Phil Starr, Drag Star

Phil Starr, Drag Star

Phill StarrWhen 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.

Dispirit of the Dance

Spirit of the Dance

Liam dragged me along to the Theatre Royal to see Spirit of the Dance, a cross-cultural burlesque with a strong Celtic twist. It may be an international smash, seen by over ten million people, but I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly impressed. The enchantment of Irish country dancing is in the regimental coordination and parade ground precision. One wrong step and the spell is broken. Sadly, there was quite a lot of wrong footing going on by the mismatched little and large chorus line. The lighting was so poor, they might as well have been barn dancing and when they got to the fake Folies Bergère routine, I’d lost the will to live; more can’t can’t than Can Can. Added to this, the score sounded like it had been run up on a Roland in a shed. I didn’t see too many people shelling out for the CD during the mercifully long interval. A stout tenor with a Jagger-swagger was rolled on now and again. Why? His voice was fine but it added nothing to the show and just got in the way. And, hasn’t Nessun Dorma rather been done to death? Norwich audiences are very forgiving but, every time he strutted on stage, you could hear the groans from the herd of grey. His face didn’t fit and neither did his baggy tux. Riverdance it ain’t.

Attack of the Clones

Beards are back.  I don’t mean the little goatees of the early Noughties or the close-cut five o-clock shadow of yesteryear. This time they’re big, really big. We’re talking twisted whiskers of ZZ Top proportions. Sales of razor blades and shaving foam have dropped through the floor causing consternation in the boardrooms of Gillette and Wilkinson Sword. You can hardly turn on the TV without a Bin Laden lookie-likey looking back. Everyone’s at it. A case in point is the comedian, Alex Horne. He’s gone from clean-cut to shag pile, ageing 10 years overnight. Of course the truth is I’m jealous. My own facial growth has always been a tad patchy and a bit wispy, more Catweazle than Clooney. Back in the Village People day, the Frisco look was the only show in town – plunging check shirts, tight Levi 501s, chest rugs and bushy Tom Selleck tashes. Everyone looked butch, as long as they didn’t move and didn’t speak. And clones only danced with clones. Pretty little things like me didn’t get a look in. No fuzz, no way. These days all the old clones still breathing have morphed into ‘bears.’ Essentially, this just means they’ve gone to fat.

Alex Horne

The Show is Over Now

The Show is Over Now

Time to take down the Anatolian display and pack away the posters. The Pride Without Prejudice Show is done and dusted for another year and what a successful run its been. If you’d told me back in the day when I ebbed and flowed along the nose-to-nipple Victoria Line that, a few years on, I’d be showcasing a book I’d written at a bone fide exhibition I would have told you to where to get off (at the next stop and mind the gap). Did I sell any books from it? Your guess is as good as mine. At the very same time I was mounting the posters, I was featured on WordPress’ Blogger Profile site which has over 10 million subscribers. As soon as their interview was published, it all went a bit crazy for a while. If I did flog a few copies off as a result of the show it was icing on the cake.  Will I exhibit again next year with the Sisterhood? Wild goats won’t keep me away.

Booze, Birds and Fast Cars

Booze, Birds and Fast Cars

george bestMy sister’s football-crazed family has finally spawned a potential star. Tom, third boy of four, has been selected to train with Reading FC’s Soccer Academy. The Academy has a fine reputation for nurturing young talent. Tom’s only 14 (but nearly six foot tall with shoulders the width of a barn door) and his coach thinks he has what it takes to go all the way. Someone once said that to me when I was 14, but that’s another story.

Naturally, Tom turned to his wise old uncle for lifestyle advice. I told him to watch the drink (think George Best and Gazza) and avoid sleeping with prostitutes old enough to be his granny (Wayne Rooney). I also told him that, as his favourite uncles, Liam and I wouldn’t be the least bit embarrassed if he set us up in a luxury penthouse overlooking the Thames. After all, if he makes it into the Premier League, he’ll be bringing in more dosh than Denmark.

“I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.”

George Best

You might also like:

Gareth ThomasRainbow Sporting Heros

Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves

Summer Madness

For the month of August only, I’m flogging off the ‘Best of Perking the Pansies’ from the Turkish Years at the knock down price of a quid ($1.54) per episode on Amazon (Kindle version). That’s just 100 pennies for Turkey, the Raw Guide (which includes invaluable advice about relocating to Turkey assuming anyone wants to these days) and 100 pennies for Turkey, Surviving the Expats (which includes my Anatolian must sees). Never say I’m not a generous soul.

Best of Mini-Series

If this special offer takes your fancy, click here for more information

Parade with Pride

Parade with Pride

Images courtesy of Norwich Pride on Facebook

By any measure, Norwich Pride 2013 was a rip-roaring, runaway success. 5,000 people flooded into the city to paint the town red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. Even the regal lions guarding the grand entrance to City Hall got into the act with rainbow garlands wrapped round their elegant necks and party hats propped on top of their fine heads. The BBC issued a weather warning but sheer exuberance blew the clouds away and bathed the crowds in warm sunshine. This was a Pride with a difference. Despite the large numbers, there was a touching intimacy and a genuine sense of inclusion sadly lacking in some of the mega Prides these days – no VIP areas for the cut above, no egos to massage, no fences to keep people out (or to keep them in), no faces that didn’t fit. We had a ball. Congratulations to the dedicated group of volunteers who made it all happen. You played a blinder.

I was chuffed to be asked to be the voice of Pride on Future Radio. Pity the poor people who had to listen to me witter on several times a day.

A picture paints a thousand words so check out the frocks and frolics on the Norwich Pride Facebook Page and the Norwich Evening News.

Rules of Engagement

Rules of Engagement

jack-the-hack-_writingtipsMore pearls of  foolishness from yours truly. This time about book PR. What do I know?

Exhausted? You will be. This PR lark takes a lot of graft. I know. I’ve never worked so hard. The good news is that once you’ve set the wheels in motion, you just need to keep a light touch on the tiller. Then before you know it, you’ll start getting that exposure you’ve always dreamed of and, who knows, the agents and distributors knocking at your door instead of the pretty postman. More…

Norwich Pride 2013

Norwich Pride 2013
Jack Scott on Future Radio

The marching season continues (no, I don’t mean the archaic and nose-rubbing Orange Day parades). Following a whole week of rather special events (including my very own display at the Pride Without Prejudice Art Exhibition), tomorrow is Norwich Pride day, a gift from the LGBT community to all and sundry. We missed it last year. Something else got in the way. Now, what was it? Oh, yes, watching the opening ceremony of the London Olympics from a balcony overlooking the stadium. We were torn, but the once-in-a-lifetime event won the day, I’m afraid. This year we are fully committed to the pink party. In fact, I’m going to be co-hosting the outside broadcast of Pride Live on Future Radio with the fabulous Di Cunningham from the epicentre of the knees-up on Millennium Plain, itself the epicentre of community life in the city. I’m not quite sure what to expect other than that it’ll be a scream and I’ll be the one doing the screaming. I think Di intends to wind me up and let me loose into the rainbow crowd to hunt down colourful victims to interview. Tune in on 107.8 FM (or online) and listen to me make a total prat of myself because I won’t know what’s coming up and I won’t have rehearsed my lines. Oh, sod it, who cares? It’s all in a worthy cause. Whoever you are, why not pop along and parade with pride?

And Through the Square Window

And Through the Square Window

We live in a quiet city street, a no-through road. The Weaver’s cottage stands alone in a sea of offices and sheltered housing schemes; worker bees and old folk live in perfect harmony. We get footfall but very little traffic. Then one day, the peace was breached by a pincer movement of mechanical cherry pickers – one at the rear and one at the front. What a bleedin’ racket. I was being picked at from both ends. It went on for hours. One wrong swipe and I would have tumbled out into the street in my jim-jams. I’d no idea what they were doing. The cages just seemed to go up and down, up and down, like a really boring fairground ride (or any boring ride, come to that). The big red bugger up front was only temporarily silenced when it ran out of petrol. A bit careless of the driver, I thought. How’s a penniless author supposed to write a masterpiece with that hullabaloo going on?