We’re getting too long in the tooth for this exhausting New Year malarkey. The days are long gone when we would queue up in the rain, squeezed into sequinned hot pants outside some over-priced sleazy boyz club to take recreational drugs and shake our booties into the wee small hours, surrounded by half-naked sweaty men in tight jeans wrapped in fur and tattoos. Come to think of it, it doesn’t sound that bad at all. Sadly, the spirit is willing but the flesh is oh, so weak. Such unfettered decadence is best left to the young bucks who bring up the rear with stamina and a little lovin’ in mind. No, for us, it was a quick bite in town then back home to a warm hearth, Graham Norton and a bottle of bubbly, all capped off with the South Bank fireworks courtesy of impossibly blond London Mayor, Boris Johnson (a wolf in a golden fleece if ever there was one), Vodafone and good old Auntie Beeb. And fabulous pyrotechnics they were too. It’s always good to bring in the new year with a bang don’t you think?
Category: London
Tis The Season to be Jolly
Perking the Pansies is off-air for the Yuletide. Liam and I are heading to the Smoke for a jolly slice of family life with all the calorific trimmings. But before we head south to the big city, I’d like to take this opportunity to wish everyone, believers and non-believers alike, a season of peace and goodwill. Whatever Christmas means to you, be happy and enjoy.
…as the enterprising Chinese say (well, they probably don’t, but they do make make a shilling or two at this time of year and good luck to ’em). And, of course, I got the translation from Google and so it could say ‘Mao is Chairman of the Board’ for all I know.
Once Upon a Time…
Another weekend in the Smoke, another birthday surprise, this time from my old dance partner, Ian. We were treated to matinee tickets for Once, a new musical recently imported from across the Pond. I’d never heard of it but since we’re living in the sticks with our fingers off the pulse, this will surprise no-one. When we realised the set was based around a Dublin bar, we were immediately hooked. By the end of the performance, we were on our feet (as was everyone else). I’m a sucker for a love story and Once ladles it on with a trowel. Cue the brooding young busker with a broken heart and the sassy Czech lass with a quick tongue and a dodgy Hoover (don’t ask). Boy meets girl supported by a catholic cast of Celts and Slavs. Everyone sings, everyone dances and everyone fiddles, strums, beats and blows: the ensemble is the chorus and the orchestra, all wrapped up in an emerald green bow and a Bohemian flourish. Funny, touching and tender, we wept in the aisles. ‘Twas a love story to gladden this old cynic’s heart.
The Faerie Queene
It’s my birthday today and I’d like to share a little poem that my English teacher, David Steddall, wrote in the card he gave me when I reached sweet sixteen.
I know you’re not a fairy queen
I know you’re not a donkey
Perhaps you’re something in between
Like a hairy gnome gone wonky
It reads worse than it was. It’s certainly true that I was relentlessly bullied as soon as I entered the gates of my ancient and prestigious South London grammar school. The other kids knew I was pink-leaning even when I didn’t (well, actually I did but that’s another story). I survived the ordeal by developing a sharp tongue and fast legs. But, by the time I reached my O Level years, the torment had subsided and I’d won the grudging acceptance of my peers, and high praise for my compositions. What Dave was actually telling me was to pull my finger out in the poetry stakes. “It’s not that difficult,” he wrote in my final school report after I miserably failed my English Literature mock. You see, I just didn’t get it. Simile, descriptive prose, analogy, word play? It just flew right over my cute curly head. Do I get now? Well, let’s see:
“I know you’re not a fairy queen”
Because we’re not all camp as a row of tents (ok, I can be a little lary and loose-wristed, particularly when on the sauce).
“I know you’re not a donkey”
I’ve never claimed to be hung like Eeyore.
“Perhaps you’re something in between
Another sexuality reference, perhaps?
Like a hairy gnome gone wonky”
Well, my balls did drop sooner than most of my cohort and I was (and still am) vertically challenged. And the wonky bit? Another allusion to the Friends of Dorothy? I have a feeling in my water that this isn’t about Shakespeare’s sonnets after all.
There you go. Sorted. Now, where did I put my Chaucer?
PS. I’m sure this degree of familiarity wouldn’t be allowed these days. We live in more hysterical times, imagining a pedo lurking round every corner. And, just in case anyone’s wondering, as far as I remember, Dave was a straight as my school ruler. No mucky business going on or intended.
Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics
According to a recently published survey by Britain’s Office of National Statistics, 1.5% of the adult British population is either gay or bisexual. This figure has been extrapolated from a sample of about 180,000 and is much lower than many pundits expected. I’m not surprised. Brits tend to be a bashful and bolshy lot, content to tell the nosy nanny state to mind its own business, particularly in matters of the boudoir. Gaydar, the gay dating site, claims to have over two million members in the UK so maybe the ONS numbers don’t stack up. In any case, percentages shouldn’t count when it comes to freedom, personal choice and civil rights. If it was all about mustering the troops, the ladies of this land would have been running the show decades ago (and that would be no bad thing). The survey revealed that the highest number of gay and bisexual people is found in London, the wicked city where the streets are paved with diversity. No surprises here either. What only-gay-in-the-village wouldn’t pay for a one-way ticket out of middle England? But which part of this Sceptre’d Isle has the fewest fairies? You guessed it; East Anglia. This may explain the dearth of come hither looks I get these days. Or maybe I’m just past my use-by date.
Phil Starr, Drag Star
When I did a piece on Ruthie Henshall’s Norwich gig a while ago, I slipped in a little anecdote about my pipe cleaning days and a drag queen called Dockyard Doris. This sent me on a trip around You Tube to find old footage of the lovely Doris. I discovered a few clips but none worth showing to your nan. While I was digging, I stumbled across some old recordings of Phil Starr. Warm memories came flooding back of simpler days when a real belly laugh was easier to come by. Phil Starr was an old school drag queen comic with impeccable timing and a closet-full of shaggy dog stories, each with a witty twist. Cutting but never cruel, Phil started his career in the Fifties and played to packed pubs right up to his sudden death in 2005 at the age of 73. I saw Phil sprinkle his fairly dust in the East End and Brighton. I laughed so much, it hurt.
I’ve picked out one example for your delectation. It’s rude, just a little bit crude and not at all PC. Change channels now if you’re easily offended.
Postcards from Soho
Ian, one of my oldest friends, is the area manager of a gay ‘lifestyle’ chain (AKA licensed sex shops – don’t tell his mother). The filthy smut flies off the shelves as the filthy lucre fills the tills even during these recessionary times. Well, people stay in more and make a meal of it. Despite his status as purveyor of porn to the Grindr generation, Ian is an off-fashioned boy with the Nineties hairdo to prove it. He shuns the modern world of instantaneous communication for a more leisurely discourse – snail-mail rather than e-mail, hand-crafted notes rather than instant messaging. Even his flip-top phone belongs in the Science Museum. He’s particularly scathing about Facebook, seeing it as the work of the Devil. I picked up this postcard and sent it to him. I wrote, “I saw this card and thought of you.”
A couple of days later I received this card in the post. Ian had written, “I saw this card and thought of you.” Touché!
Let’s Hear it for the Brides
The sun shone, the bride and bride kissed, the pansexual crowd whooped, the fizz popped and the waters trickled by in approval. After the nuptials in Islington, the wedding party was delivered via double decker to Blackfriars Pier where we joined them, all suited and booted (well, I’ve got to get some wear out of the two piece I bought for the funeral of my celebrated uncle). What started as a boozy cruise down Old Father Thames ended with a slow smooch on a riverside dancefloor and two very happy ladies. Liam caught up with old colleagues from his waged days and I got to flirt with a bone fide fire fighter. The hettie-man didn’t seem to mind any of my obvious batty-man gags about sliding down his greasy pole and playing with his enormous hose. The running buffet, bottomless barrel and limitless goodwill helped ensure our first lesbian wedding was a rip roaring success. We felt honoured to witness it.
The only blot on the landscape was our uncomfortable room at the Comfort Inn, Vauxhall, with its thin duvets, wonky fittings and tiny shower cupboard with a loo barely big enough for a five year old. Still, we were three sheets to the wind thanks to our generous hosts so we hardly noticed.
The wedding album isn’t out yet so here’s the view from the pier at the Westminster Boating Base in Pimlico where the reception was held. Liam said I scrubbed up rather well and who am I to argue?
Beautiful Thing
Recently, my gig at Pride Live on Norwich’s Future Radio gave me the chance to chat with Nikolai Foster, the director of the 2013 revival of Jonathan Harvey’s ‘Beautiful Thing.’ What fun we had. Alas, I’ve never seen the play (I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time) but I have seen the Channel 4 film (over and over) and it’s as fresh today as it was when it was first released in 1996. At the time it was such a relief to watch a gay-themed drama that was about life and living rather than death and dying.
Beautiful Thing is currently playing at the Arts Theatre in the West End until 25th of May after which it goes on mini tour – Liverpool, Leeds and Brighton (sadly, not Norwich). Grab your ticket while you can.
To listen to the entire Pride Live podcast, click here.
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Jack Scott’s School Days
Quite by chance, I’ve just discovered that Sebastian Wood became the British Ambassador to China in 2010. Why should I be interested in Her Maj’s representative to the Middle Kingdom? Well, I went to school with him. We weren’t in the same class but we were in the same play. He starred as Puck in A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream; I was cast in the bit part of Snug, the Joiner. He was cream of the straight ‘A’ crop; I was middling in the could-do-betters. He studied hard; I hardly studied at all. He became a member of the civil service elite; I became a middle ranking municipal bean counter. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
Our man in Beijing got me thinking about other boys I schooled with. Tomasz Starzewski is an internationally successful designer who’s done rather well dressing the rich and ridiculous. He charges top dollar for his top notch frocks. I remember being rather unkind about the ample curves of his puppy fat years. Kids can be cruel and I had an acid tongue. Tomasz began his path to profitable haute couture at a young age and, when he found out that I worked for Habitat in Chelsea, popped in now and again. It was his way of pointing out that he was on his way to wealth and distinction while I was working in a shop on the minimum wage. Revenge, no doubt, was sweet.
I was a lazy pupil and tended to focus more on my hormones than my homework. I’ve never much had an ear for languages (my persistent failure to acquire more than a few mispronounced words in Turkish is a case in point). During Latin lessons I made sure I always sat next to Mario Franz Xavier Victor Joseph Thomas Da Souza (Mario’s family came from Goa in India, hence the saintly Portuguese roll call). Our chalk-dusted old teacher’s style was lamentably predictable. Working left to right from the back of the class, he would ask each boy in turn to translate a single line from a passage. All I had to do was count the number of boys and the number of lines and get Super Mario to translate my line for me. It worked a treat until my abject failure at the end of year exams.
I last saw Mario (at about the last time I saw Tomasz) when I bumped into him in Kings Cross. I’d just been to an appointment at the Institute of Ophthalmology where a research professor had been fascinated by how I’d managed to contract an STD in my eye. Who knew? Not me. It certainly brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘It’ll make you go blind.’ Ah, memories.
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