Cul-cha, innit?!

Blimey! I've been to all kinds of goings-on recently, and today was no exception - I went to the Diane Arbus photography exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum with Joan Dairy Queen.

What a fantastic spectacle! Every picture is a masterpiece and it was impossible to pick out a favourite.

As we were walking round, I heard two queens discussing how she has no empathy with her subjects. I think that's why I like her work so much. They are all just observations of weird and wonderful people and your emotions aren't drawn in any particular direction. You can just look at them and make up your own mind whether to be amused, impressed, horrified or moved.

Among the ones I liked best were the trannies, of course, but also the older, eccentric New Yorkers for their self composure and under-stated defiance.

Over tea and a bun, J and I were discussing our changing attitude to the younger generation as we get older. Personally I view them with complete contempt. Young people are just so unbearably DULL. Give me a grey-haired wrinkly anytime, they may not be so easy on the eye, but at least they have something to say for themselves.

After the Arbus we went for a walk around the rest of the museum. Amazingly enough, my favourite section was Ironwear! I never would have thought I'd have much interest in gates - but bugger me, how impressive?! These days people are investing thousands in electronic burglar alarms, but really all you need is a good "fuck off" bit of wrought iron with a spike on the top and bob's yer uncle. Burglars? I don't fink so!

After all that highbrow we headed off to Harrods. I bought some breath fresheners for the cat. They smell even worse than her gob does so I don't hold out much hope!

Keeping in the cultural vein, I also picked up a free ticket for I Am My Own Wife at the Duke of York, courtesy of Time Out. Way I'm going, I'll be a "lovey" in no time ...

Beside the Seaside

Today I have been on sunny excursion to Bournemouth. I booked the ticket when I was pissed a few weeks ago, as I'd paid for it I thought I might as well go!

It was nice to get away from the city for a while and smell the bracing sea air. Mind you, the sea doesn't smell like it used to when I was a kid. I remember childhood trips to Blackpool and Southport, you could smell the sea in the air and on your skin when you got back. I have a friend lives in Scarborough and she agrees, apparently you have to go abroad to get proper sea air these days. I'm sure they'll find a way to package it and sell it in Superdrug before long.

The only downside to my lovely trip was a chronic attack of the misanthropies. You see, I wanted to go there and see a jaded ghost town - a shabby, shutdown tourist attraction with no-one there to validate it's existence. No such bleedin' luck. My first mistake was accidentally booking during half term, to add insult to injury, it was also a freakishly hot day and so the place was crawling with twatting kids.

My favourite Bournemouth thing is their fantastic aquarium - not the biggest, but certainly the best I have visited. I went there about 2pm and couldn't enjoy it due to the sheer volume of the annoying brats. Why the fuck do they have to make so much noise?!

I went for a light snack at a gayers cafe and returned at 5pm - ahhhhh, that was much nicer! I had a peaceful sojourn amongst the fishies, then went for delightful stroll along the beach. Here, for your pictorial delights, are my photographic memories ... click on 'em for the big 'uns

Yay! It's Nearly Hallowe'en

Today's classic quote comes from the texting thumb of the lovely Sammy Jo - "Oh the gays, they'll guzzle cum but try and get them to put on a costume..."

We were discussing halloween and problem of getting the gayers to so much as keep a shirt on, never mind dress up for the occasion.

I just don't understand people who refuse to share in my childlike joy of this event. Personally I can't wait to get the white make up out and don ridiculous garb. This year I've decided to be Dracula one night and then Death the next. Well, if you've forked out good money for a long black cape, you want to make sure you get good wear from it ...

I've just been reading Time Out's Haunted London issue and it's got me all excited. I think I might like to get the purple camera out and take some pictures of graveyards. Once a goth, always a goth etc...

Last year I had fun frightening tourists on the Tube when I was dressed as a vampire. This year, if my nerve holds, I plan to travel from Anerley to Charing Cross in full Death garb with an axe. Alone.

I wonder if there's anywhere I can pick up a cheap severed head ...

In Reflective Mood

Went to Marvellous last night with Cheery Matt, first time I've been there in weeks.

I wasn't intending to stay all night, but when I got there I was hit with the news of Simon Hobart's death. A weird veil of secrecy was being kept around the story for reasons I don't understand. Inevitably this was leading to confusion and misunderstanding - then people who felt close to the guy were finding out what happened from websites instead of hearing from their friends.

I didn't know Simon at all, but my empathy with the London gay scene means that I still consider him "family" and it kind of feels like I've lost an uncle I never had the chance to meet.

I often think in these terms when I'm at the Retro and look around at the "regular" faces. Some of them mean more to me than others, same as in any family some of them get on my nerves, but I'm always glad to see them and know that pretty much any time I go there I will find somebody to chew the fat with over a drink. An important factor for me as I don't have a strong bond with my own family.

Hearing the news about Simon suddenly made me want to make the most of the evening and get drunk and enjoy being with friends. I had a conversation with W recently about Simon and how their once close friendship had become slightly estranged. With this in mind I instantly decided to bury the hatchet with Joanie, he got lots of hugs throughout the night. Hopefully a rebonding with Chelsea will happen in time.

On a wider scale there is a general feeling of unease. Trash Palace and Ghetto are closed, the change to the dynamic of our little section of gay London is going to be incredible.

Saturday Night at the Movies

Just wasted an hour and a half watching Palindromes - what a load of old crap. If you've never heard of it, it's about a young girl who is desperate to be a mother. She gets pregnant by some geek down the road, is forced by her parents to have an abortion, then leaves home and moves in with a bunch of nutters.

She is then involved in a murder, returned to her parents, and so sets about getting knocked up by the same fucktard as before again. To ease the monotony, the main character is played by about 5 different actresses and one boy. Whoopee! Thinking about it, I have no clue what made me rent it in the first place.

I think I should stay away from Todd Solondz films in future. The premise always sounds interesting enough, but I never enjoy the actual show.

His most famous film, Welcome to the Dollhouse, gives me tics. It's too much like my own childhood for comfort. Not only is the main character a geeky loner called Dawn, but she has a dreadful, girly, attention seeking sister who the parents clearly favour. She even goes to dance class like my own abhorrent sibling did. And there's the constant disappointment on her parents faces as they look at her and sigh, "oh Daaaawwwwnn". FOUL !

Anyway, that's one of my credits on Easy Cinema wasted. I still have one left and I'm hoping they'll send Prey for Rock n Roll next. I am reliably informed it's one of the worst films EVAH - and even the stills on the back of the box look shit - but it has Gina Gershon looking foxy as hell, so that's good enough for me!

Money, Tickets, Passport

We had technical problems at work yesterday so I decided to sneak off early and go to the Universal Experience at the Hayward Gallery - free entry thanks to a voucher in Time Out, yay!

It's a study of the effect that tourism is having on landscapes and the way that we live. It also contrasts the living conditions in certain countries with the way they're marketed to tourists.

The exhibition uses video, sound, sculpture and static image to present a miniature travelling expedition. There's no set route around the show, it’s easy to get lost or miss things unless you use your map.

One of the first things you see when you walk in is a huge photograph of the Hollywood sign shot from behind in its desert-like surrounds. What looks so glamorous from the streets looks completely ridiculous when shown in this different context.

Up on the roof is a cityscape produced from pots, pans and silverware. There were no wardens about so out popped the little purple camera - don't tell a policeman, will you?!

My favourite thing by far was a huge dark room hosting 11 video screens. At times the screens displayed the same image, but out of synch by a split second. At others they showed different images, or pictures of the same landmark but with different people walking by. The aim is to highlight the disorientation associated with travelling. The first time I went in I was on my own and had a good wander around. Later I went back and there were about 10 people in the room, that made the effect is even spookier.

Of the static images I loved the painting of a packed picture house with people watching fine art projected onto a giant screen (no doubt with surround sound), also a collection of tribal artefacts surrounding a picture of the pope, and hotel scenes from Las Vegas that present Parisean villages and man made deserts.

I was less interested is the Chalet Lost History – a cluttered and bamboozling collection of newspaper cuttings, archaeological exhibits, modern gadgetry and porn – it aims to comment on the conflicting cultures of the military, tourism and the sex trade. I got the point but it was all a bit earnest and naive, like a freshers college show from the 80s.

Anyway, it's a good place to go if you’ve an hour or two to kill, anyone who’s ever travelled can find something to relate to.

Out to Munch

Went to see the Edvard Munch exhibition at the Royal Academy with Stephen Arteast yesterday. To be honest, I can't really decide whether I liked it or not.

It was predictably crowded, of course, and being with a proper artist who knows about brush strokes and stuff, I felt like a bit of a sham. When I go to see art it's not to analyse it very deeply, a lot of the time it's just "like that one, don't like that one", and it's difficult to do that when a load of posh gits keep getting in your way, praising each other's astonishing cleverness in their annoying nasal accents.

There were a few paintings I definitely did "get" though - Self Portrait in Hell (pictured) was a favourite, also Madonna and a huge bearded self portrait of when he was bonkers in the nut.

The realisation I came away with is that you don't have to, technically, be a great artist in order to be considered a great artist. Having a strong vision to portray is more important than how you form the shapes to make them look life-like and genuine. In other words, some of it was a bit shit.

On the way across London afterwards we stumbled upon an installation called Black Pussy - a pagan idol workshop by Jason Rhoades. I found out later it's based around the many slang terms for the word vagina, with no less than 427 of them represented. Whatever.

The large room is a sensory overload with metal shelves holding thousands of artifacts - fur pelts, hats, test tubes, jars, macrame, beads - topped off with inflatable toys and neon lights.

An absorbing tribal retreat and a welcome escape from reality.

Trannyshack

A while ago, Joan Dairy Queen and I had plans to launch the Rock n Roll Tranny Bar at Slingbacks, a club set to open in Borough.

We pictured ourselves as freedom fighters for gender terrorism, breaking down barriers of social conform, armed with Nars lipstick and a nasty black wig.

Alas, Slingbacks was aborted due to licensing issues, and the Tranny Bar fantasy was ripped from our wombs and flushed down the waste pipe of shattered dreams.

So now Dusty O and Tasty Tim get to do it instead *sob*. Every Wednesday, at Too 2 Much, they will be hosting Trannyshack - a club night with a drag queen open mic session.

It's all so unfair! I could hate them, but I can't wait to go!

Clunk Click

I have finally given in to tempation and purchased the sweetest, cutest little purple camera in the whole wide world.

You can look forward to this blog being populated with photographic delights.

In the meantime, here's a few snaps from last night. From left to right:

• Self portrait with hand on head
• Stephen Arteast
• Rock n Roll Malcolm
• Wendy Retroid

Technological Dependancy

My greatest realisation since embarking on my journalism course is that I am utterly useless without a computer.

When I signed up for the course, I pictured myself in a plush classroom with computers and swivel chairs. Instead, we have a tiny room with plastic seats and are forced to communicate thorough the quaint, old fashioned medium of exercise book and biro.

I'm not complaining, but I've found my handwriting skills have deserted me and I have lost the ability to think unless I'm staring into a screen. Even the purchase of a spiral bound Sex Pistols notebook hasn't been enough to entice my latent calligraphic talents back into the fore.

I should have realised it a while ago when I was writing a letter to a friend. The only way I could manage was to produce a web page and then hit print.

It's not just there for the serious things in life, either. How on earth people used to get through the working day without emails from friends in the real world is quite beyond me.

So I now have a paranoia about power cuts. It's not just a case of being without heat and light anymore, it's about a complete detachment from the world. No gossip, no news, no bitching, no shopping ... brrrr, it doesn't bear thinking about. I think I need to purchase a generator.

Good Grief!

I love living in Crystal Palace, I really do. We uphold old-fashioned values here - we only have trains that travel over ground, not through new-fangled tunnels - and some of the shops close on a Wednesday afternoon.

I'm not sure quite what's happening on the tiny high street I call home, though. We currently have an off licence with no drink and a garage with no petrol!

If that wasn't bad enough, I couple of gangly teenagers have taken to billing and cooing on the front step of my building. They've been there for an hour and a half! I might turn the hose on them later.

Excavating Taylor Mead

A documentary that opens with an 80 year old man on stage, excitedly reminiscing about being raped 30 years ago, may not be everybody's idea of a fun afternoon, but it sure as hell does it for me!

Excavating Taylor Mead is the engaging lifestory of one of New York's great eccentrics. Best known for his work with Andy Warhol, he is keen to point out that he has made over 100 films, and only 10 of them with Andy.

There are numerous celebrities willing to come forward and sing the praises of Mr Mead - Jim Jarmusch and Penny Arcade among them - but no-one can quite do him the credit he does himself.

Carrying a camp egotism that only works with age, he waves pedestrians out of his way with, "celebrity coming through, be careful", then, nosing through the doorway of a downtown bar, announces, "I could make that place high society if I started going in there."

In contrast to his iconic status, Taylor's home life - living in cockroach infested squalor on the corner of Ludlow Street - draws the attention of the health and safety department who issue an eviction notice. A clean-up operation follows that ends with Taylor obviously distressed that, not only has he lost many of his personal works and treasures, but the upheaval has frightened his cats.

The producer, Erik Laibe, and director, William Kirkley, were in London for the show. I felt bad for them that only about 20 people had shown up. It was sadder still when I looked at their website and realised how excited they'd been about the appearance.

Despite a review in Boyz, the gay community were conspicuous by their absence. But then I always expect too much, imagining that gay people will have any interest in celebrating their own culture.

I had a similar conversation earlier in the year about Jayne County - expect the gays to come out and celebrate some old poof? Hell no, they'd rather be watching Kylie.

Obsession

It was the first night at my journo course last night. Of course, we had to do the usual go-round-the-room-and-introduce-yourself thing. We also had to say one memorable things about ourselves.

I decided on "My name is Dawn, and I am obsessed with drag queens".

This inevitably led to "so where did this obsession come from" type questions during the break. For a while I couldn't figure it out, then I realised it must have evolved from my misspent youth in the gay bars and goth clubs of Liverpool.

The club I used to frequent most often was called Jodys. It was a haven for me - goth downstairs and gay upstairs - and you were free to wander between the two. I don't remember any drag queens from back then, it was all handle bar moustaches, check shirts and leather chaps. I miss those good ole gay stereotype days!

It was the goths who supplied the glamour quotient. Biological male and female alike would be powdered, coiffured and dressed to the nines. I remember it would take me about two and a half hours to get ready on a Saturday night. The hair was the big thing, you had to crimp, backcomb, spray - then wait for it to settle and backcomb and spray a second time. The clubs used to stink of that cheap Boots-own hairspray, but if you thought you were posh you'd buy a handbag size can of Elnett to take out with you!

Then the glamour went out of goth and the stereotype went out of gay, I was hungry for stimulation. I turned to drag because it's larger than life and bright and colourful. I also adore the gender fluidity, of course.

I think this picture of Rupaul sums it up perfectly - no matter what you start with, what gender type you aspire towards - IT'S ALL DRAG !!


And I love them all, from the heartbreakingly beautiful boys who look better than the girls, to the rough old gits who don't give a shit.

Drag queens with beards - now that's what I call class!

Punk: Attitude

Punk: Attitude was preceded at yesterday's Raindance festival by Fuck the Police, a short film about The Libertines. Gerald is quite a fan and, to annoy him, I have been known to comment that Pete Doherty's other band, Babyshambles, would be more aptly entitled Fucking Shambles. The film did nothing to dispel this belief.

What happens is, The Libertines decide to hold a gig for their mates at a flat in east London. Halfway though, the neighbours complain and the boo-hiss nasty policemen come along and spoil all their fun. Given Doherty's "bad boy" image I was expecting at a right old kerfuffle. S'yeah, right.

In reality, it's 18 minutes of badly shot footage of two blokes singing dreary pop songs. A neighbour comes and has a shout, they all stand and giggle like school kids. Then the police turn up. Doherty stands grinning and leaves his friend to take the rap, some fat bloke shouts "clever" remarks at the camera, then they all pick up their coats and bugger off.

Not so much punk rock as a bunch of posh kids showing off and being badly behaved. They should have been packed off home for their parents to deal with...

By stark contrast, Don Letts Punk: Attitude is a fantastic compilation, probably the best punk documentary I've seen.

The film opens with brief clips of Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry - they were demonstrating punk sensibilities long before they'd even been invented.

Then we move quickly to the Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith and the birth of the CBGB and Max's Kansas City generation in New York city.

There are superb clips of New York Dolls - and vox pops with David Johansen, Sylvain Sylvain and Arthur Killer Kane - alongside powerful contributions from The Ramones.

The undisputed star of the show is Henry Rollins, a documentary makers dream - always smart, funny, concise and very much to the point. "All you need is one guy or girl to stand up and say "fuck this" and everybody goes: Voice of a Generation".

Opening with the Sex Pistols and clips from Vivienne Westwood's Kings Road store, the UK is represented by Siouxsie (unfortunate camera angle!), Mick Jones, Howard Devoto and Poly Styrene. Soundtrack highlights include The Clash, Buzzcocks, X Ray Spex and The Slits.

If you didn't go yesterday, you can't see it at the pictures now - you're too late. You can buy the DVD, though. It has loads of extra features totalling about 4 hours of footage. Yay!

Before I forget, on the way out I saw a bit of a crowd had formed ... I looked closer and realised they were gathered around Howard Devoto! Eek! I didn't have anything to say to him, but I enjoyed gawping and grinning like a loon as I headed off to the escalator!

I am Twice Published!

Well knock me down with a feather! I trotted off to Retro last night to pick up my copy of BOYZ magazine, and I found out that lezza magazine G3 are running one of my missives as their lead letter too!!

A while ago I sent them an excited ode to Bananarama:

Hey! Have you heard? Bananarama are BACK!

As a tribute, do you think we could have a bumper issue G3 that's just about Sara and Keren and nothing else? I guess you'd have to make it an X-rated, top shelf edition too - those pictures they keep doing where they're draped all over each other are just TOO HOT FOR WORDS!

I mean, there's really no need for it is there? It's not doing my blood pressure any good, and I'm not as young as I was!

Anyway, if you could fix this for me I would be very happy indeed. In fact, just thinking about it has brought on an attack of the vapours. I think I need to go for a nice lie down.

Apparently I have won a copy of Book of Cool, which doesn't look very cool at all. Might make me a few bob on Ebay, though ...

Hold the Front Page!!

The other day I thought it might be a good idea to send a slightly edited version of my Gay Weddings post to BOYZ magazine.

Just had a text from Wendy to tell me they've used it as this week's lead letter!!

Ha ha! I wonder if there'll be a backlash. I do hope so!!

Raindance Film Festival

Anyone going to see anything at the Raindance Film Festival this year?

Last year I went to see Ramones Raw with my boss, Julie, and her husband, Cathal - he used to be a pop star, you know. Anyway, this year I've booked to see Punk: Attitude and Excavating Taylor Mead.

Punk: Attitude is a Don Letts produced film focusing on the early days of punk in New York, the UK explosion in 1977 and then through to the current day.

I have mixed feelings about Don Letts. I have huge admiration for his talent, but all that is clouded by encounters I had with him in the past when he was always so goddamn rude. I would see him at Prince concerts in the 80s, he would barge around and deliberately knock people out of his way. He was so up himself it wasn't true. Some people would turn around sharply to see who had banged into them, but then get all star struck and giggly when they saw it was him. I never bought into that. A rude bastard is a rude bastard in my book, and I told him so on a number of occassions. Not that it made a blind bit of difference.

I have no real idea about the other film, I don't really know who Taylor Mead is. He was part of the Warhol set, is very much a loner and spends his time feeding feral cats near his home. I can't imagine why I feel such a bond with this person! Apparently he turned his back on his rich family and lives in a filthy apartment in New York with cockroaches and dirt everywhere. I don't think I'd like that bit.

Elsewhere, at the London Film Festival, they are going to be showing a documentary about Arthur "Killer" Kane from the New York Dolls, so I'm hoping to see that too.

Turning out to be a busy month ...

Who am I?

I'm not quite sure what happened this weekend. I turned down no less than three social invitations in favour of hanging around the flat like a saddo. Most curiously of all, one of them included seeing Justin Bond on stage. I've never turned that down before, I'm starting to wonder who I am. Do you think it's the onset of middle age?

I should have made the effort last night, staying in on a Sunday does weird things to me. About 10.30pm I was listening to The Prodigy thinking, "shit, I really want to go out clubbing RIGHT NOW." Needless to say, I didn't.

There's something incredibly depressing about staying in on Sunday and basically waiting for Monday morning and the working week to begin. Actually, that's the theme of the first chapter of a book I've just started called Fish Sunday Thinking. It was recommended to me on Amazon, their suggested purchase feature is impressively accurate these days.

The synopsis of the book opens, "You are in a job you do not enjoy. You feel you can do better. Your life feels directionless. You feel trapped. You drink to take your mind off it all. You dread Mondays." Err, HELLO, get out of my mind, please!!

It purports to be like a modern day Keep the Aspidistra Flying, the hero is going to try and break free and escape his dull and listless existence. Well, good luck, fella!

I never know whether to laugh or cry when I read about people who I think have a cool lifestyle, only to find out that they, too, have mind-numbing 9- to- 5s and are only cool for a few hours a week. The only people I know who have managed to avoid the mainstream are those who possess a unique talent and / or are able to live with no money without getting stressed about it. Two qualities I am sadly lacking.

Oh well, roll on next weekend. I promise not to waste it this time.

Save us from Pikey Hell

Went for a brief trip to Bromley today. Was depressed as hell to find the huge building that used to be Allders is soon to become a Primark Superstore. Oh good! Now the pikeys will have four whole floors to push their buggies around, drop things on the floor and generally make the place look like a jumble sale.

Aren't you sick of the high streets being taken over by trashy stores that sell nothing but tat? Of course, I know that people don't have a lot of money and for some these stores are a necessity not an option, but surely some moderation is called for.

Anyway, I bought the new(ish) White Stripes album which is very good indeed. I also had a nice wander around Past Times - or, as Gareth Zman famously calls is, "Wasn't it nice before they got here" - where I purchased some overpriced chocolate and a bottle of good old fashioned Dandelion and Burdock. I haven't had that since the "pop man" used to come round when I was a kid.

Back on the road again

Hooray! For those of you who had sleepless nights, I am pleased to announce the trusty Corsa is now back on the road and purring like a big, fat, car shaped cat!

It was the battery, as I suspected. Diagnostics my arse, INTUITION, that's what you need to fix a car!

Of course, I am now feeling smug and butch and glad that I tackled the job myself. Just like Rosie the Riveter (pictured) must have done back in the days of the war!

An afternoon of phaffing about on buses to Halfords in Brixton and back has convinced me that, although I don't really need a car, I definitely want to keep on having one. What a load of fucking time you waste waiting around for public transport.

I'm still tempted with a bike though ...