impressive as it’s almost as big as she is.

Exactly one hour of performance and it was over – gone, and we still hadn’t had a proper boogie. We were just about to leave but then, oh wait, here comes Mystic Bowie. He asked if he wanted one more and the cheers of assertion were deafening. This time there was to be no denial – we were ‘avin’a dance! Me and another guy shuffled forward and what to you know, immediately a huge group descended, if only we’d taken the initiative earlier. I was rewarded for my “bravery” by a huge smile from Tina, a smile and wink from Chris and a cheery nod from Victoria. As you can imagine, I was now awash with excitement.

They played a superb version of Take Me to the River (always one of my faves) and then it really was goodbye time. Gutted!

The following morning I met Chris and Tina for breakfast at their hotel where a small group of friends and admirers were gathered. Had a hug from Tina, who is so tiny she feels like a delicate baby rabbit, and chatted with Chris about music and what’s he’s been up to lately. He’s very into The Ting-Tings, but I told him to check out Hercules and Love Affair. He also talked, like the first time I met him, of the work he and Tina did with Happy Mondays and how they had no idea of the band’s drug fueled reputation before finding themselves locked in a studio with them. That always makes me smile.

The following are a couple of blasts from my Tom Tom Club past ...

Me and Mystic Bowie at Chris and Tina's house in Connecticut, October 2001 (this pic adorns the entrance hall at Right Nasty Mansions)

Me and Victoria Clamp at Electric Ballroom, Camden, April 2001 (pic: Gillian / Agnetha)

Hopefully they'll be back next summer.

Bound for Mu Mu Land

2008-06-18T23:18:00.012+01:00

I’ve given in to temptation and booked a weekend away in Munich to see The Big Art Group.

Things I can tell you about the Big Art Group = not very many. They’re a collection of New York creatives who use film, music, performance, colour and bizarre imagery to build works that have been called, according to their website:

“hypnotic, disturbing, anxiety-inducing”
“visually and sonically ravishing...leaving you rattled, amazed and perhaps a little queasy”.

Sounds right up my Strasse (see what I did there?)

The company uses a changing cast and the show I’m seeing – Cinema Fury: The Imitation – includes one of the Toilet Boys, a Lunachick and ... yes, you knew this bit was coming ... one Justin Bond.

I love seeing him do different things so I’m literally chomping at the bit over this show. It’s described at the group’s "love letter" to New York - telling a story of surrender, transgression and chaos. Lord only knows what that entails but it sounds horribly exciting.

There’s a few examples of the group’s work on You Tube, one of my favourites is a trio of clips by Rob Roth. I don’t think he’s involved in the performance I'm seeing but I’d love if he was. Rob used to sing with Debbie Harry and I met him once in New York round at Sammy Jo’s place – he burst through the door and threatened to kill me with a plastic devil fork, I’ve held a curious affection for him ever since.

His little clips are text and audio films of personal ads from people who want to kill or be eaten. Better not watch with the lights out – IT'S SCARY!!

It's Good to Stalk

2008-06-15T11:39:00.005+01:00

Unmitigated excitement when fresh blood showed up on my stalk-o-meter this weekend, prepare the fanfares as Chi Chi LaRue is in town!

Chi Chi is a fierce drag queen and porn producer and is in London to appear at Hustlaball, the rude one-off club night at Area. Before that, on Friday, she stopped off to do a meet n greet at, where else than, the porno section at Prowler.

I was expecting to have to fight through crowds but when I got there the shop was practically empty. I went through to the back to find an enormous drag queen looking hopefully across the room while a small cluster of shifty men did their best to pretend they hadn’t seen her. They were far more interested in purchasing their wank material.

I admit I felt a wee bit uncomfortable surrounded by furtive shoppers and stood beneath an enormous video screen showing cock sucking, but I mopped the beads of sweat from my brow and proceeded forward.

Obviously it was all fine because Chi Chi was so glad that someone would talk to her that I was practically knocked to the floor by her enthusiasm – HI, HOW ARE YOU? GREAT TO MEET YOU ... we shook hands and I babbled a little bit and we talked about Hustlaball ... then I asked for a signed photo and was delighted to be handed the following. I will be employing a framesmith to prepare it for display at Right Nasty Mansions.

As for Hustlaball, despite lying to her that I would be there, at 21 quid a ticket I couldn’t be bothered going along to see a bunch of sweaty men get their rocks off. I stayed at home and watched Shortbus.

An Undesirable Presence

2008-06-10T18:46:00.004+01:00

Years ago, when I worked Saturdays at Our Price, a group of us would regularly be barred from our local pub in Ealing. After a day of selling RnB and Kylie to a largely ungrateful public, we would rush to the pub in a jubilant mood, then gradually become more and more disgraceful as the evening developed into good humoured bitch fights and, on a particularly good night, mock fisticuffs.

None of it was ever malicious, we were just like hyperactive children, but by the end of the night the bar staff would get sick of it. Pointing sternly at the door they would bark, “OUT … and don’t come back” ... only to welcome us with a cheery smile and a warm hello the following weekend. I think they enjoyed the farce as much as we did.

These days I am far less badly behaved but not, apparently, above expulsion – now it just manifests itself in different ways.

I have noted that I am being publicly snubbed, BLANKED you could even say, by the legion of Lauren Harries fans (approximate headcount: 2) who, up until only just recently, were stalking me.
If you go to You Tube you will see they have uploaded the entire Lauren Harries Sober / David Hoyle Magazine interview in seven handy sections but, get this, they have EDITED OUT my contribution!

Given that I didn’t say anything bad about her – and they’ve left in Maggi Hambling asking David why he’s sharing the stage with “this creature” - I can only suspect this thing is personal. I mean, all I did was set her straight about the Hayley Cropper character on Coronation Street! Welsh loony tunes aficionados are SO TOUCHY !!

Do you think I am now MARKED and in need of my own permanent police escort? Perhaps I should phone you all and let you know where I’m going in future, so you can tell the coppers if I wind up brutally murdered.

I’ve left a comment to enquire why the clip has been edited, but as yet there has been no response. I will keep you updated.

Little Boy Hercules

2008-06-06T00:47:00.003+01:00

I still remember when I first found out about Hercules and Love Affair. I was in the Retro Bar and Finton casually asked me, “Oh, haven't you heard of them? It's Antony singing disco.” Well, I immediately turned into one of those cartoons where their eyes pop out and their jaws drop wide open, he had to check the floor to make sure I hadn't wet myself.

There was no Antony in attendance at their UK debut at Soho Review Bar on Tuesday, but that really didn't matter. Vocalists Kim Ann and Nomi were engaging front-people and the songs are all fierce enough to stand up on their own.

Nomi slinked effortlessly through Antony’s tracks Time Will and Raise Me Up. The big question mark was always going to hang over Blind and, well, I can’t quite believe I’m going to type this, but I think I actually liked her version better. There, I’ve said it, I’m sorry Antony, but I’m afraid that’s just the way it is.

Nomi is also a total fox - tall slim and elegant - but a little bit too perfect to be a new crush, I like my honeys to have a bit of an edge to them. She spent most of the show in a slinky little black number before running off near the end to come back clad in shocking pink ruffles.

Kim Ann is understated as her sidekick, grooving and dancing gay-boy style throughout. She sang the wonderful Shadows, which I adore, but the surprise highlight of the show was a dance version of Don’t Fear the Reaper. Yes, the old Blue Oyster Cult song from the 70s hit parade. I had that on 7 inch when I was a kid and it looked conspicuously misplaced in the midst of my ABBA and chart pop collection, who knew it would suddenly raise its head again in such a curious location?

By this time pretty much the whole room was up and jiggin, and I have to say the Soho Review Bar is a prime location for small musical happenings. The night will be stored away in my memory like the first time I saw Scissor Sisters or, indeed, Antony before the proles got wind of them. They’re far too precious for the mainstream.

Happy Families

2008-06-02T13:05:00.003+01:00

I’m reading this at the moment *hoinks thumb to the left* – Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs. I’ve read all of his other stuff – the most famous being Running With Scissors – but this one if different.

Most of his stuff is autobiographical but also very witty, whereas this is a stark and honest memoir of his relationship with his father – a dark and private man who didn’t seem to have too much interest in his children, he probably only had them because that’s what people did back then.

The book is proving to be a strange experience because it is curiously compelling but at the same time I can’t decide whether I actually like it.

I’m about a quarter of the way in and it’s still dealing with a very young Augusten at the moment. At this point his primary feeling toward his father is adoration, tinged with a little bit of fear. He is so obsessed with his dad that when he is denied physical contact, he steals his clothes and stuffs them with bed sheets to make a fake dad that he can lie in bed and cuddle - he is terrified of this secret being discovered. I think it’s a bit creepy, but then I feel sick at the thought of physical contact with my family. I fact I feel sick at the very concept of “family”.

I hate to be reminded of my own childhood but this book is obviously dragging up memories, some of them best laid to rest. Yesterday, for example, I had a sudden recollection that I was once so angry with my parents I put pins in their bed. I don’t know what they had done to elicit such hatred but the next day I was really scared I’d get walloped. Oddly enough the matter was never referred to - they can’t have failed to notice, there were pins everywhere, but they never said a single word about it!

I’m trying to figure out how old I was when this happened but I can’t remember, I must have been about 10, I think that’s the age when the rot set in. It’s all so idyllic when you’re younger and the biological parent / child bond thing is there, it’s as you get a little older it starts to dishevel. I’m looking forward to the book moving forward and the introduction, hopefully, of some rebellion. I already kind of know the outcome so I know he doesn’t go too crazy, but I’d love if he turned into a David Platt kind of monster child – a love stricken kid who is ignored and turns into parent slaying psychopath, who could resist it? That would make for some seriously compulsive reading, though sadly in this story it’s the mother who goes bonkers.

I’m so glad I’m never going to be a parent.

Manchester Stalkathon

2008-05-27T14:40:00.007+01:00

OK, firstly I apologise that this blog is WAY TOO LONG, but every time I go to Manchester for Queer Up North it turns out to be the BEST time and I just had to tell you all about everything. I was only there for 36 hours but it felt like a week there was so much excitement and, though I never thought I would hear myself say this, it is possible I am ALL STALKED OUT.

As if the double bill of Justin Bond and Taylor Mac (with extra added Jonny Woo and David Hoyle) wasn't enough to contend with, I found myself falling for yet another, and I can now declare that I am officially BESOTTED. My new love is Our Lady J - a totally FIERCE trans woman who is keyboard player and musical director to Mx Bond. But I'll tell you more about that later, I'm going to take it right back up to the top and then we'll start ...

My first engagement was Is Queer Culture Obsolete? a debate where writer Mark Simpson had been invited to play devil's advocate and put forward an argument against queer culture to a five-person opposing panel. Well, what a damp squib he turned out to be. I mean, don't get me wrong, I've nothing against the guy, although he often talks bollocks he does so in a powerful way and I always find his writing interesting, but on stage he totally failed to live up to his reputation. Given his media image of being out-spoken and controversial, I was expecting him to put forward a strong case and give birth to a Mrs Merton-style heated debate, but he just kind of bumbled and phaffed about like an uncomfortable school boy.

He opened by claiming he didn't know what queer culture was so had gone to look on Wikipedia (?!) He had found no definition as there should never be one - queer is fluid and uniquely defined by each individual who chooses to embrace the label. He put his lack of comprehension forward as an "argument" to the panel, who comprised of Justin Bond, Taylor Mac, Jonathan Best (Queer Up North's artistic director) and two academics.

Though they tried their best to answer there wasn't too much they could say in the absence of an actual question, so he then started prattling on about Canal Street and the straight girl invasion. This, as Justin pointed out, really had sod all to do with queer culture, but at least it brought about some interesting comments about the history of gay culture and how it used to be all about fighting oppression. Now queer culture is less about fighting external oppression and more to do with seeking refuge from the homogenised post-Civil Partnership gay culture. Mr Simpson wasn't impressed.

Somewhere in his summing up he decided there was no such thing as queer culture and at this point he lost us completely. People started talking about their own personal experience and that was fine, I especially enjoyed one of the women on stage saying she was scared she would succumb to the idea of gay marriage and needed queer culture to talk her out of it, and although I was interested in everyone's comments it was all very negative, negative - oppression, rebellion and blah blah blah. I was happy to be handed the microphone at the end of the session to make a comment, and I asked why no one had mentioned celebration? I said that for me queer culture is about being proud and being free to express different variances of gender, so couldn't we all just cheer up a bit? I'm happy to say I got the only laugh of the session (OK, maybe Justin got some too) but I was certainly pleased to have sneaked in uninvited and got the last word!

At the end of the discussion I was reunited with Taylor and hugged Justin till he almost choked of constriction, we had nice little chats then I went off to my hotel for a lie down and to prepare for the evening highlight - May Queen, A Vernal She-Quinox.

It's hard to explain the sheer brilliance of this show - the UK debut of Justin's New York production Lustre - that allowed him to present my dream line-up. I really can't decide what my favourite bit was. There were many fabulous Justin moments before, during and after the guest sections, as he sang new songs and old favourites like Low Spark of High Heeled Boys and a few Bambi Lake numbers. For the latter he was joined by his adorable boyfriend Nath-Ann, who was clad in a loin-cloth with glitter on his body that gave him the look of a young Grecian god.

Jonny Woo was the first to take the guest spotlight to do his pussycat story of Mister Tinkle Tum Tum - the jealous cat who hates his mummy's new baby and is rescued from his misery by the entrance of Sir Jasper Wasp, who plunges his sting into the arm of the baby causing its blood to boil and erupt.

I've seen Jonny do this piece a few times and it just keeps getting better and better, the silent theatre was enrapt, hanging off every word and savouring the perfection of timing and subtle nuance. His outfit also deserves special mention for including a fur cat basket that he had fashioned into an enormous bonnet.

If my memory serves me well it was David Hoyle who was next up. Looking relaxed and happy he launched into a rant about straight people and how your parents give birth to you then fuck you up. He concluded we should all just turn on the people who produced us.

Next was Bitch, who I was aware of from Shortbus, she led us through a spirited rap called Pussy Manifesto. Justin revealed that his working titles for the show had included White Woman Down or White Pussy. Originally he had wanted to include some people of colour but abandoned the plan when all he found was a drag queen called Rachel Diversity. At some point he also included a stark autobiographical line about a revelation in San Francisco when he realised it was time to drop the bird seed tits and the fright wig, and thus it was the end for Kiki.

After some more songs and dialogue about Joan Didion, he introduced his extra special guest - the lovely Taylor - who walked on wearing the biggest set of falsies you can imagine. Not content with being double G-cup titties, they also *sang*, accompanying him in soprano on The Revolution Will Not Be Masculinised, which made me wonder - why do people always think tits have high, squeaky voices?

I think it was at this point that the divine Our Lady J, who I had been swooning over horribly throughout the performance, took her moment of glory to perform her song Pink Prada Purse - a story about her being in love with a boy (boo!) who broke her heart so she shot him. As soon as I heard her voice I was SOLD, deep and beautiful with a warmth matched only by her smile. She gave these old hormones of mine quite a shake up.

In the bar afterwards, at first I was too shy to speak to her, but then I got Nath-Ann to introduce us. In the unlikely event that any of you are still reading, you can see the evidence in my lovely stalking gallery. I'm not going to go on about the stalking, I'll let the pictures tell the story, so if you'd like to select some Vision On style music, I will bid you a fond farewell ...

Take me to the stalking gallery.

Goldfish Attention Span

2008-05-17T19:02:00.012+01:00

I’ve been trying to get through this *points accusingly at dust-laden hardback of Queer London by Matt Houlbrook lying lonely and forlorn on the floor.* After about my fifth aborted attempt yesterday evening, I have had to face the fact that it’s not going to happen.

It’s not that there’s a problem with the subject matter, there’s little that fascinates me more than queer history, it’s just the tone of the writing is so dull and boring. It’s obviously somebody’s college thesis that they got top marks for so they’ve decided to publish it in book form. There are lots of references to “citings” and annoying numbers during the text so that you can go to the appendix and see what other clever books they’ve been reading. I really don’t want all that nonsense, and I don’t want to have to pay extra for NINETY PAGES filled with notes and a bibliography either.

As creative gay people, why has no one been able to write a readable, compelling book on queer issues? The exception is Kate Bornstein and her excellent book Gender Outlaw, that’s because she’s a journalist first and an academic second – or at least that’s my interpretation of the situation.

So if you’ve produced a nice essay for one of your courses then fine, congratulations. But please get somebody else to re-write it and add some personality before you try and foist it onto the masses. Like a child that will only eat its food if mummy pretends it’s a train and makes choo-choo noises, come of us can only swallow our education if it’s packaged up pretty and looks shiny. We can’t help it, we’re just a bit shallow and challenged.

Recently, with two of my friends about to embark on PhDs, my inner parent has been sniffing at me with an air of disapproval, wondering why I don’t do something more with my life instead of moaning about the day job and getting drunk. But I know this inability to absorb heavy tomes will be my downfall, and I would find having to write within an academic structure too stifling.

I couldn’t bear to start a piece of work with a mission statement, but I can’t see examiners reacting too kindly to an opening line screaming, "Well, you wouldn’t BELIEVE what happened in 1927... " Though I’m sure this would encourage people to learn more. I’d have been far better at history in school if the Battle of Hastings had been “a right old to-do”, or the Second World War had been Hitler “getting a cob on”. Why must it all be so stuffy and lifeless?

So I’ve dismissed with Queer London and instead I went out and bought a novel, it’s called Whatever Makes You Happy by William Sutcliffe. In keeping with the parent motif, it’s about three mothers nagging their 30-something sons who they don’t consider are living their lives properly. It’s beautifully written and has many delicious, laugh-out-loud moments.

I’m only sixteen pages in and I’ve already learned a new word – unguents (n): a soft greasy or thick substance used as ointment or lubrication – so you can’t say it’s not been educational.

Like one of the characters in the book, I am asking my inner parent to leave. He’s happy with his PlayStation and I’m happy with my cheap novels and DVD box sets. We will not be made to feel guilty!

Near Death Experience

2008-05-14T23:20:00.002+01:00

I nearly DIED on Tuesday night. Almost felled and crushed by an 18th Century pillory, if you please. Imagine! Me! Cut down in my prime by shoddy woodwork.

It was David Hoyle’s fault. He had decided to celebrate the 18th Century at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern so the place was transformed into an olde worlde inn. There was straw all over the floor and an assortment of gin-soaked, pox-ridden harridans on the stage to help provide the entertainment.

David himself, meanwhile, had been kitted out finely in Victorian drag - with frills, curls, a tailored bodice and the largest bustle you’ve ever witnessed. Like the cat that got the cream, he was, all powdered up like a dandy.

He spent much of the first section comparing the 18th Century to the current one. Are the gin-drinking poor people of yesteryear really any different from the work-shy people of today - endlessly breeding and lounging around city centres drinking Diamond White and alcopops?

He called for an end to the benefits system, a system that encourages stupid people to breed more stupid people. Hallelujah. I don’t think it’s so much the benefits system, but allowing people to breed has to be means tested. Thick bastards who, by circumstances of their upbringing, are uneducated and angry, cannot be allowed to keep on producing more generations who, by circumstances of their upbringing, grow up even more uneducated and angry and spend their time victimising the rest of us. The process cannot continue.

I think it’s a pity they did away with public floggings, a far better deterrent than some poncy ASBO which, surprise surprise, has become a status symbol not a mark of shame. The pinko twats who dream up these ideas have never had to live with the “poor, misunderstood” lower classes have they? Idiots.

So David came on for the second section to be put in the stocks and then pilloried. His crimes I cannot remember, but I do know the pillory was wonky and came down crash, bang, wallop in my direction, to a roar of uh-ohs from the crowd. They were probably uh-ohing cos it missed me. Better luck next time, suckers.

It was a riotous show with child abuse, prostitution and drink addiction. One of my favourite bits was when David pissed onto a straw bale, then one of the fat lady harridans followed suit. The whole thing kind of turned into a “how not to” guide for a course in health and safety – piss was flicked about, gin was thrown down to “disinfect” it and those not suffering from hay fever got to skate around on the dried-grass-over-varnish floor. It was hilarious.

Actually I’m becoming rather fond of the yellow scenes, I can see myself trying to sneak into SOP when Magazine is finished. I can wear those polka dot wellies I got at Latitude.

Deep Blue Sea

2008-05-12T22:48:00.008+01:00

I felt it was time for another cultural outing, so on Saturday I went to see Deep Blue Sea at the Vaudeville Theatre, the same place I saw lovely Christian Slater in Swimming with Sharks.

This time my stalk-o-meter was fixed on Dugald Bruce Lockhart and Jack Tarlton, two of the guys from Propeller, who I was curious to see doing something not Shakespearian. The play was also directed by Propeller’s creator, Edward Hall.

I went for the matinee show so was surrounded by an audience who I imagine had turned up in a Saga Tour bus. I swear I was about the only person there who was less than a hundred. That’s OK though, they’ve very polite, and it means I can easily beat them in a race for the bar or the toilets.

Set in one room throughout, the play focuses on Hester (Greta Scacchi) who has left her husband to move in with a younger man, Freddie (Dugald Bruce Lockhart). Despite her devotion to him it has become apparent that he is less committed to the relationship, so she has decided to take the sensible option and kill herself with the gas fire. Alas, not only has she cocked up her relationship she’s cocked up her suicide – she forgot to put a shilling in the meter, so all she gets is a nasty bit of lung pollution.

The rest of the play deals with her boyfriend, husband and friend’s reactions to her attempted suicide and her struggle with her feelings for Freddie. Dugald is great in his role as the somewhat out-of-his-depth boyfriend (though I preferred him looking like Dorothy from The Golden Girls in Twelfth Night), as is Jack Tarlton as the uncomfortable best friend who gets dragged in to the whole sorry scenario. Greta Scacchi I was slightly less convinced by, especially during her many breakdowns which didn’t really convey much sincerity or raw emotion.

By the end of it I kind of wished she would just top herself properly, not because I didn’t like the production, I just got sick and tired of the character and her pathetic blathering. She didn’t seem to possess any kind of personality outside of her obsession for Freddie, and her inability to see that he was unsuitable for her, so it was difficult to form any bond or feel sympathy.

I’ve seen the play described as “one of the greatest pieces of British theatre ever written.” Well, um, excuse my impertinence as a relatively new theatre goer, but I didn’t think it was *that* good. I mean the performances were fine, I just thought it was all decidedly short on action. Though it did back up something I’ve been giving a lot of thought to recently – the idea that being in love with somebody prevents you from seeing them as they really are.

Much as we think we are free spirits, we are victims of our hormones and emotions, and when you fall in love with someone you can be become obsessed with an idea of them and consumed by a desire that bears no relation to the reality of the person you’re objectifying. I had a conversation with Justin once about being in love and then finding out that the person you’re in love with doesn’t exist.

At the end of the play, Freddie has left Hester and she is busily packing his suitcase to forward on to him. As there is no dialogue to this section we don’t know whether she has realised that her interpretation of Freddie is an illusion, or whether she has just given up. Will she move on or will she reattempt suicide? The ending was a big unanswered question and I felt we had invested too much in the character to not be given a resolution. But then I guess it leaves us all free to invent an ending that suits us.

I’ve been kind of interested in reading about the history of the play. It was written by Terrence Rattigan in 1952 and was inspired by the suicide of one of his gay lovers. There’s a suggestion that he had to make it into a straight play to escape the old theatrical censors, while there are also staunch defenders who claim that the character of Hester could never *possibly* be written for anybody other than a woman. I mean, she’s needy, obsessive and has a tendency for melodrama, and those aren’t stereotypical gay male traits AT ALL , now are they? No siree Bob.

I know I would have enjoyed it more if it had been a queer version.

OK, SO I'M FAT !!

2008-05-07T19:16:00.003+01:00

My hatred of the hot weather is well documented, but this sudden change of temperature has brought a new form of frustration – pop fastenings. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to make trousers for fat people with pop fastenings?

Oh I’m sure there’s some poxy designer sat somewhere thinking it’s *very* funny to imagine lardy buggers like me - reaching to the bottom draw for last year’s clothes, only to have them EXPLODE back open two seconds after fastening, propelled by a protrusion of white, wobbling flesh.

Yes OK, so some of us just can’t say no to the last double Jack Daniels and then eat warmed up Chinese takeaway at 2am. Are you so perfect? Hmm? Mr Trouser Maker?

Kate has suggested I should embrace this foible and use it to my own advantage, marketing fashion garments with an element of potential surprise – you could burst back free at any moment and possibly even take out an eye. She cites Taylor Mac’s decomposing drag as an influence.

Kate, however, is a thin person and therefore not worthy of an opinion, and my femme look is less Taylor and more Dina Martina. Or Divine. And I never saw Divine sporting press studs.

Hark in the distance, at the checkout of Evans Outsize, the elasticated waistband is calling.

Off the Charts

2008-05-05T23:29:00.003+01:00

You’ll never guess what I did on the Bank Holiday. Oh go on then, I’ll tell you – I went to Royal Vauxhall Tavern, can you imagine? I wasn’t working but Nathaniel and Timberlina were there, doing outdoor May Day events including a puppet show, pole dancing and a good old fashioned May Day protest.

I’m not really one for sitting about in the sun mixing with other people, but it was pleasant enough sipping Red Stripe and I was proud of my painted protest banner warning “DON’T RUN IN FLIP FLOPS (YOU’LL LOOK STUPID)”, though it was more a public service announcement than a protest.

After that I went inside the venue for my first ever sighting of the Dame Edna Experience. This is a Sunday afternoon institution that has been packing out the Tavern for years now, maybe my expectations were too high but I left feeling rather disappointed. A ten minute build up making noises from behind the stage curtain didn’t impress me, I know most of the audience were monged off their tits but not all of us, I like a show that starts with a punch, not a whimper.

After that it was all very old school – songs by the likes of The Carpenters (and Justin Bond does a FAR better version of Close To You) and uninspired banter with the audience. The best thing was her elaborate yellow and gold dress with sparkles, but even her purple wig didn’t look big enough and her make up wasn’t suitably garish.

I was far more impressed in the company of new-breed drag on Saturday, when I went to see Dina Martina for a second time at Soho Theatre. Now there’s a girl knows how to work a lipstick and understands that glamour isn’t necessary when white trash will do.

She explodes onto the stage, loud and aggressive, in a super-friendly kind of way. From the start the crowd aren’t too sure if they should be afraid of her as she threatens audience participation without actually giving anyone the chance to say anything.

There are hideous cover versions of Holding Out for a Hero, Devil Went Down to Georgia and Duran Duran’s Rio, amongst others. There’s also fast-paced dialogue between the numbers and the giving of audience gifts. On Saturday I was invited up on stage to receive a package containing a baby’s nappy filled with chocolate poo. I was, as you can no doubt concieve, delighted.

My favourite bit, and I don’t know what it is with the gayers, but don’t we just LOVE being told we’re disgusting by drag queens? As soon as she mentioned people being “of the gay” we were chuckling, and by the time she got round to telling us our behaviour couldn’t be condoned we were seduced and helpless with laughter.

I’ve seen Suppositori Spelling get HUGE cheers for asking God to bless our “faggotty little asses” and Kiki uses the foil to great effect. “Why are there no women here, couldn’t you guys get dates? Oh, you mean you’re … ew” (turns away and tries not to look too revolted.) Ha ha – we can’t get enough of it.

Next drag appointment: Coco Peru at Komedia, Brighton.

Get In Trouble

2008-05-01T11:13:00.005+01:00

Right, I want you all to go to iTunes RIGHT NOW and download Get In Trouble by SNAX. You’ll thank me for it, I promise.

It’s a funktastic little ditty that glides along like Parliament or Sly and Robbie, but vocally he sounds a lot more like Prince.

I first heard it when I was in the car listening to XFM but some annoying idiot on a loud motorbike drove past JUST as they were announcing the artist, so I had to go home and email the radio station and thankfully that nice John Kennedy wrote back and told me what it was.

A few days later I was talking about the track with the lovely Sammy Jo and bugger me if SNAX hasn’t done some work as an opening act for Scissor Sisters – it’s that old small world, cool people connection back in action - hurrah!

SNAX has been over in the UK, in fact I think he appeared at Work! at Heaven just yesterday, but at my age I’m a little bit sick of events that happen in the wee small hours. Why can’t good things happen at a reasonable time? Say 9 or 10 o’clock in the evening? Is it really too much to ask for?

Oh, you can also check out SNAX on MySpace - go to it!

Shout, Shout, Let It All Out

2008-04-25T15:14:00.003+01:00

I am being stalked by Lauren Harries fans, both on here and on You Tube. There are not a huge number of them, but their passion is strong so they do multiple posts and, in general, could use a little help with their spelling. Not sure why her fan base should attract such a curious dynamic.

I have no problem with creating debate, but I’m growing increasingly tired of the B word. Yes, that old chat show favourite, “bullying.” Bullying used to be a serious word with a proper meaning, but now it’s a media buzz word, over-used by limp wristed idiots to describe anything they don’t consider “nice.” Get insulted by somebody and decide to retaliate? You’re a bully. Express an opinion that somebody doesn’t share? You’re a bully. If these cunts had their way there would rarely be any conversation about anything, and their ineffectual bleating gives me a headache.

Personally I am believer of the value of confrontation and the frank exchange of opposing viewpoints. I also think that anger is a valid emotion and, provided it doesn’t lead on to violence, should be demonstrated at will. Times of confrontation can be incredibly stimulating in terms of heightening emotion, increasing alertness and pumping your veins with adrenaline.

If the David vs Lauren show on Tuesday hadn’t been so confrontational it wouldn’t have promoted nearly as much debate as it has done. I can’t remember a show where people had so much to say during the interval, and days later they are still picking through the debris. If they’d just had a nice chat it would all have been forgotten. Perhaps it’s the fact people were WOKEN UP that has shocked them.

Look - Lauren made David angry so he yelled at her. This made Lauren angry so she yelled back. Duh! I feel like I’m writing a self-help book for children. THEY HAD A ROW – two grown adults on stage tearing the crap out of each other. It was more like a boxing match than school yard bullying and, like a boxing match, a baying crowd watched them, each supporting their favourite.

At what point in history was it decided that showing emotion was a weakness? Why are we so ashamed of being human? It’s drummed into us -hide your anger, hide disappointment, don’t let people see you’re upset. If you want to go through life thinking that makes you a better person then make free, but that’s the kind of stuff that will give you cancer. Anger is there for a reason, like primal scream therapy, a healthy bit of shouting is good for you. It’s bottling up the demons that will kill.

Lauren - Round Two

2008-04-23T14:35:00.005+01:00

David Hoyle and Lauren Harries sharing the same stage was never going to be pretty.

After last year’s appearance when Lauren was drunk and abusive, David invited her back to take the stage sober and set the record straight. It still turned into a punch-up within minutes.

The beginning was peaceful enough, Lauren prattling on about her first-class train journey and expressing her horror when she saw You Tube clips of her previous appearance. The shit hit the fan when she criticised last week’s performer, who she had also seen on You Tube, a nice young man called Poota who wee weed and defecated on the stage.

David suddenly turned nasty and a barrage of insults was exchanged. At some point it calmed down a bit and Lauren started talking about transsexuals on television (she is working on a new show) and in particular Hayley Cropper from Coronation Street. She is angry that the character is played by a biological woman and not a transsexual. An understandable view point, but she’s taken no time to research the subject and had no idea, as I pointed out to her, that the actress who plays the part is a spokesperson for Press for Change. Or that public support for the character was so strong that, in 1999, MPs called for full civil rights for transsexuals and a working party was formed to help deal with the issues they face on a daily basis.

For all the claims that she was a child genius, poor Lauren doesn’t really come across as too bright. Her favourite put down for David went along the lines of, “you should be a woman, you’re a transgender and you just don’t know it.” Clearly demonstrating that, as someone who has appointed herself as a spokesperson for the trans movement, she doesn’t actually know the difference between transsexual and transgender.

She was astonishingly impolite to Maggi Hambling, who she’s clearly never heard of, and her common response to anyone who challenged her was “you’ve got problems, you’ve got issues” , which, coming from someone who had taken the stage dressed like Heidi, was pretty blummin funny!

To be honest I have mixed feelings about David’s behaviour. To some degree he talked over her and was aggressive, but in doing so he gave her a chance to stand her ground and a lot of the crowd ended up on her side, including Wayne Shires who grabbed the microphone to defend her and tell David to stop being mean.

I quite like a good bit of confrontation and it was one of the most thought-provoking shows I have seen. I think my only disappointment is that Lauren’s mum, who was also in the building, didn’t appear on stage. That would have been a right old barney.

(Pics: Kate Pelling)

See more pics on A.M. Hanson's blogsite

Bees, Toms and Queens

2008-04-20T19:43:00.005+01:00

Ooh, it’s all go! Not only have I bought a new iron and a new cutlery set this weekend - which you have to admit is pretty blummen exciting - but I have also got the brand new B-52s album, found out that the Tom Tom Club are coming back to London *and* witnessed the UK debut of a new drag queen. PHEW!

The B-52’s Funplex pretty much carries on where the previous albums left off - lots of delicious harmonies, crazy beats and songs about sex, cars, fun and dancing. All driven along by their usual infectious energy, not least of all on track 3 with its natty refrain of Ultraviolet, ultraviolet, WOOO!

My only complaint is the ridiculous airbrushing on the cover. What’s wrong with a bit of maturity, I ask you? They’re all exquisitely preserved anyway, and I’m not happy that my sweet Kate has been reduced to an almost cartoon-like image. Or maybe I'm making a complete tart of myself and it’s actually a B-52s wax work.

The Tom Tom Club are another well-preserved blast from my past. I first saw them live in 1990 when I went to stalk Deborah Harry in LA. She was on the Escape from New York tour, which was a triple bill with Debbie, Tom Toms and The Ramones. On many nights I actually preferred the Tom Tom Club's set to Debbie's, but for God's sake don't tell her I said that!

Chris and Tina are two of my BIGGEST EVER heroes – and they’re not even drag queens or gayers! I’m sure I’ve bored each and every one of you before with my stories about meeting them to do an interview for the Virgin website, then visiting their home several months later for the recording of their live album. I must have told you how, if you listen hard, you can even hear me cheer on it.

The last time I saw them was in 2003 when Chris and Owen and I went to see them at the Great Eastern Hotel (see pics). Tina hugged me for an eternity when I ran into her and I've even got a photo of the embrace somewhere. All you can see is the back of her head and me grinning, so it's not really worth posting.

The gig was fantastic but the venue and the event (Return to New York) were hideous, so after the show they ran away back to their hotel room to hibernate and, save for a few emails, I've not had much contact with them since. Though I still have a pair of pants that Tina took off and threw into the crowd during one number, Owen caught them and very kindly donated them to my stalking collection.

So suffice to say, I simply cannot WAIT to see them when they appear on the bill at Massive Attack’s Meltdown in June. I’m thinking I might have to take out a South Bank membership as their all new and non-inclusive sales policy means that members get first dibs on the tickets. If I’m not in the first few rows I’ll be gutted. There’ll be a strop like you wouldn’t believe.

But in the meantime there’s Dina Martina, who made her UK debut last night on the Duckie stage. Hype is a hard thing to live up to, and it’s true she’s not of Justin Bond or Taylor Mac calibre, but she put on a lively performance - dressed in trailer trash chic and with a rather obtrusive camel toe.

Meeting her alter-ego Grady West before the show, I have to say he’s the least likely drag queen EVER - a self-effacing, understated guy who looks like he’d be happier watching baseball. But once the wig and make up go on, that all changes.

He took us through assaults on songs by Whitney Houston, Dead or Alive and Elvis, along with patter that I can’t remember any examples of. No matter, I'll pick some up eventually because I’ve been cordially invited to attend press night for his run at Soho Theatre, and also have tickets for one of the later shows.

If you want to come, call the box office and tell them you were at last night’s Duckie and they’ll give you 5 pound off your ticket (what about THAT, Meltdown Festival). I don’t think they’ll bother to check to see if you’re lying.

You can also check out Dina on You Tube.

Over the Rainbow

2008-04-16T12:34:00.001+01:00

I decided to write a "serious piece" about why we still need queer culture in post-Civil Partnership Britain.

You can read it here if you'd care to.

Poofs and Queens

2008-04-13T20:26:00.005+01:00

Had a right camp laugh on Thursday night - Nathan is away from VauxhallVille for a few weeks while he appears in the West End with the Tiger Lillies. That means he has programmed cabaret nights for the next few weeks and me and Polly Vinyl have been left in charge.

I’m loving it, it means I get to do all the exciting part of running a club night without all the boring part of having to plan it and, worst of all, having to invest my own money in it.

This week we had Stephen De Martin, one of Four Poofs and a Piano, performing Poofloose and fancy free in a solo show that went down a storm. Though more mainstream than we usually have at the Tavern, he had a great line in stand-up comedy between songs that loosely charted his progress since leaving his native Australia in the mid-90s.

Prior to his performance we had Mysti Vine, a burlesque comedian who came on stage dressed as a glittery vagina complete with hood, lips and a hairy back. She alternatively entertained and terrified the crowd with a series of cunt jokes before ending with a nipple tassle-twirling striptease.

This week I’m looking forward to welcoming Adele Anderson, one of the former members of Fascinating Aida, who I never got round to seeing. She’s planning a smoky-voiced jazz set that will tell stories of her colourful and varied life.

Much as I’m excited about that I must confess it’s being slightly overshadowed by the thought of seeing Dina Martina at Duckie on Saturday.

Dina is a new drag sensation from Seattle who has been getting rave reviews from all quarters. I first heard about her from Tim Whitehead who is promoting her forthcoming season at Soho Theatre, then Justin Bond and Taylor Mac both told me how great she is, so I literally cannot WAIT! She’s been described as, ‘a train wreck in heels’, ‘like Vegas on crack’ and ‘one of the best nightmares you'll ever have.’ While I’m not sure that she’s pretty enough to stalk, I feel certain she is going to be a treasured new addition to my drag queen collection and I will be taking my camera in the hope of photo ops.

Gay? So What

2008-04-08T01:25:00.003+01:00

Gay? So What at the LLGFF was kind of a journey through interest and past boredom that finally came to rest at inspiration.

A made for French TV documentary that contrasted contemporary gay life internationally, it started off well enough with a drag queen guiding us around clubs and bars in Madrid or Paris (I’ve never been to either – can’t tell the difference.) Then I loved seeing La Terremoto D’Alcorcon performing in Spain with her lovely bearded drag queens that we’ve had on at VauxhallVille.

From Berlin there was a heavily tattooed boy who couldn’t find much about the gay scene that appealed to him, while over in New York they were going crazy in clubland and Amanda LePore was whipping her baps out.

I got a slight touch of the ADDs when the camera went to places where being gay is still a problem, I have this air-brained habit of sort of turning off if I get too far away from a mirror ball. I wasn’t too interested in the underground lesbian scene in Cuba, and almost passed out through boredom at the heteronormative trans couple from Madrid. One was MTF and the other FTM, you wouldn’t guessed it from looking at them, and they were so hideously straight it was painful. He had a bish-bosh job as a decorator while she stayed at home, starry eyed and breathless, cooking stew while she waited for her man to return. Go sister. No really, I mean it … GO.

I enjoyed hearing about the boy from Biejing who went to talk about being gay on Chinese television. His mum was initially thrilled that her lad was gonna be on the telly but, when she heard what he was saying, screamed at him that he was possessed by demons. Thanks mum!

By stark contrast we returned to New York for the show-stopping highlight - Penny Arcade. I LOVE Penny and she provided the best sound bites from the programme – (paraphrasing)

“who knew, when we started campaigning for gay rights, that it would all go so horribly WRONG.”

“gay marriage? Some of us wanted to escape that kind of STRANGLING lifestyle”

“… and gay people want to have children now?” *pulls face of disbelief and repulsion* “… I don’t take hostages.”

Ha ha, she even got a round of applause for that one.

Some of the closing scenes were set around Christopher Street in Manhattan with young black and Hispanic kids meeting on the streets – sort of like Paris is Burning but without the glamour. It restored my faith in queer culture because the kids met there for one reason and one reason only – because gay people want to be together.

Stop the Voices

2008-04-05T14:05:00.002+01:00

I’m quite often mistaken (?) for a mad person. For a start I talk to myself, which people find strange, though personally I don’t see the problem. I mean, what goes on behind the eyes of a “normal” person when they’re alone? Surely it can’t be like the test card – a still image and some soft music; or a black screen with a white dot and a high-pitched whir going eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Thoughts and ideas and bits of conversation must be flashing through their minds the same as me, it’s just in my case the thoughts are reflected in my facial expression, but with them the face just stays still. WHATEVER.

I have now found a new way to be considered a mental. A few weeks ago I bought an iPod Nano, a sleek, beautiful little thing that plays video. My new favourite hobby is downloading clips from YouTube and converting them to iPod format. Then I can watch them as I suffer the agonising hell of commuting. I have a nice collection of Peaches Christ, Coco Peru and Queer Duck clips.

Now here’s the problem – I don’t want any sticky-fingered gutter rat nicking my iPod, so how to reduce its visibility? I have found that the best way is to cradle it between two hands and keep it down between your thighs when travelling. This means that if you pass by or glace across at me, you will see the funny looking woman with orange hair staring down into her lap and rocking back and forward with laughter. I know what you’re thinking –CUCKOO!

I’m considering developing these afflictions in the hope of being awarded peace and quiet. I remember an old friend of my dad’s who was a very respected bank manager at Barclays. He faced a 60 minute commute each day from Freshfield to Liverpool. He would get on at the first station in the morning, choose his seat, then pull a ridiculous hat from his briefcase. If he sat with it pulled down over his head, it would pretty much guarantee that no one would sit next to him as they didn’t want to be next to the nutter. Genius!

As David Hoyle pointed out recently, if you slowly develop your status as a mental, not only will you be given a wide berth but you can also get away with actual murder. Go and see your doctor now and tell him about the “voices”, pretty soon you won’t be held accountable for anything. The world’s your mad oyster.

Lars and the Angry Itch

2008-03-31T21:52:00.006+01:00

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

2008-03-28T15:59:00.003Z

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!

2008-03-26T18:14:00.004Z

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

Thanks to Mat Sternewald for the pics.