Like Your Idols, Who Are Nothing

Currently spinning on the decks at Right Nasty Mansions is the latest release from electro-punk popsters Atomizer.

I've always been quite a fan of Jonny Slut and Fil OK's beat pop ensemble, and enjoyed doing drunk dancing to their short set at Yo! Suzi last Friday. Jonny had decided to wear a 10 inch high spikey orange wig as a tribute to Toyah and insisted they were introduced as Thunder In The Mountain. At least I think that's what it was, but quite frankly I have no idea what goes on inside that boy's crazy little mind.

Anyway, as usual I can't remember many of the songs but I know for sure they played the title track from their latest Underdog EP. It's a spirited dismissal of, well, just about everyone and everything really - from politicians to religion and hopes to paradise, all accompanied by a jolly "scream and shout and kick my teeth in" refrain.

The first mix on the disc is by the KLF's Jimmy Cauty and samples Justified Ancients of Mu Mu. If you watch the video you can see copulating daleks and spinning images of K9.

You also get the standard Atomizer mix and two other tracks - Albino on the Beach and Siamese Sons of the Seven Seas - all with the usual bleeps and the stark, aggressive sound one expects from an Atomizer release.

Three hundred and ninty nine pee from a record shop near you.

Successful Stalking

Last night I was talking with Justin when he suggested I write an article about stalking. His idea is that I send it to the Council and ask for a grant to go and see him on Broadway. Do you think that'll work? I don't.

Still, feel free to read my guide on How to become a Successful Stalker.

Before you begin you can do an online quiz to see if stalking is for you. I scored top marks, of course. But then I'm an expert!

Well, I’ve been fighting the urge...

... but I think it’s time for a Big Brother blog.

I’ve only actually seen about half of it, but in the same way that reading the Coronation Street updates is often better than the telly, the Times Online BB weblog is much more entertaining than the show.

I’m sad that Shahbaz has gone. If you’ve been paying attention you’ll know that I always champion the free spirit – the one who is “out there” and doesn’t care what people think. I admired his strength of character and sense of self- reliance. That’s not to say I’d want to be locked up the mad cunt - how painful would that be?

The Times summed his highlights up thus:

Day One: "Hello, I'm Shahbaz, nice to meet you."
Day Three (or thereabouts): "I wish I'd been born an amoeba."
Day Six: "Bye".

Ha!

I have major problems with Nikki – the face of an eighty year old and the mind of a child. And what the hell is that voice? She’s clearly the product of those middle class parents who, as soon as they breed, start talking VERY LOUDLY and pronouncing e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e l-e-t-t-e-r of every word ALL THE TIME. Even in the library. Or at church.

She also reminds me of those dogs that have too much skin – so it looks like the dog shrank but the fur stayed the same. Get her out!

I like Lea, not just because she’s a cheap Amanda Lepore, she’s also quite fighty and intelligent. Though not as fighty as Lisa, I’d like her if she stopped saying “mint”. Oh, and if she took the cigarette out of her gob.

I had high hopes for Dawn, but after her “I hate people” intro she has proved to be disappointingly amicable. Not only that, she smells – ew! Maybe she’ll go mad later on, there’s already been signs - refusing to wash because she can't be seen naked or semi naked as it could jeopardise her career. She claims to be an exercise scientist (a what?), I’d have thought having wiffy pitts would be more of a hindrance than flashing a bit of booby in that department, but who knows?

My favourite by far is Richard - a nice big, campy old fag. If I met him at Marvellous I’m sure we’d have a nice dance and a laugh. He reminds me of the cowboys on Vivienne Westwood’s cowboy cocks t-shirts.

He’s shown signs of being a bit “alpha male” and I’m not too keen on that. Still, most of ‘em are just kiddies so it’s fair enough. You wouldn’t want droopy Glyn or the vile scouser trying to rule the roost.

I wonder who the new one will be … would a dyke be too much to hope for?

Big Momma

I have spent much of the weekend idling on line and looking up drag queens. One of my new discoveries is Shirley Q Liquor - a guy called Chuck Knipp who has previously been a priest, a nurse and a politician ... and now blacks up to do drag.

As you might imagine, this has caused a few raised eyebrows. Protesters in New York had one of her shows closed down, and an appearance in Kentucky resulted in the bar being burned to the ground.

I ask you, how can you be offended by someone who looks like this? It's like a cross between Big Momma's House and Bubbles De Vere! Anyway, Laquisha Jonz seems to get away with it.

Chuck based his act on the black women who looked after him as a child. Part of the act laughs at the "ignunce" of white people, and Shirley has been championed by Rupaul. It's likely the political correctness crew are complaining about something they know nothing about.

I wish I could say she's hilarious but the sound clips are really a bit poor. Still, I like the idea of it.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

You see, I said it was a rubbish idea from the start. Now one of the first couples to Civil Partnerise have filed for divorce. It’s lezzas too, which is even better – untying the knot just 2 months after they clomped down the aisle.

I remember some gay marriage magazine article in December saying “the lesbians will be really good at it.” Ha ha, NO! We’re liars and cheats too.

It’s all so deliciously stereotypical –poor Daphne Ligthart stuck at home while her bride, Liz, was with her new bit at PE club. I bet they walk around all the time in sports wear.

Of course, this isn’t quite as funny as the McCartney’s estrangement. You can’t help guffaw at that pair of sanctimonious do-gooders. But gays! Let this be a lesson. Can we stop playing house now and start going out again, please?

Friday Fun and Frolics

Last night was the first night of Yo! Suzi - Jonny Slut and DJ Lush's new club night in Vauxhall, hosted by Ms Justin Bond. With such a sparkling line up, attendance was mandatory.

The RVT was looking glam with metallic streamers and mannequins in glitter slacks. It was weird being there on a non-Duckie night - the crowd was mostly younger and a little more funky - and we didn't quite know how to behave. Should we follow the established pattern of drinking, then act, then dancing? Or should we try something new?

Old habits won through and we stood gassing til the turn came on. It was a pop group of young people called Ape Drape Escape. Whatever will they think of next?! They were entertaining enough, but by the end I was starting to feel like a fossil - it's all thump, thump, thump and shouting, my inner pensioner exclaimed.

After the band I did dancing with Paul, Justin and a variety of others. The music could have been better, I was itching for a bit of dance, but it's not what the night is about. A couple of years ago I would have loved a punk and rock club, but now I'm a little bit hmmppphh. Also got the arse cos some cow burned me with her cigarette and didn't even apologise, just stood there looking gormless. Who lets these people out? But a good time was had by all.

If you'd care to you can sample my pictorial delights - evidence of why I will never be offered gainful employment as a photographer. At least the one of Satanic is nice ...

Art, drink and impersonation

Had another day off work today so decided to do something a bit arty. Had arranged to go to the Serpentine Gallery with Joan Dairy Queen, but due to a "drama" involving a boiler he couldn't make it. Who better to fill his shoes than the lovely Justin Bond? Having picked him up at London Bridge we took common old public transport to Kensington and then a leisurely stroll across the park to the gallery.

The art on display was by Ellsworth Kelly, a New York artist who works with solid blocks of colour. The pieces were interesting but significantly short of breath taking. We decided we liked white, black and red best because it signifies heaven, earth and hell. Deep. We're too smart to let symbolism like that pass us by. We also liked the plain white prints with 3D arches, but agreed they'd be a bugger to dust.

The frustrating thing was the full show took 5 minutes to take in, so then was all a bit "what now?" After a wee sit down in the park we strolled back to Soho to meet with Tim and Our Steve for drinks. It took me approximately 10 minutes to forget that:

a) I gave up drinking yesterday to save for Kiki and Herb on Broadway
b) I was supposed to be going to my college class.

Oh me and my sieve-headed mind!

Anyway, I only had a few drinks then took Justin for a belated birthday Thai. It was only at Tuk Tuk so hardly extravagant, but I've never claimed to be overly generous.

On the way back we exchanged notes about Manchester and finally the blurred bits are starting to make sense. Sadly this means I remember Renard doing penis impersonations in the bar. He can do an elephant (easy), a chicken (medium) and a fruit bat (vomit). We all have our own little talents ...

There's a Drag Queen in my Soup!

Well, as the Four Seasons once said - oh what a night! I've been on my annual pilgrimage to Manchester for Kiki and Herb in Queer Up North.

They were playing in the restaurant at Harvey Nicks - eatery of the pretentious north westerner. How hilarious that a foul mouthed drag queen and a homosexual Jew were screeching about rape and child abuse at the tables where the hoi poloi nibble paté.

I'm not sure how many K&H shows I've seen, it's got to be something like 40, but this one was seriously fierce. Kiki entered from the rear screaming Lick My Legs. I didn't get to put tongue to fishnet, but as she walked past she fell onto me and nearly knocked me from my seat - a simple hello would have done.

She was dressed in an adorable black sequined number. Though I'm not sure about the white pants beneath, they were revealed every time she kicked her leg and left way too little to the imagination - think Pete Burns on Big Brother.

From the established repetoire we had Wu Tang Mother Fuckaaaa and Walking The Cow. Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You? made my chin wobble a bit, and I was delighted the African chant from Justin's solo shows has been carried through to Kiki. If anything it's even funnier when she does it.

The dialogue grew adorably dishevelled as the evening wore on. I love when you can tell the lines are so new, even they haven't heard them before. I particularly adore Herb's eye rolling and head shakes that are intrinsic to the act. He was quieter than normal though, I think he's hurt his voice.

After the show I sat drinking with my escorts for the evening - Rentard and (Divine) David Hoyle. Having attempted to floor me earlier, Justin Bond tried to tit me up - that girl takes diabolical liberties! It's his birthday today so we drank him a toast at midnight. By this time I'd migrated to a table with Kenny and some Coronation Street stars - the lovely Antony Cotton (also of Queer as Folk) and Jennie Mc Alpine who plays Fiz. Last year Shelley was there too, but she must have been busy at t'Rovers.

Eventually it was time to leave so we decanted to the hotel bar of the swanky MalMaison. We proceeded to piss off our fellow punters by talking loudly and doing swears. Standards fell further until the evening descended into a blur of broken champagne glasses and a row with a nasty American. Hoorah for being badly behaved!

I skipped to my bijou Canal Street resident for some much needed sleep.

Big Daddy of the Rhythm

I was all a bit camp hand gestures and oh-my-god when I first heard about Pete Burns' incarceration this week, but the more I hear and read about it, it actually makes me quite upset. (If you don't know, Pete has been sent to Wandsworth for a week for breaking his parole conditions following previous arrests for intimidation and threatening behaviour - this isn't privileged information, you can find it on the web.) Anyway, I had heard rumours from various sources and put it down to general outrageousness, but now it appears he's really gone mad and needs serious medical help.

In fact, I bought his autobiography this week and it opens with a note from the publishers - they express their regret at Pete's illness, like they expected it to be common knowledge by the time it hit the stores. But the press have been remarkably quiet, only The Sun ran a piece about his prison sentence, and it was pretty laid back for them.

During Pete's appearance on Big Brother, I became aware of the enormous impact he had on my life. I was 15 when I first encountered him behind the counter at Probe Records in Liverpool where he worked. At the time he had long, black crimped hair, wore a brown animal pelt top with fringes, beads and bones. He had baggy black trousers and his face was thick with foundation. He had big black circles round his eyes. I was totally transfixed and, although I was painfully shy, decided I had to get to know him - I saw him as an escape route from the mundane, suburban life my parents had, that it was assumed I would grow to be a part of. I knew I wanted out.

I took to hanging around Probe and going to Dead or Alive shows but I was seldom brave enough to speak beyond a few words. Eventually Pete's wife, Lynne, befriended me and I grew more confident in Pete's presence when I realised they didn't mind me being round.

When I look back I kind of see him as a father figure, he certainly taught me values that I carry to this day. What I admired most was his strength. He had created a persona for himself that other people found unusual and threatening, but he wasn't about to allow that to force a compromise. He didn't get as much grief as you might imagine, because most people were scared. But when he was abused, attacked or insulted, rather than get upset he would turn the stories into anecdotes to make his friends laugh. A group of school girls who tried to hit him would become "this group of fuckin' farm women jumped on me back, you've never seen anythin' like it" and we'd all be pissing ourselves laughing. It was his way of sneering back at the world and saying fuck you.

Pete took me to my first gay club, before I even knew for sure I was gay - we went to see Sylvester do a PA. That was a life affirming evening, I was out with my hero in my first gay club witnessing this amazing performance, we even danced on the stage with Sylvester. For the first time ever I looked around and thought this is where I want to be.

The club was called Jody's and the introduction to the place was a gift. It was a haven during my late teenage years. Pete became famous and left town, but I had this refuge to go where I could meet new people and continue the journey I had begun to find my identity and a world away from family. I dread to think what would have happened without it.

The book is bringing back other memories, and all of them are good. Not much of it is new, and it kind of skims over stuff, but best of all is I hear his voice as I'm reading it. He has a co-writer but it's someone who clearly knows him well and reflects his personality through the text. It's fast paced, witty and insightful - just like the man himself.

At this point I can't see how a week in Wandsworth is going to do anything to help, but maybe it'll give him access to the medical assistance he needs, and I hope to God we have him back soon.

Sisters of Murky

Talk about a pea-souper! As predicted, the Sisters of Mercy could barely be seen behind an solid wall of dry ice at the Astoria last night. Man they must be UGLY these days! All that would have been amusing if the sound hadn't been equally foggy, but it was like they were playing in the club next door.



With the crowd were growing more and more distracted by the second, the only comedy factor was the man in front who kept air punching at all the wrong points.

I recall they did Doctor Jeep and that one about "I don't exist when you can't see me" but the rest was a great big blur. In the end we copped a strop and went to the pub.

What's worse, I've realised that goth girls just don't do it for me anymore - so who the hell am I going to lust after now? God damn this mid-life crisis, in the words of The Sweet - I just haven't got a clue WHAT to do!

Tut!

I've discovered I have a hidden talent. Last night, dressed in mens clothes and in a gay club holding a tribute night to "gay", I still managed to end up talking to a straight man who wondered if perhaps I might be bi. Give me strength!

It's been a lazy weekend and I know that's acceptable on Bank Holiday, but I'm annoyed that I haven't done more. I have an interview to prepare and college work to do, but I spent today wallowing in the hangover from hell and sulking. I need to have a good strong word with myself. Still, writers are famous for procrastination so maybe I'm even more suited to the job than I thought.

Tomorrow I've got Sisters of Mercy at the Astoria, a blast from my gothic past. Last time I saw them the dry ice was so thick you couldn't see a thing for the entire show. I guess it saves money on botox and the like.

Expect a review to follow ...

Snake in the Grass

My memories of last night are fading fast, so I'd better get them down quickly. Me, Toblarina and the Art East all went to Snake Bites at the Purcell Room - a literary event to mark the twentieth anniversary of Serpent's Tail books.

We wanted to go because Justin Bond was reading Jayne County, it sounded just too good to miss. In the end he couldn't make it, but for £8.50 we decided we'd still pop along.

The evening was curated by Neil Bartlett who, while he's an all round very nice man, was one of the weakest speakers. His reading was flat, he didn't emerse himself in the text and become part of the fiction. He did, however, choose his assembled cast well - they all performed and made their words brighter and more colourful.

First up was a lively little woman called Kathryn Hunter who read a feminist tale of unrequited love. I enjoyed the confused ideology of the subject who believed that marriage ruins women, but still obsessed over the man she desired in the belief that he could set her free.

Stella Duffy was slightly grating in that she carries a posh girl smugness. Her performance, however, was superb and she could teach Bartlett a thing or two about phasing and vocal expression. She read a piece about killing a date by smacking him about the head with a bat. Maybe it's my urge to do that to many people that made it so engaging.

The crowd pleaser by far was Simon McBurney - he flawlessly conveyed the story of a man who submits to the bullying of an old woman, only to erupt with fury when she has the audacity to die in his flat, leaving him with no amount of inconvenience and worry. The piece ended with him storming from the stage in disgust.

The finale was a bit of a mistake - the seven readers all returned to the stage to present brief passages concert-style with no introductions or breaks. This left them without context and became a bit overwhelming, but it was a toast to the wide variety of literature available.

I've decided I quite like being chin-strokey. It's hardly the new rock n roll, but I'll definitely be back for more.

PS. Read The Old Woman - it's fab!

Brush with Fame

Hey, guess what everyone? I met Angie Bowie last night!

Well, when I say "met", it was more smirked at self conciously as she delivered a media-friendly BIG-SMILE-AND-SAY-HI as a few of us walked past her. What the hell would you say to her anyway? I really have no idea!

She was hosting a preview of a photography exhibition at the Elms Lester Painting Rooms. By "hosting" I mean turning up and milling around like the rest of us. Why won't anyone pay me to do that?!

The exhibition is part of Patrick Lilley's Outsider Festival and features amazing shots of clubbers and celebs by Kate Garner and David Swindells. There's portraits of Leigh Bowery, Bjork, Boy George, Bowie, Sinead, JT Leroy and more. Well worth a look if you're in the area.

After a couple of free wines, Toblarina and I went to the swanky after party at the Rex cinema on Rupert Street where Readers Wifes DJs were spinning choons. It's a snobbo little private screen and cocktail bar - tres, tres posh but pretty expensive. We had to hold our £7 drinks with two hands to avoid spillage.

After the Wifes was New York legend Larry Tee with a blend of electroclash, disco and rock. I was happy to see even international superstars can occasionally fuck up their mixing! Oh, and I've decided to get into electroclash - I'm only about a decade too late.

We could have stayed for a viewing of Punk and the Pistols at 10, but our purses were empty so we left. I think I've seen all the punk films I need.

AMEND: Bah! Apparently we didn't see Larry Tee at all, it was some bloke called Kurt! Oh the shame of it. I suppose I should apologise for suggesting that Larry fucked up his mixing, as I'm sure he never does. Probly. Harrummpph.

Baby Dee does Bistrotheque

I find it quite endearing when drag queens get too old to be glamorous and, like the rest of us, settle into a comfy top, baggy slacks and slippers.

If I was expecting glamour when I went to see Baby Dee last night I was set for disappointment, it was more like an audience with Old Ma Clampett. That’s not to say it was a bad night, just a little bit bonkers.

After tuning her harp and playing the first number, she took a long time opening a box of Cuban cigars that the audience were invited to share. She then rearranged the furniture, poured another drink and got back to work.

A lot of the songs were very sad and moving (dirges, as she calls them) but the mood got lighter as we switched to a series of sing-alongs about self acceptance - it’s alright to be a crack whore, a faggot or be drunk behind the wheel. And if you like to look at dog’s dicks, that’s OK too.

With an embittered cackle and a black toothed grin, she bastardised Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer with the news that his shiny nose left him with an inferiority complex and a violent distaste for Santa. It’s telling that this comedy tale was of a misfit getting revenge.

Though the songs were funny and on stage banter self deprecating, I knew I was being presented with someone who has fought to find a body they are comfortable in and create their own reality. Through the eccentricity there is an inspirational strength and refusal to conform.

From her bio - love has made her just like God, and God and Baby Dee are both quite mad.

Get Off Me, You Bastard

Yes, I know that writing about the dentist is incredibly boring, but a 45 minute treatment has left me traumatised so the least you fuckers can do is stop rolling your eyes and show little a bit of sympathy, OK?

It's due to a broken crown that I found myself yesterday, laid out at a curious angle, with so much nasty needle stuff piped into my gums that my right cheek, nostril and even my EYELID were frozen. Then a man in white set to drilling, poking, scrapping and, worse of all, putting horrible putty casts in my mouth to take impressions of my jaw.

For someone who hates being touched by strangers at the best of times, such wanton invasion of my personal space has left a psychological scar. Last night my dreams were tortured by scenes of intruders trying to break into my home and I was paralysed and unable to stop them. More curiously, I dreamed the Retro bar was taken over by crowds of rude French women who had terrible manners but nobody would ask them to leave. Quite frankly, it's all been a little too much.

To add insult, I've been presented with a bill for nearly 200 quid and told to go back in 2 weeks for more. STOP!!!

I've done those quizzes in the past where they tell you the job you're most suited to. Due to my slightly autistic nature, they more often that not tell me "dentist". I can't think of anything worse than spending my days peering down people's gobs and am way too squeamish for the blood and spit. What on earth are these people thinking?

Dentistry is clearly the devil's work. And even I'm not mean enough to do it.

Bow Down Mister

Despite my years of service to gay culture, until last night I had never seen Boy George perform (except with Antony and that doesn't count).

The occasion was Ray Of Light, an annual charity event for Macmillan Cancer Relief held at Crash. The two rooms were split into separate camps for the evening - Popstarz in the main room for the youngsters, and Marvellous in the other for the oldies. You could spot the difference thus - in the over 30s room people move aside when you try to get past. In the play pen they just stand in your fucking way cos they think that makes them hard. Young people - tut!

Anyway, I digress ... George's three song set was a definite high point. He was flanked by two cute dancers and seemed to be having a rare old time. He was smiley and looking healthy. I'm so glad he's stopped painting his chin black. There was a pronounced reggae vibe to the show, but it was 2 o clock in the morning so don't expect me to remember too much. I know one of the songs was about rent boys, but that's about it.

He was dressed from head to foot in clothing from his B Rude collection. I would kill to own his black jacket with enormous silver safety pins made from sequins. In fact, Stephen Art East and I are in a battle to see which of us can acquire a tie with the same motif. Maybe I should try and use a little influence, I like to brag that I know George's co-designer, the very charming Mike Nicholls who also made the Kiki and Herb movie.

I heard a story about Joan Dairy Queen and Dusty O having a back stage spat about who got to do the introduction. Ha, squabbling drag queens, I'd have loved to witness that! In the end Joan won, but Dusty went up to close the show.

Afterwards I retired to the Marvellous room for some dancing to the tunes of DJ Jonny Slut. Once again he tried to get me to touch his cock. The boy is a liability! In the time I have known him he has, on various occasions, grabbed my arse, grabbed my vagina, kicked me out of the raised DJ booth at Sub Station, stuck his tongue down my throat and forced my hand down his pants.

I once punched him because he spanked me and he cried like a big babba. Just as well he's adorable or I'd kill the cunt! So glad I don't have normal friends.

Dawn of a New Me

In keeping with the Easter season, I'm experiencing a need for rebirth. I want to do new things, go new places and meet new people. Things have been stagnant and I want to broaden my horizons.

Sadly, some new things are difficult to do alone and trying to get my friends out at the moment is like trying to raise the dead!

After 3 days of attempting to organise social events, last night I realised I'd just have to give in and do what we always do - go to Duckie. It's been a while since my last appearance so it was good to be back for a visit. They've even given the Tavern a lick of paint, so at least it wasn't too same-old-same-old.

Best part of the evening was the caBEARet - to mark Bear Pride weekend we were treated to some good old fashioned fun from the days when the gays could still laugh at themselves. Big lads in tight shorts mincing around without shame - they performed a wonderful Madonna tribute, Like a Bear, but best of all was the homage to Kylie - Can't Get Bears Out of my Head. I was whooping with delight at the unmitigated campery of it all!

I also used the evening to debut my slightly up market new look. The drag queen eye lashes with glittery beads had the curious effect of making my eyelids ache, but they were too fabulous to take off. I'm also very pleased with my new trilby / fedora hat, it's a bit like the one that Babydaddy Scissor Sister wears.

I should point out that I stole the inspiration from my new obsession - Kiddie from Trannyshack. She's a drag queen that looks like a glamourous butch lesbian and I'm a little bit in love. I can't decide whether I want to be her or marry her. Here is my favourite picture - I don't think I'll be aiming for this look any time soon.

Boo Hoo, I'm a Lesbian

If I've got one thing to thank Emma Smart's Queer Invasion (a study of gay cinema) at the film festival for, it's for allowing me to finally pinpoint exactly what I find so nauseating about lesbian films.

It's the fact that at least one of the central characters will always be nervous, uncomfortable and ashamed. Two of the clips she used showed it perfectly. Firstly there was Helen Shaver's seduction scene in Desert Hearts - there she was in her pink housecoat, wracked with guilt and self hatred and what would the neighbours say. Then there was Ally Sheedy in High Art peering shyly from under her fringe and avoiding eye contact. Both of them a mess of hand-wringing indecision. So where the hell is the PRIDE?

Like the wider feminist movement, there's nothing the by-women-for-women genre likes more than playing the martyr. The feminists may like a role model but they sure as hell LOVE a victim. Take their oppression away and they're fucked. What are we gonna whinge about now?

So we get images of lesbians that are struggling - be it against their up-bringing, their loveless marriages or their own internal fear. And I wouldn't have a problem with that, but they cower in the corner and wait to be coaxed out, they never willingly face up to the challenge.

Which brings me to my much adored drag queens - the diametric opposite. When did you ever see a drag queen movie where the hero cowered in her room and was afraid to go out? Uh-uh, sister, I don't think so. You'll see the mask slip and a vulnerability exposed, but then, quick as a flash, it's *clicks fingers in the air* WORK IT GIRL.

Emma chose La Miranda from Stonewall - again I thank her for illustrating my point. On recieving her subscription papers for the army, does our hero succumb to an attack of panic and break into a cold sweat? Well, yeah, for a minute - then she fixes her hair, puts on the make up and heels and marches straight to the draft board with her head held high. That's the kind of model that I want, cos as any victim knows - you let them smell your fear and you're dead.

Screaming Queens

Yesterday was the last of my tranny themed films at the Lezza and Gay Film Festival.

Screaming Queens: The Riot at Compton's Cafeteria is a documentary about a clash between transsexuals / drag queens and the police that has been largely overlooked in gay history.

Gene Compton's was a cafe in the San Francisco Tenderloin district where lots of drag queens took to hanging out. One evening in 1966 the police arrived to arrest people for the crime of female impersonation. When they grabbed hold of one of the queens, she threw hot coffee in his face and soon there were sugar shakers and chairs flying through the windows. The queens were beating off police with their heavy handbags that they always kept loaded with small bottles as a means of defence. (If they were attacked, they would pull out the bottle and crack it over their assailant's head.)

As well as talking to the drag queens involved in the riot, the film features one of the policemen, Elliot Blackstone. He talks about how the conflict between the transgender community and the police changed his idea about transsexuals to one of acceptance and understanding. Although a straight man himself, he started researching the subject of transgenderism and once joined a protest singing "We Shall Overcome" as the trannys campaigned for better treatment from social services.

Aside from the riot there was a lot of insight into transsexual lives - how some of the girls were able to make a living as entertainers but others were forced into prostitution as they were unable to get a proper job.

The stories varied from a bitter old hag who wanted to distance herself from the queers and disgusting drag queens and just be able to get on with life as a normal woman, to the fantastically glamourous Aleshia Brevard (pictured) who talked about how she was able to blossom once she had become a woman. (In her autobiography Aleshia talks about performing her own castration as she was so frustrated at being unable to get an operation performed by the health services.)

Over time, the conflict led to changes in medical provisions and public understanding. People fought to be allowed to have gender realignment surgery and a pivotal role was played by doctor and author Harry Benjamin. He supplied hormones and wrote The Transsexual Phenomenon, a book that brought transsexual medical care into the public forum.

"The Transsexual Phenomenon was like a guidebook for us," said Amanda St Jaymes, "... once you feel good about yourself, no one can hurt you."

My Justin Bond video

So I'm behind the times and have only just discovered the joys of YouTube - I'm old for christsakes!

Anyway, here, for your overdue delight, is my 45 second clip of Justin performing King of the Mountain at Too 2 Much last November.

Enjoy!

Amend: If you liked that, this one on the LadyPat site is a billion times better.

Tranny Chasing

Filthy Gorgeous - The Trannyshack Story is exactly how I want my life to be. Fabulous people in fabulous clothes being, well ... FABULOUS!!

It's a documentary about the Trannyshack club in San Francisco. It opens with a scene from the Weapons of Ass Destruction theme night, with a naked drag queen pulling an American flag from her poo hole - the tone kind of continues from there.

Club host Heklina (pictured) is prominent in the film. She talks about what inspired the club and how it's become one big dysfunctional family.

Of the many amazing clips I loved Snow White and a Dwarf singing about oral, a demented goth with a pig snout ripping a baby from a woman's stomach, a large queen being gang raped by three lesbians with strap ons, and an "everybody's got Aids" singalong.

Most of the performers were interviewed about their past and their introduction to drag. I loved Princess Kennedy's story about going to the mall dressed as a pregnant teenager when she was a 13 year old boy. I also swooned at SupposiTori Spelling who's amazingly beautiful in both male and female drag. By the end I was a bit "I love you all!!" and it's impossible to pick a favourite.

I forgot to say that 30 or 40 of the trannys had flown over for the show, and afterwards there was a Q & A session. I wanted to ask if they had all come over on the plane in full drag but, of course, I chickened out.

That's OK, because now I can assume the answer's "yes" and picture them all mincing round economy class wearing enormous wigs and platform shoes.

Toblarina and I weren't invited to the backstage party, so we sat on the seats outside and gazed like adoring school kids at the amazing creatures that walked by. There was a lovely butch queen called Kiddie who was wearing silver eyelashes and sparkly lipstick with a dark suit and pork pie hat. It's a look I may steal one day if I'm brave enough.

The eye candy of the night was Putanesca, a six foot plus vision in emerald green sequins with the biggest wig in the whole wild world. She stood and posed for photos, but by the time I'd fumbled with my phone and remembered how to turn the camera on, she was gone. Sigh.

Later at Horsemeat the trannys were performing live. I caught SupposiTori Spelling lip-synching to a drama piece about being made to bark like a dog and forced to take it up the butt. Also Glamamore, Adrian Roberts, Fauxnique, Vinsantos and some others I don't recall. It was one of the most insane things I've ever seen - absolutely fan-fucking-tastic.

In the back room later I encountered Princess Kennedy, Heklina and some white trash drag queens. I also beheld my new coveted item - a Tranny Chaser t-shirt! They were selling them in a kind of dirty pale blue which is soooo not my colour, but I shall be commissioning a rip-off version of my own in due course.

To close the evening I went to Marvellous where, guess what? The trannys turned up again. Hurray! This time I got to speak to SupposiTori Spelling who caught me reclining elegantly on a couch upstairs with sweat gushing from every pore. Prior to me informing her she was my favourite in the movie and I loved her on stage act, our conversation ran thus ...

SS: Isn't it hot in here?
Me: Bitch, I'm sweating like a rapist.
SS: I know, I'm like a whore in church.

A meeting of great minds if ever there was one.

Transamerica

Transamerica was exactly as I expected - enjoyable but largely uninformed of its subject matter.

If you've missed the promotion, Felicity Huffman (Desperate Housewives) plays a transsexual woman, Bree, who discovers she has a son and spends the five days before her gender realignment surgery getting to know him and confronting a few other demons from her past.

The performances are superb but the storyline is achingly predictable and a lot of the humour is clichéd - Bree forgetting herself momentarily and sitting down in an unladylike way, or reacting comedically to the notion that a strong drink will "put hairs on your chest." You almost expect her to shout "I'm a lady!" and skip away.

Bree meets her son when she goes to pick him up from jail. Short of an explanation for why she is bailing him out, she tells him she's a church worker. The two then embark on a road trip across the country allowing for a number of backdrops and encounters with different people along the way.

One of the best is when they visit a transsexual support group (yes, real transsexuals this time!) who are both hilarious and moving. The only time the movie confronts the gender issue with any credibility.

There's some superb character acting when Bree goes to visit her family - her demented matriarch mother, reformed alcoholic sister and hen pecked father. There are also some astute observations into family dynamics - " we love you but we don't respect you". Only Bree's sister is pleased to see her walk through the door "it takes some of the heat off me". And I loved her trying to dress Bree in pink ostrich feathers "to really freak mom out".

So eventually Bree plucks up the courage to tell her son who she really is. After an initial violent reaction he runs away, reappearing after she has completed her surgery for a Hollywood style happy ending.

The film basically has the feel of a made-for-TV-movie. It might break some ground with those who have never given transsexuality much thought before, but it's not going to start a revolution.

Call Waiting

I saw something in Time Out the other day about a mobile phone exhibition at the Science Museum displaying all the latest technology. Hoorah, I thought. It's not that I'm fed up with my rinky dink pink RAZR, but it's nice to know what you'll be wasting money on in the future.

I was crushed, therefore, to discover that it's not a technology show at all - it's a yawnarama ticking off session telling us mobiles are BAD. If you must have one you're supposed to make it last FOREVER and not ditch it when a prettier one comes along. BORING! Apparently they contain toxic metals and are destroying the planet or something. Tut. There's always someone wants to spoil your fun because you've got a nice toy.

Can you imagine being without your mobile? It's become an essential commodity - like lipstick. I remember hating them when they first came out and thinking they were stupid (because I didn't have many friends and knew it would never ring - a bit like the geeks at the Science Museum!) Now I never leave home without it.

Upgrades are important - you have to keep up with the trends. You need flashy lights and mega pixel cameras, otherwise it's, like, LOSER!

Without a mobile, how are you supposed to keep up with people's shopping trips, what's on telly and who's down the pub? I mean, how did we arrange social events in the past? No wonder I had no friends, I never knew where anyone was going!

So sod the landfill and the ozone, I'm sure it's a lot of fuss about nothing. I'm off to download a new ringtone. L8r X

When David Met Justin

Nobody knew what this show was going to be like, not even the performers themselves. It was unscripted, unrehearsed and utterly hilarious.

The premise was that David Hoyle (formerly The Divine David) and Justin Bond would meet for the first time for a Desert Island Discs type discussion about their favourite songs. Of course, it was always going to be more than that.

David led the proceedings and opened by telling us he's spent the last 6 years rocking backwards and forwards and talking to the same strip of wallpaper. "If it had talked back, I'd still be there".

Annoyingly, his accent kept reminding me of Alan Partridge (ah-ha!). He delivers his lines with the same faux seriousness, but he's wittier than Steve Coogan could ever be.

Justin appeared wearing a glittery snood, very diva. He danced around to the songs and punctuated his conversation with sips from an enormous red goblet.

I came to the conclusion a while ago that the sign of great comedy is when you can't remember a word of it the next day. So far I can only remember two quotes:

David on Kylie: "What has she ever really done or contributed apart from getting cancer?"

Justin on suicide: "If you spent all your time worrying about all the people who'd killed themselves because of something you'd done, then you'd never do anything!"

Oh, and they praised Shirley Bassey for once going on stage, even though one of her kids had just died.

Were you there? Do you remember more? Write in!

Come on, VOGUE

Last night’s Vogue Ball at Horsemeat Disco was a fantastically hot and sweaty affair. Having arrived earlier than planned in the hope of finding familiar faces, I was pleased to find Chelsea Kelsey, The Peden, Tall Tom and companions propping up the bar.

Chelsea was despising much of the crowd for being “old school gays”. Personally I had no real issue with the people, just the sheer volume of the buggers. Oh, and some liberal use of deodorant might have helped the general atmosphere too!

By the time the drag competition started, the front of the venue was what I believe is referred to as “a heaving mass”. Chelsea and Tom proved to be harder than me by pushing forward to find a corner. I immediately wimped out and took refuge at the back of the hall with the yankies – I mean, do I look like a people person?!

Justin and Sammy had their cute friends Shrub, Tranny and Nita over from NY. We figured if we stood near the backstage room, we could still see the drag queens and not get trampled under foot – hurrah! There were some serious wigs on display – huge black masses of gothic nylon and the biggest blond afro I’ve ever seen.

My favourite outfit of the night was a little black guy who had his face painted ebony and was wearing a red clown suit with a red feather sticking out the top of his head.

Also loved Sybil Rouge – a six foot plus post-op tranny who looks remarkably like Jerry Hall. I once unwittingly allowed her to make a perfect entrance at Marvellous when I put on Chic’s Le Freak at the exact moment she walked thorough the door. She took her cue and sashayed across the floor like she was on a cat walk. Possibly my favourite Marvellous moment ever!

I’m annoyed I didn’t take a camera as there were plenty of fabulous looks. Philip Normal seemed to be wearing his Mad Hatter costume from Wayne Shires' Alice in Wonderland party the night before. He was dressed from head to foot in green and black check, accessorised by a black top hat with a price tag on the side.

Sammy Jo and Nita took to the decks after the show. Sammy had a disc with three brand new Scissor Sisters tracks he was keeping down his pants for safekeeping. Wise move, no way anyone’s going down there, thank you very much, mister. I heard one of the songs that was, well, OK. Maybe I’ll like it better once I’ve heard it again.

Baby Animals

It's been an uncharacteristically quiet week round at Right Nasty Mansions. Still, there's plenty of partying ahead ...

Had a nice night out with Sammy Jo on Thursday, gossiping and catching up. Later we met up with Justin for pizza and he suddenly lurched into Kiki mode, telling a fantastic story about his white trash neighbours when he was a kid and their succession of family pets that all killed themselves. There was a cat who would lie in the road and beg to be run over, then two poodles that both threw themselves in front of traffic.

We're all excited about going to see Baby Dee at Bistrotheque in April. To be honest I knew nothing about her when Tall Paul suggested it, but by the time he'd added "New York drag queen" I'd already signed up. I was surprised when I went to the website to listen to some songs. I was expecting Jayne County-type trashy stuff, but what I heard immediately reminded me of Antony - who is apparently a big fan.

Sammy Jo told me he used to see Baby Dee riding around the east village on an old fashioned tricycle, carrying an accordion and with an enormous harp strapped to the back (see pic). She would stop in the street and play for a while, then get back on the trike and peddle off. I love that about New York, you don't see such wanton eccentricity in London.

Tiger Feet

On Friday night we hot footed to the Queen Elizabeth Hall to see Tiger Lillies.

Support came from K&A - Kirsten Reynolds and Ashley Davies - they put on something called Sonic Knitwear. It was basically 30 minutes of electronic droning accompanied by oh-so-amusing images of knitting wool, old fashioned interior decor and pattern books with pictures of their own heads stuck on. Laugh? I nearly headed for the exit.

Thankfully it was soon over and it was time for the Tiger Lillies. For this production - Mountains of Madness - they had joined forces with Alexander Hacke from unpronouncable German minstrels Einsturzende Neubauten. The entire set was based around the works of goth writer HP Lovecraft. I have no previous knowledge of Lovecraft - in fact earlier in the week I got confused and claimed they were playing tribute to HG Wells - but I think I might be checking him out soon.

Each of the songs was preceded by an extract from Lovecraft's books, read in Hacke's amazing made-for-horror-movies scary voice - a perfect contrast to Martyn Jacques' seering falsetto. They were also accompanied by projections onto a giant screen at the back of the stage. The songs were all new, so I can't name check them. I loved the first - a beautiful ballad about climbing the mountain - and also the manic recital about an invasion of rats.

I would have liked a few funnier numbers too. Alongside their melancholy and poetic works, the group have made a name from writing hilarious songs on the themes of blasphemy and zoophilia. Sex with Flies is a favourite. They appeared at a festival in Sydney recently and the Aussies complained the act was obscene and shouldn't be allowed. Silly fools.

www.tigerlillies.com

What Makes A Man?

I have become mildly fascinated by Buck Angel - transsexual porn star and self proclaimed "man with a pussy".

I first came across him on a poster for a club night in New York. There's a lot of dark gothic imagery and a picture of a tattooed muscle man holding an axe. I confess I did a double take when I noticed he had a vagina. His clitoris is engorged so it was hard to tell if he actually had a very tiny penis.

I set about a Google search and have since read a few interviews where Buck has some very interesting and intelligent things to say about transgenderism, gender identity and the short comings of gender realignment surgery - along with his career as an internet porn star.

Almost inevitably I found his site a bit of a disappointment. Most of the people who cough up dollars are just interested in the cock and fanny shots and not too bothered about the history and politics behind it.

Buck wants to make a statement on behalf of the F to M community, a group that otherwise tends to hide itself away. While he achieves this, it's done without presenting anything that would promote thought, debate or a better understanding. He's a witty guy with a lot to say and I'd love if he used a section of the site to air his experiences and views.

If you want a brief introduction, check out this clip from the Bizarre site - a homage to the Levi's jeans ads ...

Hooked to the Silver Screen

It's nearly time for the Lezza and Gay Film Festival - yay!

Look what I'm going to see:

- Transamerica
- Filthy Gorgeous, The Trannyshack Story
- Screaming Queens: The Riot at Comptons Cafeteria

Do you notice a well established theme?!

Toby is also taking me to 50 Ways of Saying Fabulous. I don't know anything about it, but the picture I've seen has a boy in a bra, so at least there'll be a bit of cross dressing fun!

The Filthy Gorgeous thing sounds fantastic. It's about the original Trannyshack club in San Francisco and features my future wife - Ana Matronic - and Justin Bond. The programme says to look out for some visitors from "across the pond" - do you think Ana will be there? Eek! I'll wet 'em!!

After the film there's a big do on at Horse Meat Disco. Of course, I am horrified at the thought of going and getting drunk, but it's nice the opportunity's there if you like that kind of thing.

I'm also excited about Screaming Queens ... it's about a riot in San Fran in 1966. Police tried to raid a cafe and all the drag queens and trannys that went there caused a right old to-do. A bit like a mini-Stonewall. It's a documentary that was shot in 2005 and has interviews with many of the people who took part. I hope they have good footage of the event too.

I'm packing my tissues for Transamerica as I feel a wee blub may be in order. Felicity Huffman (Desperate Housewives) plays a transsexual about to transition to female, who discovers she has a son and wants to get to know him first. It's a bit mainstream - I hope there isn't a big Hollywood happy ending, on the other hand I don't want my mascara to run.

Night on the Tiles

So I've finally been to the scary Woolwich Infant - AKA my new favourite bar.

From the outside it's more bleak than I expected, worse than on this picture. The windows are all boarded from the inside, supporting the smashed up glass. There's security doors on either side and a faint smell of wee.

The inside seems preserved from the seventies - shabby peach decor and an air of decayed glamour. The hippy paper lampshades are augmented with feather boas and there's a working men's club kind of feel to it. More Prick Up Your Ears than Quentin Crisp.

The staff make you feel welcome at once. Camp Scouse's only gripe was the toilets, but he's never been clubbing in Vauxhall and knows little of what he speaks. I don't wear thick soled trainers for fashion purposes.

Once settled with our beer we proceed to "gay spot" through the rest of the Council. I already knew there was one M to F transsexual on the staff, but imagine my delight at finding someone in a pretty high position is like Woolwich's answer to Christine Jorgensen! She transitioned years ago when she held a professional position and was consequently hounded by the press and public. Most people would have moved away, but she stayed now holds a very responsible post. I have to track her down and make her my new friend!

It's Great to be Straight

So Brokeback Mountain failed to clear up at the Oscars. It seems, as screenplayer writer Larry McMurtry suggests, "... Americans don't want cowboys to be gay."

The heteros don't like it when gays invade their territory. Look at the bastion of homophobia in this country - football. Refuge of macho men everywhere, they don't want to discover their best striker's a poofter - what would the lads say?

Footballers, cowboys, superheroes ... they're the fuel of boy child fantasies, and suddenly it's all being turned on its head. Men just aren't allowed to be MEN anymore.

I tremble as I write this, but maybe I've been barking up the wrong tree. It's possible the straight acting gays are the most subversive of all. As Boy George once quipped, "straight acting, non seen" - but what's scarier than an invisible enemy? You don't know who you can trust. If it's all screaming pansies and big fat dykes, well, at least you know where you are.

I'm sticking to my guns, though - vive le ghetto! But let's ditch Gay Pride and have Assimilation Day - that'll spook the buggers.

Glitter in their Eyes

Had a welcome androgny fix watching the BBC's Kings of Glam last night. Men should be made to wear boas and make up - there'd be a lot less trouble in the world, in my opinion.

First we had Marc Bolan looking resplendent in pink feathers. They spoke to his lovely son Rolan who Chris and I once met at the Retro. He was incredibly beautiful and invited us to his birthday party. When the day came he had completely forgotten us, but we continued to adore him anyway.

One of the show's highlights was a young and geeky Bowie. He was on TV protesting about abuse of long haired men. An encounter with Lindsay Kemp and a trip to Warhol's Pork cured him of geekness. The rest, as they say, is history. Hooray!

My all time glam faves are Roxy Music. I'm planning a mini revival. Bryan Ferry in a sparkling green catsuit with matching eye glitter is a sight to behold. I love that inflection in his voice, he makes everything sound a bit dirty. I think I'd quite like to be him in a different world.

At the end of the show there were brief clips of Sweet and Gary Glitter. They were basically tutting them for jumping on the band wagon and being a bit rubbish. Talk about kicking a man when he's down! Poor old Gary, he's just a sad old perv - he can't help it!

As for the Sweet, I love a bit of Wig Wam Bam! I was happy as Larry with the teeny shot of the fabulous Steve Priest. I've loved him since I was about 6, proving I was born a tranny hopper!

Next week it's Queens of Disco - can't wait!

Holidays and Lights

Spent the past few days wrestling with a travel feature for my college course. Such a slap in the face - 12 days off work and no money to go on holiday, the last thing I wanted to do was start looking at blummin travel journalism!

Ended up doing a guide to rock n roll sight seeing in New York. I know some of you smug gits are off there soon, so it's here if you're interested. And just so you know, you make me sick!

Earlier in the week I went to the Dan Flavin neon light exhibition at the Hayward. As Toblarina and I are cheap skates we went on half price Monday, this meant we had to share the place with more people than we would have liked, but we didn't let it spoil our trip!

The installations are amazing but I never feel the Hayward presents it's collections very well. In a stark white and brightly lit environment, the pieces lack atmosphere and context. This one, for example, didn't look quite so impressive when we saw it ...

We had fun trying to dodge the wardens and disobey the DO NOT STEP BEHIND THE WORKS signs. Such rebellion - we have a terrible sense of gallery etiquette.

Music, Art and Pop Stars

Having survived the Brits, last night I thought I'd chance my arm at the NME Awards show.

The presence of Russell Brand made it a more enjoyable production, but it was equally depressing on the music front. It seems modern pop is now dominated by ugly white men and the Sugababes. Oh, and the tokenistic whatever that went to Kanye West. I still don't get the big deal with him, it's a blinkin' racket!

In keeping with the Brits, there were the same 6 or so bands nominated for every award. Arctic Monkeys won no less than 3. Good god, they're not awful or anything but they're not that flippin good. A right cocky bunch of twats they are too. Not surprising, really - as Russell opined, "Bless 'em, it's their age."

---

Earlier in the day I trotted off to the Hauser and Wirth gallery near Piccadilly to see the Warhol's World exhibition - a collection of photographs taken by Andy W himself.

The pictures are enjoyable but he's no Diane Arbus. In most cases the subject is far more interesting than the artistry of the shot. I was disappointed to find there was no Candy Darling, in fact there were hardly any drag queens at all. I spotted a nice shot of a young Ian McKellan and also a fantastic one of Boy George and Marilyn.

I've always loved Marilyn but I think he's probably lost the plot. Ryan Homoelectric interviewed him for a documentary he was producing a few years ago. Marilyn was also appearing on Never Mind the Buzzcocks that day and was being very difficult and making lots of demands. Ryan's a good looking chap and Marilyn stalked him for a while by text, Ry got quite stressed about it. Hee hee - not sure how long it went on for.

I'd quite like to have Marilyn as my friend, but I reckon he'd always be trying to ponce cash. I've heard that he's penniless now and has to live with his mum. Sigh - there should be some kind of trust fund for failed 80s pop stars. I'd throw Pete Burns a few quid too. Did you see him on Friday Night Project last night in that amazing dress? How FANTASTIC!!

Drat! And Double Drat

It's my birthday today, so last night it was off to Trannyshack for some fun and frolics with the gender benders.

A fine time was had by all, Dusty O played a fantastic set (though sadly no Sylvester) and me and Stephen Arteast had a rare old time on the dance floor.

I'm still not sure where the Too 2 Much crowd comes from, though ostensibly a gay venue it seems to attract a large number of fashionable straights. Still, everyone was friendly enough and, though there weren't enough trannies for my liking, I would definitely like to go there again.

Part way through the night Dusty O said something about Pete Burns being in the house. Stephen and I eagerly scanned the room but couldn't see him. A bit later I went off for a wee and lo and behold, there he was ... leaving! ARSE! I would have so loved to catch up with him last night. As he breezed past me I managed to touch his arm and say "See you soon, darlin", instinctively he replied, "Yeah, see you" without having a clue who I was. I'm still gutted thinking about it now!

Oh well, one day our paths will cross again and I can tell him of the monumental affect he has had on my life. For now I'm gonna put on Big Daddy of the Rhythm and have a little sob!

Another of Life's Disappointments

Yesterday I went to the Museum of London's Queer is Here exhibition with Toby. What a waste of blummin time. We were expecting an array of artifacts, pictures and representations of gay life. Instead we got an 8-foot long panel and a couple of glass cabinets - and even they failed to impress. The exhibition only covers the past 30 years which is incredibly short sighted. I don't know who wrote the copy, but they don't seem to have much knowledge of the subject. A few well known facts were glossed over, but nothing that anyone who reads the national press wouldn't know about already. The claim that a third of the UK's LGBT population lives in London seems a bit wide of the mark. And the description of Civil Partnerships as being a "carbon copy of heterosexual marriage" made me splutter with disbelief. The glass cabinets were significantly short of breathtaking, holding rainbow badges, labyris earrings and the likes. There were a few Civil Partnerships greetings cards but they're hardly historical - they've only been in the shops for two months! Our chagrin was further compelled when we went further into the museum to discover a vast Black History display. Now I have no problem with a celebration of black history, but why they get prime exhibition space and we get 8 foot of badly constructed tat is yet to be discovered.

Still, far be it from us to waste an opportunity to impersonate art, so here is me being, erm ... some bloke I forgot to check the name of.

I also tried to be Bob Marley but came out looking more like Ben Vonpellier from Curiosity Killed the Cat - hey ho!

Later in the week I'm going to the Dan Flavin exhibition at the Hayward. Not quite sure how I'm going to impersonate a neon tube, but I'll give it my goddamn best shot!

Modern Pop is Rubbish

Did anyone else watch the Brits last night? I sat through 2 hours of absolute shite waiting for Prince to come on, only to discover I’d missed him cos he was at the beginning. I was well hacked off!

And what the hell is the deal with James Blunt? I used to think I was out of touch with modern pop cos I was too old, but that’s the kind of rubbish your mum likes. And KT Tunstall’s not much better.

As for the Kaiser Chiefs and Arctic Monkeys – it’s all thump thump thump. It wasn’t like that in our day.

The Brits - I think they need to just stop it now, it’s getting silly.

We're Here, We're Queer

I find myself becoming more and more interested in gay history. I think I might become like one of those old giffers who goes on about the war and how young people don’t realise how lucky they are. I'm sure my increasing knowledge base will just fuel my disgust with the straight acting types who refuse to display any gay pride.

I loved Bette Bourne’s appearance at Duckie on Saturday. She was talking about the days of the Gay Liberation Front and the time she lived in a drag commune. The police used to come round to hassle them, but the drag queens would just run at them screaming and the coppers would leg it in fear.

I think I’m going to go on a gay walking tour of Soho on Sunday. You get to find out about clubs in the 30s and 40s and the underground scene in the 50s.

I’ve also just ordered a mucky book from Amazon about what men used to get up to in bars and backrooms of London in the olden days.

There’s a bar in Woolwich that sounds like something from the Quentin Crisp story. You have to knock on the door to get in and the glass at the front is all smashed, but when you look in you can see fairy lights on the ceiling. It all seems horribly exciting so me and Camp Scouse are going to go. Maybe we’ll have to duck down when people walk by…

“Did anyone see you come in here? Make sure no-one sees you leave.”

Painting the High Street Pink

Do you remember ages ago I was wittering on about the Civil Partnerships Bill and whether it woud have an effect on the high street? Well, my feature on the subject can now be found on Rainbow Network.

Go on - check it out!

Images of Lost Composure

Another drunken evening under my belt. Last night was the closing night of Stephen's Images of Lost Content exhibition at the Nancy Victor gallery. Of course, it would have been rude not to turn up and quaff lots of free wine, so as I was raised to be well mannered ...

After chitty chatting and pretending to be cultured at the gallery, we then dispensed to the pub across the street for some wanton tomfoolery. I had an interesting conversation with Divine David on the subject of talent. I was saying that I admire people who have the gift to be able to get on stage, start talking and immediately hold people's attention and be entertaining. He insists that such a talent doesn't exist.

Maybe he just takes it for granted, because I can think of many people who would fall flat on their face in such circumstances. I think we've all been dragged along to speeches and meetings where it has been proven that some people are just not cut out for public performance. To say nothing of audience participation on TV shows - the mere thought of which gives me shivers.

He asked me if I was a frustrated performer. I denied it outright but, thinking about it later, it might be a little bit true. I'm way too much of a coward, though!

Still, it's not like I'm beyond showing off. I seem to recall, at a later point of the evening, posing for a camera with David on one side and Joan Dairy Queen hanging off my tit. Honestly, the company I keep ...

Busy, busy, busy ...

Cripes, my juices have been flowing today. It's OK, I mean creative ones ... no need to feel queasy!

First I did my review of KEEP the FAITH, Duckie's production at Tate Britain on Friday, then I decided to write this for the LBGT History site.

I need a nice sit down now.

Wordy Rappinghood

Being too lazy to reach for the remote last night, I sat through BBC2's Balderdash and Piffle – it’s like Call My Bluff but with bigger budgets.

Last night’s letter was C. That’s C for cake, crapulous, curry … and that rude word your mum doesn’t like.

Jerry Hall researched “cocktail”, while Courtney Pine scoured jazz clubs for the origins of “cool”.

Germaine Greer, meanwhile, delivered her analysis of c … (nudge) you know.

Painting it large on a brick wall, she celebrated the strength and power of the word. She tutted the lack of an acceptable alternative, but then decided it’s probably best kept taboo - you wouldn’t want it losing its edge.

Armed with her celebrity guest’s findings, presenter Victoria Coren trotted off to bother etymologists at the Oxford English Dictionary, smugly nagging them to update their definitions.

God they must hate her. Through gritted teeth they smile and nod, “Well done, Victoria.” And silently, you cunt.

Cock and Bull

The Guardian described A Cock and Bull Story as "the best film ever, ever, ever." Reminds me of why I switched to The Times.

It is, in fact, a load of old cock. And bull. For one thing it's all about babies, something I was painfully unaware of being unfamiliar with the novel, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentlemen, on which it is based. Serves me right for not being very well read, I suppose.

After an encouraging bout of bickering between Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, I lost interest almost immediately when we moved to the first segment of a birth scene that lasts throughout the entire film.

The bit with the boy pissing through the window and getting his dick trapped cheered me up a bit, especially as it disgusted the woman sat next to me, but from there on in I was bored, bored, bored.

Next week I think I'll go and see Bareback Mountain (sic) instead. At least it's got poofters in.

It seems BM may have achieved the unthinkable and appeased the usual protesters who throw their hands in the air in response to gay media, dismissing it as stereotypical and showing a poor representation of gay life.

Personally I am a huge fan of camp cinema - in fact I might put Priscilla on later. According to Boyz, Brokeback Mountain has "no camp soundtrack, no glitzy setting and certainly no drag queens."

*Confused look* ... so what's the point??

How to Look Like Pete Burns

Want to know?

Got to know?

Click here, for goodness sake ... sheesh!

Kid Creole Rocked My Pants!

Yes, it's true! Saw Kid Creole and his fine Coconuts at the Jazz Cafe this evening and they totally hit the spot.

On one hand the most heterosexual of performers, by the same token they are one of the campest things you ever will witness too!

Centre stage was the Kid in his royal purple finery - trouser waistband right up to his nips! I was a tad disappointed with the Coconuts at first, they were a bit pound shop. They all had the same hair, same make up, same outfits. Back in the days of the old Coconuts, they were similar but all had their own "look". Still, I soon got used to them and the one closest to us (Eva, I believe) was cute as can be, so I spent a long time watching her wiggle.

All the hits were there - I'm A Wonderful Thing, Gina Gina, Annie I'm Not Your Daddy, Stool Pigeon ... ha cha cha cha.

To the Kid's left was Eddie Bongo - "25 years of service" - a tubby Musky from Deputy Dawg. Besides laying down a fine timpani, he also took time to ponder the plight of the hetero boy-fop ... "What I want to know, if I get engaged to a lady, where's *my* ring?" Amen to that, sister!

Sadly there was no chance for a stage invasion. At Kew Gardens a few years ago, Chris and I were cruelly robbed of our 5 minutes of Coconut fame when we went to the toilet while all around us were invited up on stage. It's a blow from which we will never recover, but by the end of the evening the whole joint was a-jumpin so we were happy enough with that. With 12 band members on the stage, there was hardly room for a couple of lardy 40-odds anyway!

I'll just have to put my spangly bra away for next time ...

Sign of The Times

This week I set myself a challenge to be published on The Times website every day.

I'm pleased to say I succeeded. But then I have to remember it was just inane comments about Big Brother and not really a journalistic triumph at all.

Oh well.

Going places

I hate living in this damn city sometimes - a 50 minute wait for a train to take me on a 13 minute journey to New Cross Gate. All this due to an earlier gas leak that was approximately nowhere fucking near the route I was attempting to travel.

All this meant I got to my first college class of the year more than half an hour late and with a right case of the bang 'ump. I enjoyed the class though, glad I persevered and didn't slope off home in a sulk. We're moving into consumer journalism for the next few weeks. Given my accomplishment at spending money I don't have (see previous post!) I think I may have found my niche.

Some of the younger, more earnest, students were a bit tut tut about the commercial aspects of the brief, they said they wouldn't want to make a living from marketing-related commissions. I'm way too jaded for such idealism. I say bring on the dancing girls - bung me a tenner and I'll tell the world how great they are.

For this project we have to produce a "how to" guide, so I can't just prattle on about the joy of a pretty pink phone or, as I had planned, present a retrospective of JT Leroy novels. Oh well ... I'm sorely tempted to do a tongue in (sculpted) cheek guide on how to look like Pete Burns. How hard can it be - tattoos, massive lips and a dip in the bargain bucket at Vivienne Westwood - sorted! At least I can claim it's topical.

Oops, I Did It Again

I think I need to seek medical help for my compulsive spending disorder.

After a frugal December and a torturous spend-free January, I have undone all my hard work with one extravagant purchase on Ebay.

Of course, I am looking forward to receiving my completely unnecessary new mobile phone - it's slim, it's sharp and it's rinky dink PINK - but at the moment I fear a dull self loathing will compromise my enjoyment of its camp prettiness.

I think I've spent about 2 years of my adult life being debt free, I'm starting to worry that I'll never experience the state again. Maybe I should start watching those "Spendaholic" shows on Channel 4 where they talk to women with 300 pairs of shoes. I'm really in no position to feel superior.

Tall Paul started reading one of Alvin Hall's "Get Out Of Debt" books last year. There was lots of good advice about burning your credit cards, spending moderately and keeping to a budget. I believe his follow up paperback "How to Retain the Will to Live" has yet to be commissioned.

It's the evil of being born and bred in a consumerist society that sends many of us to the shops or internet sites as soon as we get a bit depressed. No-one seems to know quite why a new purchase makes you feel so good, we just know it does.

I was cheered by the thought that a similarly skint Stephen was off to the Harrods sale today. I imagined his wreckless purchasing would provide me with a kindred spirit so I wouldn't have to feel alone. What do you know? The snidey little git didn't spend a penny! I was furious.

So it's back to beans on toast and special offer wine for another few months. It's not like I'm unaccustomed ... Say hi if you see me plundering the markdown sections - I'll be the one with the groovy new phone!

Another Dumb Bird on TV

I was so wishing we would be rid of dumb ass Chantelle after last night's "stand in order of fame" task.

It's not that I have a problem with her specifically, I'm just sick and tired of seeing stupid women on TV. Time and time again, though we pretend times have changed, it's proven that the way to get ahead if you're female is to present yourself as dumb and, preferably, blonde.

It's no surprise to find Big Brother has turned out it's fair share, given the nature of the programme. Essex's version of Paris Hilton follows in the tradition established by ridiculous Helen ("I love blinkin' I do") and the infamous Jade Goody.

You see, I don't actually think Jade's a stupid as she makes out. If she was she would have returned to comparitive obscurity with her own version of Paul Clarke. Instead she's still in the media and opening her own business. She is still, however, acting dumb, cos if she wasn't the game would be up.

She was on a panel show a few weeks back, all she was required to do was giggle and say "I don't know anything, me". It was toe curlingly awful.

It reminds me of several years ago when I heard someone describe Joanne Guest as a "clever girl". This was because she'd figured if she stuck her tits out and looked vacant then people would give her lots of money.

I'm not saying we should all be intellectual, that would be a whole different kind of hell, but it'd be so nice if, for once, the media could champion a bright young thing who didn't sound like she was auditioning for Children Say The Funniest Things every time she opened her gob.

Until then we're stuck with bubbly, squeaky Chantelle. Maybe Pete will get bored and smother her with his gorilla skin jacket. We can but hope.

CBB - Hooray!

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last blog. I swore I would update this thing at least twice a week but, to be honest, there’s been bugger all happening. I’ve spent most of my energy the last 7 days bemoaning the fact that I have absolutely NO MONEY.

Still, God has provided in the shape of Celebrity Big Brother. I missed the opening show, but when I heard my heroes and ex-pin ups Pete Burns and Rula Lenska were on, well, I switched to E4 faster than you can say Vanessa Feltz.

Aside from Rula I didn’t recognise any of the women. Apparently one of them is Jodie Marsh. Still, with Pete in the house, at least it won’t be just the ladies who are showing off their false tits.

The male contingent are vaguely more recognisable. I’ve got my eye on George Galloway, “I’m so glad you’re in here, Rula”, he smarmed. Keep it in your pants, George!!

Samuel Preston seems like a nice chap. Then, of course, there’s Michael Barrymore. To quote Gerald, STAY AWAY FROM THE POOL!

I don't know if they can match up to the marvellous-ness of last years show - with John McCririck being sulky and bonkers, Bez being incomprehensible, Caprice being gorgeous and Jackie Stallone being the Pig puppet from Pipkins. Unless Pete Burns has changed dramatically since I knew him back in the ‘pool, he’s my odds on favourite to walk.

I’m pulling up the sofa and waiting for the fireworks to begin. *Looks around* … “where’s the little boy with my wine?”

Happy New Yawn

Now I'm not one to turn down the opportunity to get pissed and have a bit of a party but, really, what the fuck is New Year all about?

Woo - it's midnight! Woo - it's a new day! You could do that on any night of the week and people would accuse you of being a tad insane.

That said, I've no problem with the celebrations per se, it's all that kissing business that really gets my goat. If God had meant us to kiss people we barely know he would have made us all European. (Yes, I know that, technically, we are, but I refuse to acknowledge the fact. The British are British and everyone else is foreign, OK?)

It's not just that, either. I'm already dreading going pretty much anywhere for at least the next two weeks to face the meaningless "happy new year" chants from people I neither know nor care about. There's always some annoying twat at work who will insist on repeating it to *each and every person* like a vacuous verbal talisman. They do it to prove how "nice" they are, but God forbid you don't recite it back to them, they'll be dissing your arse till next Christmas!

As usual I shall be slurring my words and spilling my drink at Retro when Big Ben bangs the midnight gong. Some of the fashionable people are off to Duckie, but I consider 15 quid to get into South Central to see Yr Mum Ya Dad a bit excessive. I don't mean to bang on about these boys again, but I think I've finally figured out the problem - it's a generation thing as I suspected...

The point of Yr Mum Ya Dad is that there is no point. When you're young you don't mind that - "oh wow, it was really funny. These two guys came out wearing make up and, like, weird clothes and stuff, and they, like, poured milk over each other and everything, it was soo classic!" Once you get older it's just *hand on hip and adopt a distainful snear* ... "what's this rubbish?"

At Retro we have a balloon drop - far more civilised! See you next year!

Help the Aged

I've decided I want to be like the Golden Girls when I grow up.

Wouldn't it be great to spend your autumn years swanning round a big house making acerbic remarks all day with nobody getting uptight about it? Not only that, they have their own housekeeper and ice cream magically appears in the freezer without anyone having to go out and shop for it.

It is law that if you're a lesbian you have to like Dorothy best, if you're a straight woman you like Blanche, and if you are a bummer you like Rose. While I generally despise gender stereotypes, I'm prepared to go along with this one. Though I think I'd like to be Sophia when I get really old.

For the past couple of weeks I've been reading a book called Early Bird by Rodney Rothman. It's about a man who decides to pack his job in and go and live in a retirement village in Florida at the age of 28. That sounds quite nice too - there are lots of activities that people can join in to keep their minds and bodies active. Those that don't take part are largely regarded with suspicion. The writer's flatmate is the local odd woman who refuses to join in any of the events, rarely speaks to anyone and just stays at home with her pets. I recognise myself immediately.

Short of a miraculous change of fortune, I worry that I will end up in council operated Sheltered Housing. Living in a tiny flat with no cat allowed would be bad enough, but I'll also be surrounded by straight people endlessly banging on about their grand kids. What a hideous thought. So isn't is about time somebody started thinking about retirement facilities for gay people? Where do the gayers go to die? I think Brighton would be the best place. I can see us all on the prom with glitter zimmers.

There must be someone out there with the money and enterprise to make it happen. I hope they don't wait too long ...

For Kirsty

Yesterday was the 5th anniversary of Kirsty MacColl's death. I don't get teary eyed about it like I used to, but I never forget. In the evening I put on Titanic Days and toasted her memory with a nice glass of red. I think it's a tribute she would have appreciated.

I have fond memories of Kirsty coming into the HMV shop I worked at in Ealing. She was always sweet, polite and not at all "starry".

She then had the honour of being the first person I ever interviewed when I worked for the HMV website a few years later. Again, she was adorable and almost as nervous as me. God knows, I was bricking it! We had a lame chat about the weather before the interview started, it was all so normal and gave me fresh confidence.

But her influence on my life has been greater than that. After the devastation of her death, something she once said on TV came back to me. I was at the tail end of relationship that had been dragging on for years. I knew it was time to leave but was scared of making the break. For some reason Kirsty's words came to me really clearly, she was talking about her divorce from Steve Lillywhite, how she'd held out for years thinking "it was good once before, maybe it'll be good again." In the end she had realised that would never happen and so had left. "We're both much happier now", she said. And she was right.

Moving away from that situation opened up a whole new world of opportunities for me, I wouldn't have the life or any of the friends I have now if I had stayed.

A group of us paid to have a memorial installed in Soho Square - an empty bench, like the lyrics of one of her songs.

This sentiment has been used before, but it's still the most beautiful: Kirsty MacColl - thank you for the days.

Ho Ho NO!

I seem to keep thinking of ideas for feature articles just a bit too late to try and sell them. Rats!

My latest cunning plan is to devise a compendium for Christmas haters.

I think I'll make it a misanthropist's guide as we are vastly over looked in popular culture. It will list ways of coping with the oppressive saturation of festive nastiness, how to entertain yourself when you're denied the pub, shops, gym etc.

As the day draws closer it seems there are greater barriers drawn between me and the things I enjoy:

• Don't go out in the car, you'll be stuck in traffic.
• Don't go to the shops, you'll be stuck in queues.
• Don't go to the pub, you'll be surrounded by idiots.
• Don't get public transport cos the idiots will be chucking up everywhere.

Still, there's sport to be devised from the misery - I always enjoy sniggering at couples in the supermarket, totally losing it with their kids and having stand up rows over which stuffing to buy.

Though I might have to start handing out awards for outstanding contributions to monotony if I have to listen to one more person discussing what they're having for lunch.

As tradition dictates, I will be spending the holidays with the door locked and a big stack of DVDs to watch. In fact, a quick straw poll at The Retro last night confirmed that the populist activity for the gays this year is to sit in and watch Golden Girls.

Of course, even that costs money so that leads me to my practical tip for the season - why buy DVDs when you can them rent online them for nowt? Sign up for a free trial at a rental store and you can have 3 films to watch for nothing. Sign up for two and you can have 6.

Hours of Christmas entertainment for an outlay of absolutely no pee! Hurrah! Just don't forget to cancel before the new year.

Baby who? Baby Jesus!

Well, I'm pleased to say Kiki and Herb's 'Jesus Wept' at the Queen Elizabeth Hall succeeded in putting a smile back on my miserable face. Of course, I always knew it would.

There's enough jolly stuff to please the Christmas likers, but enough bitterness and bile to satisfy the haters too.

I had been listening to their 'Do You Hear What We Hear?' CD over the weekend to get in the mood, it was nice to see parts of it coming to life on the great stage. I always love the "make yourselves comfortable" intro piece and the festive "baby who? Baby Jesus!" line is my favourite thing EVAH!

It was reassuring to hear that Kiki and Herb are now immortal after drinking the milk of their longtime cow-friend, Daisy. She herself was present at the birth of our lord and accidentally ate some of the after birth, she has therefore been granted ever lasting life.

Along with the good news, it wouldn't be Kiki without associated tales of pain and suffering. In this case it was her harrowing brush with cancer - "imagine being immortal but with a fatal disease."

I loved Herb's solo spot, I just wish I could remember it with a little more clarity. I know it started with The Little Drummer Boy and then turned into a tale of woe. When it mutated into The Cure's 'Boys Don't Cry', I just about wet 'em.

I won't say it was my favourite Kiki and Herb show ever, that honour still goes to the "boat" - all 7 nights that I attended. And the Kings College thing too. I missed the intimacy of the smaller venues, I also prefer the non- Christmas shows that get deeper into the character's persona and the malcontent that drives them. That's when it all gets more emotional and hangs onto reality by an even slimmer thread.

Afterwards I did Cinderella Schmoozerella and went to the after show. Hung out with Joan Dairy Queen, DJ Farah, Crazy Sean, Our Steve and, er, some others. I remember there was a troll-like man sat on top of the water cooler who seemed alarmed that I was drinking so much water. I think he thought I was an ecstasy casualty. Good lord, the druggies didn't invent thirst, you know. We've had it for centuries!

Oh, I also got to meet the aforementioned Daisy who was sprawled enticing across the couch in Justin's room. I petted her ear and she moo-ed contentedly. I hope she hasn't given me immortality, I don't think I could cope.

Chin up

For some reason I have been in the blackest mood since Sunday morning - consumed with wretchedness and paranoia.

Tonight, however, I have decided to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow I see Kiki and Herb. Hooray!

I'm slightly alarmed at my mature approach of only going to one of their two shows as I have college on Wednesday. I'm not quite sure when I got so grown up. Still, I'm glad I'm sticking to my course cos I have a bit of a bad rep for ducking out of things.

I have been extra cheered by the fact that Rainbow Network may be interested in using my first feature article. Yay! They can't afford to pay, but it will be good exposure and will earn me extra "swot" points in class.

I've also been sending my demo disc out to try and get some DJ work. 2006 will be the year of Right Nasty ... or something.

Firebomb Shepherds Bush Empire

I'm putting you all in charge of reminding me - if I ever think it's a good idea to go to Shepherds Bush Empire again, STOP ME!

I arrived for Antony and the Johnsons on Tuesday full of joy and expectation. As soon as I got there I was hit by a wall of heat and people. Even getting through the door was a bleedin struggle. Then, of course, there's that dreadful flat floor meaning there's virtually NOWHERE you can stand to get a good view.

After much effort I managed to squeeze myself into a position 1 centimetre wider than my body circumference. Next to me was a prissy queen with smelly hair, and in front was something with an arse like Barbapapa. To add to my ever darkening mood, someone else nearby kept farting.

Antony's set was fabulous, in usual circumstances I would have loved it. He did Cripple and the Starfish and Fell In Love With A Dead Boy. Then he was joined on stage by Boy George for You Are My Sister. Having positioned myself so I could see half of Antony's head, the most I could see of George was his hat. He sounded good though.

The encore was a track called The Mother Song, we were asked to picture our mothers. He nearly lost me at that point until he reassured, "It's OK, it doesn't have to be your real mother if you don't like her." Hee hee.

I was hoping for River of Sorrow thinking that might wash the pain away, but alas...

He's still my hero and I still love him but, for God's sake, make him play somewhere better next time.

No Sex Please, I Love You

Something that's bothered me for a long time is why we live in a society that has no problem understanding sex without love, but can't quite get its head around love without sex.

With many people it's inevitable that if you mention any kind of affection for someone, then the eyebrows will raise and the nudge-nudge, wink-wink will begin.

Last night I met the boyfriend of my platonic object of affection. Somebody commented the meeting must have been "difficult" for me, assuming I would be in some way jealous. On the contrary, I had wanted to meet his partner for a long time and was glad to see him so happy.

The presence of his boyfriend in no way compromised my relationship with him as they are two completely different things. I have actively gone out of my way, on at least two occasions, to avoid seeing parts of his naked body. In fact, the thought of doing so makes me nauseous because I don't see him as a sexual object, I just love him.

Of course, not everyone is baffled. Toby shares my enjoyment of platonic crushes and was trying to explain one of his to a lesbian colleague at work. She looked on slack jawed and couldn't understand why, as a gay man, he would enjoy looking at a woman. She said she's never considered a man to be attractive. I find that kind of scary.

Platonic romance is so much fun, much less complicated than the sexual kind where those horrible hormones kick in and make you feel foul. Yet you still get the same happy rushes when you see your pet person or they send you a cute little message. Aside from the odd "missing you" pang, they are pain free, reliable and you don't have to fret about your personal hygiene.

I recommend you look for one today.

Smack My Bitch Up

Went to see The Prodigy at Brixton tonight. They were fan-pippin-tastic!! It was kind of like being at a rave (at my age!), the liveliest gig EVER, by far.

I was easily one of the oldest there. At first that seemed a bit weird, but when I realised that meant I could eyeball people and intimidate them to get out the way, it was all plain sailing!!

They played lots of fantastic hits - Voodoo People was cool, so was Out of Space, but my favourite would have to be Poison. I was glad to see Smack My Bitch Up was still in the set after all that ridiculous furore about domestic violence a few years ago. Good lord, some people are just crying out for a slap!

I'm not sure what was going on with Keith Flint, he's dyed his hair black and kind of resembles Hitler. Still, it's a look I suppose.

I was kind of hoping the Ping Pong Bitches would make a special appearance and do Girls, sadly it was not to be. In fact they didn't do much from the new album, I only remember Spitfire and perhaps another one. They did Charley, though. Yay! You can't beat a good tribute to a cartoon cat.