Love Sweet Sound

Good morning everyone! And how are we this fine summer's day?

I write with exciting news that I am in love, sweet love. Move over Kate from the B52s your time is done, this heart is now betrothed to Ms Jennifer Tilly, she of the perfect breasts, lustrous hair and intoxicating husky-yet-frivolously-childish voice.

I have admired her from afar for many years and now, having seen her perform at the Royal Court this Tuesday, I have decided to offer my hand in marriage.

Young Toblarina and I ventured to the Royal Court to witness her in Grasses of a Thousand Colours, a curious play written and co-performed by Wallace Shawn, an engaging and intelligent man who has the misfortune of looking rather like a sock puppet.

The play opens with Mr Shawn in a dressing gown and slippers, welcoming us to the show and explaining that he will be reading some passages from his latest book. At some point the dialogue is interrupted by video clips and then finally by the emergence of his wife, played by the also-fabulous Miranda Richardson, and the context of the play turns from current time to a story of what has happened in the past.

As I said, it’s a somewhat curious play about a man’s relationships and sexual activity with his wife, his mistress and a strange cat. Then the mistress gets jealous and decapitates the cat, but it grows a new head and gets given away to a woman who becomes a second mistress, but she dresses like a little girl and doesn’t really want to have sex but just kiss. After some time an illness befalls them all and eventually the man dies. At least I think that’s what happens but to be honest I was frequently a little confused, but that didn’t really matter because Ms Jennifer Tilly was on stage for a long, long time wearing a beautiful, figure hugging pink and black dress, with her auburn hair falling over her shoulders and her eyes glistening in the lights.

She suddenly jumps up from behind the on-stage couch near the end of act 1 (it’s an epic three-hour play in three sections) which led us to ponder whether she’d been there the whole time, since the theatre doors opened, and whether we could have caught a glimpse of her if we’d stuck our heads round to sneak a peak.

During the course of the play her character’s mood varies from happy and flirtatious, to furious and indignant, to injured and sad. I particularly enjoyed the scene where she follows her cheating lover to find out what he's up to. She finds herself in a odd world of animals sitting drinking, talking and playing cards. She notices she is experiencing something close to pity, “which is not an emotion I am familiar with.” Ah, she’s is surely a woman after my own heart.

After the show I considered waiting by the stage door to request an audience with Ms Jennifer Tilly but alas, I must confess, I was far too scared (downside of not drinking = cowardice.) But I am now the proud owner of not one but TWO signed photos, thanks to he intervention of my good friend Posh Paul who works the stage door and has become personally aquainted with Ms Jennifer Tilly (“Jenn” he calls her – the impertinence!). One is a formal and reflective publicity shot with the words “To Dawn, Best Wishes! Jennifer Tilly” written at the bottom. The other is a smaller shot of her in a leopard skin bikini with her signature scrawled across her tits. Hee hee – I take it she has figured out my intentions.

Life is Sweet

I’m reading a book about depression at the moment. It’s not doing a bit of good because it focuses almost exclusively on self-loathing and low self-esteem. As you know, I suffer from neither of these conditions - my frustration with life is born exclusively from my detestation of other people. Not all of them, you understand, just most of them – the slack jawed, knuckle-dragging, sniggering masses and their abominable offspring. Why waste time hating yourself when there are manifold examples of human vileness out there in which to indulge your loathing? Question is, how the hell do you avoid the bastards?

I have been seeking refuge more than ever in alcohol lately, but I can feel my internal organs eroding so I’ve decided to give it up. It’s been five whole days and I’m actually rather enjoying it. Although I might have a small glass of Sauvignon Blanc later as it’s Saturday. There’s a lot more clarity in life when you’re sober, and so many more hours to fill in the day. This is healthy but at the same time not necessarily a good thing – sometimes the thick, heavy cloak of a hangover can act as a safety buffer against, for example, the mind-numbing monotony of a day job.

The answer, I have been assured, is to stay busy – hoover the floor, fold up the washing, go for a bike ride in the park. All well and good, but in a sentiment echoed by David Hoyle at one of his shows recently, life can often feel like just a series of displacement activities until you die.

Today, however, I pushed displacement aside and took myself off to the Saatchi Gallery to look at their American Abstracts exhibition. I like the Saatchi Gallery, it’s a little bit posh and shows some interesting and inspiring works by lesser known artists. Best of all is that it’s free! In the current exhibition I particularly liked this piece by Francesca DiMattio called Tunnel (click on the image to see it properly and get more info).



It’s a huge six panel piece that is quite reminiscent of MC Escher, whose work I can look at for hours. I was particularly drawn to the little dark doorway on the left hand side that looks like it could lead to a secret room where something decadent or a little bit seedy is happening.

I also enjoyed a group of three figurines by Ryan Johnson called Watchman. These characters are meant to represent, “the ever-lurking ghostly observer, lonesome figure of security and surveillance.” That introduction alone is enough to give me chills of empathy and excitement. One of the figures had an enormous plaster cast on his leg with slogans and messages written all over. As I walked round the back, in thick black marker pen, it said, “PEOPLE = SHIT” – I could barely contain my amusement.

It’s clearly been just what the doctor ordered because look – I’m writing something again for the first time in ages! Now I’m going to watch Milk on DVD on my new widescreen, HD-ready telly and tomorrow I’m off to La Clique. No more moaning I promise ... and who needs alcohol?

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Is it really a week since the beautiful trannies were here? It all passed by in a flash. Tim Whitehead asked me on Sunday, “Was this the best weekend of your life?” Well, given that it allowed me four non-stop days of top-class stalking, I suppose it did come pretty close.

Justin Bond and Our Lady J’s appearance at Dave’s Drop-in Centre on the Thursday was riotous. I can’t really begin to describe the duet that Justin and David performed – it was a bit like Kiki DuRane running a talent night for decrepit showgirls at the institutional. Luckily I don’t have to scrabble about for words as Justin’s friend Earl Dax was there to capture the moment and has generously uploaded it to YouTube.

You might think that that couldn’t be topped, but Justin went on to sing his Christmas song; Our Lady J performed a beautiful version of Africa and it ended with a triumphant rendition of We Shall Overcome. It received the loudest applause I have ever heard at the Tavern – truly deafening.

Earlier in the evening we’d had Ashley Ryder on making dildos out of coat hangers and sticking one up his bum. He did a convincing job of pretending to be David’s thirteen year old nephew being led astray by his wayward uncle - being spanked, rimmed and generally ‘abused’. Needless to say, with all that to cope with, by the end of the night I was KNACKERED.

Thankfully recovered for the next night and Justin’s first show, which was in the more sedate surroundings of The Purcell Room on the Southbank. He opened the show with New Depression, a track from his new Pink Slip EP, and was wearing a fabulous fishnet creation covered with bits of laminated tranny porn. A piece fell off near the beginning of the show and I thought, “I’m having that.” Kept my beady eye on it throughout the performance but thankfully he handed it to me at the end of the show so I didn’t have to degrade myself by scrambling onto the stage for it.

Highlights of the show? Ooh, too numerous to mention – I love the (dress-related) story of self-discovery when he found a pile of tranny porn in a tree house as a child. While his family were trying to tell him he was a boy and should behave in a certain manner, he simply sat back and waited for his breasts to grow so he could be like one of the beautiful creatures in the magazines.

I also loved his Bambi Lake cover plus original tracks May Queen and Michael in Blue. Oh who am I kidding, my absolute highlight was when he named-checked me as he was wearing the eye shadow I gave him as a birthday present the previous evening. It was a fabulous peacock blue and shimmering silver combination that I knew would go well with his eyes. It made the horrific trip to the MAC store to buy it worthwhile and, as he commented, “Is probably the reason I look so goddamn beautiful tonight.”

After the show we stood around to buy personally autographed CDs, then off for a quick schmooze in the green room. Now, I have this fleeting recollection of Ian McKellan being in attendance, but nobody else remembers it so it’s quite possible I dreamed it. What’s for sure is that lovely Antony Cotton was there along with ‘er from out the cafe on Corrie – you know, whats’ername ... Becky. Ha ha – I’ve seen all the Corrie greats of Justin’s shows – Sean, Shelley, Fiz ... and now Becky. I’m hoping we’ll get Hayley next time, that would really be the icing on the cake.

Back on Saturday for the second night and Justin seemed a little under the weather but bravely held it all together. This time my highlight was the story of his slightly disturbed friend who took to washing carrier bags as a result of childhood abuse. Also his Anita Pallenberg story about Our Lady J asking Justin to tuck in her back fat before a function - to push her back fat round to the front and make her breast look bigger. Anita Pallenberg looked on in utter dismay and clearly thought they were bonkers.

Green room less star-studded the second night but still a great party. I had a slightly maudlin sense that it was all ending, but there was still Our Lady J’s solo night at Bistrotheque on Sunday...

Venue was packed to the rafters with London glitterati – Bourgeois and Maurice, David Hoyle, Ophelia Bitz, Tricity Vogue ... ME!! Not to mention Pete Burns.

Our Lady J did an experimental set trying out some effects she’s been producing on a computer. They sounded great but I’m not sure they were necessary, she has such an amazing voice anyway. We sniggered along to Pink Prada Purse, were taught lines to singalong to Train to Kill, and although the fabulous Picture of a Man was excluded, I had to hold back a tear when she did Nine Inch Nails’ Hurt as an encore.

The perfect point of the evening was when I looked around to see Justin over to my left, Pete Burns over to my right, and Our Lady J right in front of me. I felt blessed to be in the company of such a Holy Trilogy (yes, trilogy, trinity is too patriarchal) so while you have probably seen these on Facebook, I present the two further pictorial memories of the evening. Thanks to Kate Pelling for photographic honours.

Put Your Hands Up

I’m working in David Hoyle’s current show Dave’s Drop-in Centre at Vauxhall Tavern at the moment. It’s probably the largest project I’ve been involved in so it’s a little bit nerve wracking. In fact, the first week was so fraught with nervous energy behind the scenes that I could barely remember a thing that happened afterwards. I was fair blummin knackered the following day though!

So far we’ve had drag queen nuns, contemporary dance, avant gard music performance along with live piercing and bloodletting - I particularly enjoyed the bloodletting.

The reaction from the audience was fantatsic – lots of gasps and squirming followed by complete silence as they acquainted themselves with the spectacle. It’s not what you expect from your typical Thursday night cabaret and I say hurray! David went on to paint a self-portrait in blood and, should you care to, you can now place a bid for it on eBay.

This week I’m proper excited because, as I previously mentioned, our special guests are none other than JUSTIN BOND and OUR LADY J. SCREAM!!!!!!!!!

PERFECT LINE-UP ALERT - *MEEP MEEP*.

Did I say I was nervous on the first show? I’d better stock up on Imodium for this one!

Talking of which, our other special guest is Ashley Ryder, the self-fisting porn star I saw with Buck Angel at Ray of Light in 2007. You can read all about it here, though I must warn that this link is NOT WORK SAFE for those who are worried about such matters. It’s not like I could give a toss. In fact I was sat in the office on Friday chatting on the phone to Joan Dairy Queen – "Ashley Ryder, you know ... the PORN STAR. He does FISTING. No not shit, just FISTING. He self-fists, that’s his speciality ... I can’t help think it will cause him problems in later life though, and to look at him he looks like an angel, like butter wouldn’t melt..."

Fuck ‘em if they don’t like it, I’m not too keen on their endless bloody stories about their children either.

Still, I might draw the line at relating the story that David told us, via Ashley, on Thursday. Apparently he goes to these poo parties and the worry always is that they’ll run out of poo. So the people who are going produce a stool throughout the week, wrap it in cling film and pop it in the freezer compartment. Come party day they simply unwrap it, put it in the microwave until it reaches body temperature and hey bongo – poop all round and a bit left over for afters.

You see, you don’t just get socio-political entertainment at Dave’s Drop-in, we also provide very important PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENTS.

So get your arses down there, there’s no excuse really. Entry is just £6 plus vat, and along with David, Nathan Evans (the director) and a supporting cast, you also get to see me parade around in my uniform looking like an LGBT police officer.

Ooh, I forgot to mention my favourite bit this week was when I got let loose with a megaphone handing out hymn sheets during the interval for our community sing-a-longs! Toby and I commented, when watching Shortbus, how happy Justin looked in the closing scenes when he is parading around with a megaphone, and I can completely understand it. It’s fab – such a ludicrous power trip. Ha ha!

See you Thursday.

Last Night

I’ve complained before about how Our Lady J is just a little bit TOO impressive thank you very much. Well bugger me if she didn’t just TOTALLY BOWL ME OVER SIDEWAYS with her show at Purcell Room last night. The woman has a talent to die for and I felt completely humbled.

Striding out on stage looking like she’d just escaped from Wicked, in a huge black lace skirt, basque and crazy backcombed hair, she opened her set with the magnificent Picture of a Man from her Live at The Zipper Factory EP. This is the track that I wanted her to play at Kunst last year but she said she couldn’t do it unless she had a twelve-piece choir. DEMANDING!!

I’m happy to say it was every bit as marvellous as I’d expected and totally worth the wait. Along with her Pink Champagne Orchestra of string section and drums, and accompanied by an outstanding vocal trio called The Dreams, she went on to perform the other tracks from the EP - my favourite probably being 1,2,3,4, Train to Kill. There was some stuff that was new to me as well and I’d like to be more informed with regard to titles, but while Kevin was given a programme with all the song titles on his way in, the pasty-faced girl on the door who checked my ticket didn’t give me one so I’m having to work from memory.

Pink Prada Purse was, of course, the crowd favourite but I’ve seen that one so many times that I was kind of more interested in the other stuff. There were a smattering of cover versions and straight in at number one on my Our Lady J Hit Parade is her incredible version of Nine Inch Nails’ Hurt. As she pointed out, Trent Reznor is an amazing song writer and her slightly loungey interpretation of this track leant it poignancy and depth I’d never noticed on the original. It fair made my bottom lip tremble. (Listen to it on MySpace)

The one thing I could have done without was the chav choir that clattered in from the wings to assist with some of the arrangements. It wasn’t that they sounded bad, in fact they sounded great, it was that they lined up in front of the stage and so were uncomfortably close to those of us in the front row stalking seats and, worst of all, OBSCURED OUR VISION OF LADY J’S LOVELINESS. The audacity!

But really the evening couldn’t have been any better and I felt so proud and happy to be there. There was also an extra added bonus to the night when I was treated to a special stalking reward for good behaviour.

We were sat having a drink before the show when who should suddenly stroll by but PETE BURNS!! Now, have I ever mentioned that I regard him as my spiritual godfather and that he and his ex-wife Lynne took me to my first ever gay club to see Sylvester? Ha ha, rhetorical question, I know perfectly well I’ve told you the story, like, a THOUSAND TIMES but I still like to get it out for another airing.

Toby wants to be credited for the fact that he pointed Pete out to me, so we’ll completely gloss over the fact that he thought it was Gina Love and couldn’t understand why I was so excited OK? We just WON’T MENTION IT.

Anyway, so I was a bit OHMIGOD and really didn’t want to miss the opportunity to say hello to him. I scampered after him across the floor and managed to get his attention. I’m delighted to say he recognised me instantly and we had a hug and exchanged a few words of conversation. He was looking good which was a relief after those reports that he was seriously ill recently.

I was hoping to catch up with him later but he had disappeared into the night like Cinderella. No worry because it was Lady J’s evening.

I had a brief chat with her before she left and am now mega-excited about working with her and Justin Bond at David Hoyle’s night at RVT on the 14th. I’ll be a nervous wreck but it’s going to be FABULOUS. Miss if it you’re, like, A TOTAL IDIOT.

Oh, and it looks like Lady J is doing Bistrotheque on 17th too - HURRAH!

Ladies Please!

Well we all knew I was going to go to Priscilla Queen of the Desert sooner or later, didn’t we? I’m not really one for musicals, in fact aside from Hairspray at Christmas (and we’ll gloss over Bad Girls) the only other one I’ve been to is Prisoner Cell Block H. The Freak was fantastic, and so was Lily Savage, but I’m pleased to say that Priscilla is EVEN BETTER!!

There’s a part of me that thinks it’s just about bringing drag to a straight audience so they don’t have to actually mix with the dirty queers, but then on the other hand it is an amazing production and that’s the only way to acquire such a huge budget, without which the staging would be impossible. It must have cost a FORTUNE.

The costumes are AMAZING – from the feather headgear to the bell-bottom-trouser-shoes; the set is FABULOUS – especially the fur-lined bus, which changes from being a silver bus into a bright pink neon one halfway through the first act … and I was pleased to see the script hasn’t been toned down to make it family friendly. There are plenty of put downs and camp in-jokes, and it’s all very unashamedly GAY.

Tony Sheldon as Bernadette and Oliver Thornton as Adam both fit their roles perfectly, and the ensemble cast are all fantastic, the only slightly weak link is Jason Donovan.

I don’t have a problem with his acting, but he just makes a REALLY BAD drag queen. I’d have thought looking good in a frock would have been a prerequisite, but he looks like your dad at a fancy dress ball or, to steal a line from the production, like a cock in a frock.

He's fine during the husband and kid bits, but for some of the other stuff I kept thinking that oh, I don’t know … maybe someone like Alan Cumming would have made a better job of it. I’m sure he could pull of an Australian accent.

Highlights? Ooh, there are lots of them, but the best bit has to be Adam’s clip from La Traviata. He performs it inside a giant shoe on top of the bus which, as the track goes on, extends forwards above the front rows of the audience with a long silver trail flapping along behind it.

Some of the scenes in the bus are hilarious, I always love the bit when Bernadette is driving and takes the piss out of the other twos' dreary conversation, “Gee, poor Kevin's dick. There can't be much room down there with his brain taking up so much space already, HNNNEEERRRRRR.”

There are just two teeny tiny disappointments - one is that ping pong toting Cynthia doesn’t really shoot the ping pongs from her lady garden, and the other is that although there are two dancers in these amazing dragon costumes with pop up wings and 80s-pop-group-Cameo-esque codpieces, they don’t crawl out on stage looking evil like they do in the film version.

I was glad I booked for the matinee as, relating back to my earlier comments, there were lots of excitable ladies on the way out, wrapped in their new pink feather boas singing ABBA songs. I overheard one lot saying they were going to book to come back for so-and-so’s hen night. "We’ll all get dressed up, go for a few drinks first and get a limo to drop us off." I perish at the thought of how sitting next to that could damage, beyond repair, a perfectly good evening.

If I go back I’m going to get four people and book a box next time … I might go when Jason Donovan’s on holiday.

Don't Talk To Me About Love

I was walking past three little kids in the street the other day. They looked to me like they were about seven, but they must have been about ten. Anyway, as I was going past one of them nudged his mate, nodded towards me and said, “there’s your boyfriend.”

I wouldn’t normally bother to mention it but I was on my way home from a screening of Before Stonewall at the London Lesbian and Gay Film Festival. As the title suggests, it’s a documentary about pre-Stonewall gay liberation and what it was like for people who had to keep their sexuality a secret.

After an afternoon of being in a pro-queer environment, listening to inspiring stories of courage and confrontation, isn’t it comforting to know you can still come home and he homophobically abused by infants on the doorstep of your local Tescos?

To be honest I’ve been feeling just the slightest tinge of homophobia myself just lately. On another trip to the film festival I was handed a leaflet for A Day In Hand – a campaign that’s encouraging same-sex couples to hold hands in public.

“Ever wanted to hold her / his hand in public but thought you couldn’t?” the flyer asks. If this is you then please, do us all a favour, grow a fucking spine. Why is it you think you need permission? But more to the point, why would you want to engage in this ridiculous behaviour anyway?

I’m as pro-queer visibility as anyone but, as I've said before, I’d much rather see a law introduced to stop straight people from pawing each other in public, not have a campaign to encourage the gayers to follow suit. I’m sick and tired of them blocking the escalators and slobbering down each other’s throats with their greasy lips making those stomach-churning smacking noises.

On the train is the worst thing. Why can they not just sit there? They’ve always got to start squeezing each other’s legs and making gooey faces, even first thing in the morning. It’s enough to make you heave.

A Day In Hand encourages you to take a picture of yourself holding a same-sex person’s hand in public and then send it to be uploaded onto a website. I say let’s have International Tut at a Straight Couple Day, we can upload snaps of ourselves pointing and sneering and arrange them into colourful gallery. Give ‘em a taste of their own medicine, it’ll be a lot more entertaining.

www.adayinhand.com

Cut Me In Quadrants

Good news, I have located the front door and been back outside having a life again. Hoorah!

Not just any old life either, but a life that includes Antony and the Johnsons at the Royal Albert Hall. There are no words for how much I love Antony. He sounds like an angel weeping, this is SERIOUS ADORATION.

It took a while longer to get to know the Crying Light album than the previous two, but now we are very much united and I actually cannot bear to spend more than a few hours apart from it. Kiss My Name has become a firm favourite along with the heartbreaking Aeon ... and Dust and Water and, well ... all of them really.

I am waiting for Mr Postman to bring me my limited edition 7” of Epilepsy is Dancing which I am purchasing just for the cover. Have you seen the video yet? Go and watch it! It’s gorgeous!

It was only a short set at RAH, about 45 minutes, so I felt a little short changed at £40 a ticket, but I suppose it serves us right for completely ignoring the other two acts on the bill in favour of sitting in the bar drinking vino.

I guess I should have dragged myself in to watch VV Brown, who sounded interesting from the clips that floated in whenever the bar door opened, but I just couldn’t be bothered. Had no interest in Florence and the Machine, she puts me in mind of Edie Brickell or Joan Osbourne. Quirky women ... ick ... *shudders*

Antony opened with Where Is My Power and I was instantly a mess of fluttering eyes, gormless smile and swaying from side to side. The majesty of the Albert Hall is the perfect surrounding for the ethereal beauty of his performance and I felt I’d shot myself in the foot a little with my psychotic need to be as close to the front as possible. It meant I wasn’t able to absorb the impressiveness of the auditorium alongside the awe of the show. But then if you’re at the back you can’t see him grin and giggle, so there’s no real loser or winner.

There were a few tracks from the new album and then For Today I am a Boy at which point, if you can imagine, the idiot behind us started SINGING ALONG. WTF? Who the hell goes to an Antony show and decides to start singing?? Particularly when they are tuneless and TONE DEAF! The words “SHUT UP” bellowed aggressively from my lips and fortunately they stopped it, but I still feel sure he deserved a good bashing.

Antony was quite chatty for once, talking about how he’d eaten too many puddings backstage and how you really shouldn’t give a singer dairy foods. Along with the current stuff we were treated to Shake That Devil from the Another World EP before the set closed with a beautiful version of Aeon.

With a standing ovation I was hoping he would return for an encore, but he just popped his head back to give us a wave and then scarpered. Never mind, he’s back in Hammersmith on May 27 ... sixty days to go and counting.

Transmission

I’m not sure how this has been allowed to happen, but I suddenly find myself on day FOURTEEN of an enforced SIXTEEN DAYS abstinence from social activity. What the buggery flip is all that about?

DAMN YOU New Depression

FUCK YOU Credit Crunch

and, above all, UP YOURS person who cancelled VauxhallVille and dramatically reduced my monthly earnings.

I WAS NOT BORN TO BE POOR!!!

Thank God, then, for a little bit of excitement and *trumpet fanfare* a brand new tranny to stalk!!

Do you watch Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals on Tuesday? It was a 2 hour documentary about a group of buxom ladies competing in a Most Beautiful Transsexual Pageant in Las Vegas– OH MOMMA!!

The lovely ladies varied between those that were very femme real and those that were very obviously trans, and I’m a huge admirer of both genres.



The start of the film showed them riding around in limos doing publicity and having the time of their lives. Giggly girl, Delilah (left of the pic) was more than happy to keep whipping her rather oddly shaped tits out, this was much to the disgust of Marie (middle) who thought this was unladylike and gave a poor representation of transsexuals.

Once we got down to the pageant I loved tubby Dorae, who wore serious drag queen make up and did a mean on-stage interpretation of Tina Turner.

Was much less enamoured with girl-from-the-hood Tiara who basically said she had only had a sex change to get attention and would go back to being a man when she was older ... but best of all was Maria. Sweet Maria Roman ... sigh ... an Amazonian goddess with a big ass and an air of Anna Nicole Smith about her.

Not only was she the hottest, the most engaging and the most self-deprecating, but she also had the audacity to be intelligent and do a lot of work helping with AIDS activism and fund raising. Er, hello? Perfect Police? I think we have a situation ... It’s enough to make me dream of a Civil Partnership.

To my sheer irritation she didn’t win the contest, the prize went to a scrawny mare called Mimi who had the worst hairstyle you can imagine – short at the bottom then an enormous quiff. I can’t find a photograph that does it justice, but as Finton pointed out via text, “It looks like one do on top of another.”

As you can imagine there was some good after show bitching, I think I heard Maria saying something about the prize going to the one who’s on Prozac (miaow!), but I need to watch it again to be certain.

If you missed the show you can see it on Channel 4 catch up ... I might have to invest in the DVD.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

You might think that living a hedonistic life free from all major responsibilities is easy, but it’s actually a lot more stressful than it sounds. For example, what do you think are the chances of your glamorous friends from Tom Tom Club and your glamorous friend Taylor Mac both coming to London and playing gigs at exactly the same time?

Well, I’ll tell you … the chances are extremely high. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT, to be exact, and this week I have barely been able to think straight as I’ve been tossing from side to side, torn and wracked with indecision as to which of them to show the greatest loyalty.

In the end I’ve opted for Taylor – which ever choice I made would always feel half right and half pure betrayal - so I’ve had to factor in the cost and the fact that Tom Tom Club are on a triple bill with Ladyhawke and Keane. What lunatic thought of that horrendous line-up, I wonder? It’s ridiculous!

Taylor, meanwhile, is playing at the Udderbelly. A big upside-down-purple-cow shaped theatre at the Southbank. Taylor in the belly of a cow? You’ve got to really, haven’t you? And it gave me the chance to try out posh members-only booking with my brand new snob card for the Southbank. Yes, I finally gave in and became a member, they knew exactly how to trick me – Justin Bond is playing there in May and can you imagine if *certain people* (ie. Gerald) got advance booking and better tickets? I’d go ruddy MENTAL !!!!

I’m already doing my nut because I’ve only got row G for Our Lady J, who plays Purcell Room on May 2nd. This isn’t because of membership, but they’re holding back all the best seats for some unknown reason and I am FURIOUS. *ME* in *ROW G*? It’s unheard of and it just won’t do. I have been bleating into the ear of a long-suffering promoter friend and I am determined to find my way into the front row. I’m perfectly happy to kill.

I am also in a quandary over 28 March – Jonathan Richman or Squeezebox at the Bummers and Muff Divers’ Film Festival? It’s going to have to be Squeezebox. I read about this film ages ago and have been Googling it constantly. It’s all about the club of the same name in New York where drag queens dropped the traditional lip synching formula in favour of singing rock n roll. There are clips of Jayne County, Joey Arias, Debbie Harry, Lady Bunny, Justin … It’s also co-directed by that nice Sean Pierce who I met briefly at the Big Art Group show in Munich. Can’t wait !!

But event bookers, please, have a heart and think of the elderly - no more multiple bookings … *thumps chest* … my poor ticker can’t take much more.

Vision Thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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



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



See the full exhibition on the Saatchi Gallery website.

Bite Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mad Mad Daddy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll miss you, Lux.

Romance is Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking in Tongues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DENIED.

The End is Nigh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drug of the Nation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coney Island Baby

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

Take me to the Coney Island image gallery.

I'm Your Puppet

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

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



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



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

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

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

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

Nights on Broadway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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