Invisible Stranger |
|
|
Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
Archives
Currently clicking:
Usually Playing:
|
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Here We Go Again
A genuine thank-you to all of you who have come, clicked and commented here in the past nine months or so. Believe it or not, it really means a lot to me. And even more thanks to all of you whose blogs have entertained, provoked, and infuriated me for the last year, as well as those whose weblogs I'm only just discovering. Whether I agree with you or not, I know just how much work is put into them, and, as far as this Stranger is concerned, it is really appreciated. (We're all of us quite brilliantly bonkers, you know, and they probably should set up some sort of home for us.) Now, just for tonight, grow up and do something useful like pissing off down the pub. Love you loads. My dears. Have a great New Year's Eve. And a fantastic 2004. Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Review Of The Year
In this fed-up, run-down No-Man's Land between Ch**st**s and the New Year, when the Royal Institution Series of Lectures is the only telly worth setting the video for, I tend to go into work. With hardly anyone in the office, I'm effectively being paid for sauntering in and doing sod-all. Anyway, if I stayed at home, I'd only end up going out every night, having such a cracking time that I'd hate myself in the cold goggle-eyed light of morning. Either that, or I'd be slashing a path, Terminator-style, through Oxford Street bargain-hunters, all of whom are incapable of walking in a straight line, and hurling the dawdlers amongst them right into the path of an oncoming 73 bus. Having three days of no actual responsibility also means I can turn my mind to completing my annual appraisal form, a task that should have been started in October but isn't even contemplated until the last mince-pie and slurp of sherry have been consumed. This yearly self-assessment requires me to rate my own performance at work over the past year. Lest any shy and self-effacing employee be stuck for ideas on what to say, there are handy hints on the form to guide you on your way to corporate and personal enlightenment. The printed advice runs something like this: "Are you our sort of employee who listens closely and intelligently to others' points of views? Or are you a self-opinionated and individualistic bastard convinced that, if everyone does it the right way (i.e. yours), then they will all save themselves truckloads of trauma, and, even better, you can be home in time for EastEnders? "Do you have excellent inter-personal skills, standing rounds for your colleagues in the pub after work, thereby establishing a happy and effective group dynamic? Or would you prefer as a more pleasant alternative drinking a quart-full of elephant urine, being buggered senseless by a bunch of sex-starved, scab-encrusted nonagenarians, and then thrown into a pit full of angry anacondas? "Are you comfortable with all the firm's electronic-data and telephonic systems, conversant with all current software packages, as well as being able to write Visual Basic code in your sleep? Or is your only acquaintance with IT the downloading of mucky pictures from Adult Premium-Rated sites, and a total inability to win even one game of Minesweeper?" Well, what am I supposed to say? Tell them how fantastic and criminally underrated I really am, and everyone's going to think I'm lying or, at the very least, taking the piss, and there's no place in the company for someone that arrogant and self-obsessed anyway. And downplay my abilities just a fraction too much and that's when they are, in fact, going to believe me, and then the next thing you know it's a trip up to Mamma Boss for the P45, because who'd want to employ someone who knows how bad he is and hasn't done anything about it all year? A happy medium is called for here, I suspect, something which I've never been particularly adept at. You know, this could turn out to be one of the biggest pieces of Sunday, December 28, 2003
I'm Coming Out
Doors have been unsealed. Outdoors access has been allowed. A daring expedition onto the planet's surface (Selfridges) has been attempted. Results have been. . . satisfactory. Contact has been re-established with the indigenous life-form (well, a barman on Old Compton Street, but this evolution thing takes time). And the 390 is running to schedule. Know what, my dears? I think we've survived it again. Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Bunker Mentality
Necessary precautions have been taken. As of five minutes ago, all outer doors have been sealed and time-locked. Windows have been shuttered to block out the outside world. All electronic communication has ceased. Emergency life-support systems are now in operation. The occupant will be fed and watered until such time as it is deemed unnecessary. Humbugs have been bought. Provision has also been made for what is left of the subject's mental well-being: amusement disks have been provided. Re-entry into Normality is currently scheduled for two days' time. Or whenever public transport is up and running again, the BBC News comes on at its proper time, and every single merry-chr*st**sing Bob Cratchit is speared fatally through the heart with his own piece of holly, and Tiny Tim is back where he belongs, giving blow-jobs down the Dilly for a wrap of crack. And it’s a hard, and it's a bitter, rain's a-gonna fall. My dears. Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Goody Two-Shoes
Justin Timberlake dropped round my local boozer for a bevy recently. Unfortunately, I was at work and couldn't make the date. Not that I would have recognised him even if I had been there. As someone whose last-remembered Top of the Pops coincided with "Mad World" being a hit first time round, these days I live in blissful ignorance of who's in the singles charts. I've always been an albums kind of man anyway; never had any time for all this 45rpm nonsense. Oh. You mean, they don't any more? Ah, well. . . I'm told that Justin had an orange juice, said "please" and "thank you" a lot to the bar staff, and was generally a very well-behaved young man. Bless. In my day, if you hadn't knocked back two and a half bottles of Jack Daniels, shagged three convent-girls up the bum, and developed a serious smack habit in time for the One O'Clock News, then you were either a sissy, or Aled Jones, which is even more worrying. I hear Justin's the latest candidate for the Future of Rock 'n' Roll. If his behaviour round my local is anything to go by, then the dear boy's still got a long way to go. Monday, December 22, 2003
No Socks Please
Socks never held much appeal for me. Socks make my feet hot and smelly, and most pairs survive only three or four washings before my big toe pokes through them anyway. Most of the time, I pad around my flat barefoot, and rarely pull them on with my gym-shoes. I do wear them in the street and for work, however, mainly because, if I didn't in this weather, all my toes, and not just the big one, would fall off; or, what's even worse, people would have me down as some sad grizzled reject from an old Miami Vice episode. Even I do not do that particular piece of retro-chic anymore. Once was more than enough, thank you very much. I last bought myself a pair of socks in the mid-eighties. They were a pair of pale-blue designer jobbies, specially purchased to complement the pastel loafers and striped flannels I then used to swank around in. (This was my Summer of Whimsy, my dears, when I still thought the Brideshead look was a good idea.) Designer or not, within a week, Big Toe had made another of his valiant stabs for freedom, and they ended up with holes in them too, just like the cheapo packs of six I used to buy from C&A. Lest you think I've been wearing the same pale-blues for the past twenty years, rest assured that I do have a reliably constant source of fresh pairs. Every December spent at the maternal home invariably sees me returning with Morrisons carrier-bags stuffed full of the socks Ma Stranger's bought over the past twelve months. The number of pairs she gives me is normally determined by some mysterious calculation involving the total years I've lived away from home, subtracted from my actual age, and then multiplied by all the occasions I've broken her heart. So I usually start each new year with the pairs I own hitting triple figures, and, whenever Mister Big Toe pops through again, I simply chuck them away, never bothering to repair them. This year, my mum hasn't been mobile enough to do much shopping, so I've just returned from a long weekend Up North socks-starved, with but three new pairs to get me through this coming year, rather than last December's record top-up of forty-seven pairs. With the once-ubiquitous Sock Shops now reduced in numbers to a mere handful, and my refusal to even consider crossing the threshold of Marks & Sparks until mid-February, as well as an understandable reluctance to chop off my offending big toe, it looks as though I'm going to have to go barefoot till then. Either that, or finally learn how to darn a pair of socks. . . Thursday, December 18, 2003
Territorial Rights
Most of you know I go to the gym regularly, usually arriving there just after seven a.m. It's an Achievement, I'll have you know. It's especially so in this brass-monkey weather and when you only got to bed past midnight last night, after having seen Matthew Bourne's Play Without Words, a modern dance piece set in Swinging Sixties London, and the sexiest thing I've seen at the National all year. At this frankly twisted time of morning, there's a small band of eager little Diverse as we may be in our little quirks and routines, we all observe basic gym etiquette: don't hog the resistance machines; put the free weights back where you found them; swim in the lane most appropriate to your ability; and don't look too long between the other guy's legs because he's bigger than you, and not only there. But there's a new bloke at the gym now, someone unversed in these subtle, unwritten rules. I have never set eyes on him, and I don't even know who he is. But I'm convinced he's out there, just as I know he arrives at the gym even earlier than I do. And how do I know all this? Because for the past week he's been using my bloody locker, that's why, getting to it a good five minutes before me, locking me out of the place in which I've hung towel and Timotei for five long years. It's the one at the end of a row, which gives me loads more space to get dressed, as well as affording me an almost panoramic view of the entire changing room. Everyone knows it's my locker: that's why no one else of the 7 a.m. gang would ever dream of going near it. For you can do many things, my dears. You can laugh at my front crawl in the pool, or overtake me in the slow lane. You can fault my lateral pull-down technique, sneer at the amount of reps I can't do, or suggest that a couple less Stellas might just help the old BMI. Why, you can even slander me as a middle-aged tart, vainly trying to regain the sleek, youthful look he never had in the first place, and I will merely look benignly down at you before gliding on silently by. But grab Locker 226 at the London Central YMCA just one more time, matey, and it's the Sudetenland all over again. I shall dicker with your dumbbells and tamper with your treadmill, load forty-kilo weights onto your ten-kilo bar, puncture every last one of your Swiss Balls, and then run off with your Speedos when you're not looking. And, if all that fails, then I'll start coming in earlier still. This is war, my dears. And it won't end till 226 is mine again. Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Champagne Supernova
At this time of year, when most people I know are celebrating the birth of someone they don't believe in, I tend to get given bottles of champagne. These not-so-wise men bringing me these gifts hope it will make me believe in them this coming year, and push some lucrative business their way. Well, I've news for you, my generous and scheming little dears: the Zanussi is already bursting with Moët, meaning there's hardly any room for the partridge, pear-tree and poppers and, besides, I can't stand the stuff. So much for the Ab Fab party life then. Excuse me while I shuffle off for a nice cup of Horlicks. Now, I admit there are occasions — personal tragedies, dark depressions, bailiffs on the doorstep — when only tap-dancing and the effervescence of champagne can pull you through, but generally it's over-rated and over-priced, either too acidic or too sweet, and never served at the right temperature. It also gets up my nose, and makes me burp. How terribly sophisticated. But the main reason is that it's the only drink which invariably gets me pissed way too quickly and easily. And that's pissed, by the way, not drunk. Pissed as in why am I lying face-down somewhere which hasn't got a London post-code, what was my name again, and, why, thank you, Officer, it's so nice of you to offer me a lift in your shiny new van. Drunk I can do very well, carrying it off with my customary and endearingly boyish charm (yeah, right); but pissed, and I do not want to know me, and neither does anyone else celebrating on Old Compton Street. So if you're thinking of buying me anything alcoholic this Advent, a bottle of Amaretto, a classy Armagnac or just an Absolut would go down a treat (although a case of Argentinean red would be even more acceptable). But easy on the champers please. Those sneaky bubbles get me every time, and you really do not want to be held responsible for the consequences. Sunday, December 14, 2003
Dream A Little Dream
Last night I dreamt I was flying. Nothing unusual in that, my dears: it's a dream I've had ever since I discovered which way is up. The dream dictionary informs me that this represents my quest for freedom and my urge to soar above the mundane banalities of my humdrum existence. Apparently, it also means I'm on top of whatever situation most concerns me at the moment. And there was I thinking it just meant I was really Superman. I'm a crap flyer, anyway. I can only stay up swimming in the air for a few seconds at a time, before being forced to alight, albeit briefly, back onto terra firma. No amount of fairy dust (of whatever kind), or thinking wonderful thoughts, will ever get me into the Peter Pan league, which leads me to suspect that perhaps this friend of Wendy isn't in as overall control as he'd like to believe. This isn't my only recurring dream, however. For about the third or fourth time this month, I've dreamt of certain other bloggers, some of whom appear on my sidebar, some of whom don't, some on whose sites I comment, and some not. Funnily enough, none of these dreams has involved any of the web-loggers I've met in Real Life, or anyone I'd recognise by virtue of their mug-shots being featured regularly on their sites. So last night [name withheld for legal reasons] got the hump with me and [name withheld because it's just too embarrassing] because we'd been out all night with [name withheld because you'd never believe it], and the thing was that [name withheld because of professional ethics] had been waiting to be introduced to [name withheld on grounds of good manners] who knew that I sort-of fancied their best mate [name withheld because it’s none of your business] all along. Now, what's the dream dictionary to make of all that? Thursday, December 11, 2003
It's So Nice To Be Insane (No-One Asks You To Explain)
When you live alone, talking to yourself is perfectly acceptable. Indeed, it's to be expected, if you don't want to turn completely bonkers. Sometimes, a decision can only be made correctly, or a thought process taken to its proper conclusion, when it's expressed aloud. Nothing wrong with that, is there? So I've no problem with chirping maniacally away to myself like a speed-junkie squirrel, and do not regard it as the first step on that long, lonely road terminating at Funny Farm Central. With the advent of hands-free technology, you can even do it in the street these days, and no-one will look pityingly at you as though you're gaga, and cross the road to avoid you. No, they'll just think you're a prat. They'll still cross the road though. Recently, however, I've noticed a disturbing new tendency. Not content merely with muttering softly to myself, I have now started to answer back. My vocalised interior monologue has become a dialogue. It happened last night, when I was sketching out some future blog, and debating whether I should have just one more Stella before going home. One part of me vociferously insisted I had had enough, while the other argued forcefully that another little half wouldn't do me any harm, and might even help the flow of ideas. No prizes for guessing which side won. For the regulars at the bar, it was a bit like eavesdropping on Gollum in The Lord of the Rings, although not quite as pretty. They've always thought I was a bit of a self-obsessed nutter anyway, and now all their worst fears have been confirmed. But that's OK. After all, two's company, they say. It's only three that's doo-lally. Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Those Were The Days
For some queer reason, it's assumed I have a up-to-the-minute grasp of the pop-cultural Zeitgeist. Work-colleagues all congregate round the water-cooler, like acolytes to my Delphi, for pronouncements on last night's must-see telly, and my opinions on the latest artistic vibe down Hoxton way. It's all down to being a gay man, I suppose, a colourful and comparatively rare bird in the humdrum beigeness of the corporately-suited world. Gay men have their finger on the pulse: everyone knows that. The Sunday supplements and the fag-mags say so: it must be true. Ever eager to express our individuality (as long as it's the same), we eagerly adopt new fashions (as long as it's unwearable with a big label) and establish exciting new trends in music (as long as it's Kylie). Oh, my dears, we are just so hip our bottoms are falling off! Er, well, not quite. In an attempt to save myself from any future water-cooler moments, I would like it to be known that: I have seen not one single episode of either Buffy or Angel, nor do I intend to, only two of Although I can recognise most male stars, I cannot put a face to the names of Minnie Driver, Meg Ryan, or Sandra Bullock. However, I know every contour of Monroe's figure, had an auntie who looked like Katharine Hepburn, and consider Louise Brooks to be very probably the most beautiful woman who ever lived. I do not know exactly for what J-Lo is famous. I have a sneaking suspicion that the last concert I attended was at the Royal Albert Hall, featuring Shirley Bassey. (In my defence, at the time I was a big Morrisey fan trying to be ironic.). I do not know who is number one at the moment, cannot name one song by Eminem, and, though I like Goldfrapp enormously, I think Noosha Fox did it better first time round. I also own more than a few albums by Melanie, but I'd rather not discuss that here. I think Gregorian chant is cool. I'm not too keen on modern art; which, for me, starts round about 1945, and believe a cow's proper place is in the field and not formaldehyde. And I have never seen a cut, director's or otherwise, of Bladerunner, Pulp Fiction, A Clockwork Orange, or anything with Johnny Depp in it. But there's not a thing on 1920s German Expressionist cinema you can catch me out on, and I can quote you line for line from Sunset Boulevard.. I do not know what post-modernism means. Finger on the pulse? Foot in the grave, more like. Thursday, December 04, 2003
Catch Of The Day
Yesterday was spent suffering with a funny tummy, the result of an evening passed with a cash-strapped friend at one of those all-you-can-eat-for-a-fiver places. I should have known better than to trust a "restaurant", which, despite having an Italian name, serves Spanish-style tapas, dished up by moon-lighting Korean students, and where the house red is Bulgarian gut-rot. Classy fusion food it was not. Now, as someone whose idea of culinary heaven is a pair of finest pork and beef sausages squashed between slices of thin, processed, white bread, I can hardly be called a food snob, but I reckon if you want good grub then you have to pay for it. As I totter disgracefully through my forties, I find I'm eating out more and more. I appreciate dining in restaurants, enjoying the company of good friends, or perhaps getting to know a new one better, over fine food and wine; and a bill of between twenty to forty quid per head with plonk, or even more, depending on the occasion, is OK with me. For my generation, dining out is rapidly becoming the new clubbing or pubbing: just a couple of years ago we'd normally be spending twice as much as that on a night of pharmaceutically-assisted jumping up and down anyway. But the best meal I've ever had in my life wasn't in some over-priced metropolitan eaterie, patronised by C-list celebrities, or part-owned by one of those chefs off the telly, but on the Greek island of Rhodes. One afternoon, the scorching June heat had finally defeated us, and we parked at a run-down and out-of-the-way taverna on the beach. Sitting out on a ramshackle jetty, staring over the sea at the wind-surfers in the distance, we feasted on fish, sizzling and pan-fried in its own juices, garnished with nothing more than lemon. It was delicious on its own, but made more so by the knowledge that, just twenty minutes previously, we had seen the grizzled taverna owner send his dark-eyed teenage son out with a spear to catch the fish, especially for us, fresh from the glittering Aegean shallows. (And we got tons of change from our drachmas as well.) Sometimes, you don't need even one single Michelin star to impress. Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Let Go Outside
I leave home round about 6.45, to be at the gym by seven. After my workout, I avoid the Wild Hunt of commuters streaming out of the tube station for an early start at my desk, located in an open-planned basement into which no natural light is allowed to intrude. Lunch is rabbit-food snatched from the canteen (also in the basement), and the next hour or so is spent in the glare of my monitor, either writing this blog, or, more probably, reading yours. I return to the Outside just after five, in time to catch the moon rising in a starless, light-polluted London sky. I would like to imagine my drained and sun-starved pallor is the height of vampiric chic, and lends to my appearance an air of menace and undead glamour. I secretly suspect the fact that the only sunshine I've seen in weeks has been the weather installation at Tate Modern, is making me behave like and resemble nothing more than a crumbling, grumbling reject from a George Romero movie, unfortunately more Max Schreck than Tom Cruise. I need to change my routine. Or at least get an office with a window. Monday, December 01, 2003
Buddy's Blog
I don't normally talk about my private life on this blog. Perhaps today I should. When I first arrived in London in the early 80s, I was young and gagging for it. My life was one long shagathon, and I'd make more new "friends" in a week than I now do in a year, and I rarely enquired after their names. My arrival in the capital also coincided with the opening of the notorious and short-lived Subway club on Leicester Square. The first venue of its kind in the UK, it advertised itself as an "American style club", which meant DJs playing frenetic HiNRG, and two large darkrooms, where the all-male, amyl-sniffing clientele went at it like bunny-rabbits. I was down there almost every night. Around this time, I met "Buddy", a doctor from New York, who was in the UK on a sabbatical. Looking back, I suppose I had something of a crush on him, though we never slept together. He was about ten years older than me, streetwise and savvy, with a sly and intelligent wit, and one of the very first people who took me and my crazy ambitions seriously. He was the level-headed and together gay man I wanted to become. (In case you think he sounds too good to be true, let me point out that he was also the one who turned me on to showtunes, so he's a lot to answer for.) One Tuesday evening in '82 he invited me round for dinner with a mate of his from New York, Martin Sherman, the writer of award-winning play, Bent. It was a civilised evening, talking art and politics, and bitching about Hollywood and Broadway stars. In passing, Sherman mentioned that he wished someone would take action against this mysterious new something which seemed to be affecting only gay men. None of us dwelt much on it, and later that evening, I went off and played the slut as usual down in Subway. We didn't think about the consequences of our actions in the dark or worry about something which didn't even have a name back then. We certainly didn't know anyone who died of it, and we were all young and going to live forever anyway. But by virtue of hanging around with Buddy, as news started to trickle in from his friends and colleagues in the States, I realised that this was serious. I became more and more informed, certainly more so than the Government at the time; and it was Buddy who urged me to alter my slutty behaviour, or, at the very least, start using condoms, way before anyone dared to mention them on daytime TV. The fact I'm still around today, when many of my other sleaze-pals from that time are not, is down in no small part to him. Eventually he moved back to what was then the front-line in New York, establishing a busy gay men's health practice, and doing research into possible vaccines against what had now been named AIDS. I went over one Christmas and saw a community in crisis. . When I returned to London, I asked the management of Brief Encounter, then the capital's largest and busiest gay bar, why they didn't have AIDS charity tins on the bar, as they had in New York. It would put off the customers, they informed me, and they didn't want to know. Buddy would fly back to London regularly and we'd often meet up for lunch or a trip to the theatre. One time we went to see the musical Chess in the West End, and then I treated him to dinner in Soho. It was the late 80s, and AIDS still hadn't really hit the UK with the force it had in Manhattan. But everyone in New York seemed to be dying, he told me, and, though he claimed to have tested negative six months earlier, he was still scared. I babbled some inane comment that he was my friend which meant that he wouldn't die, and, like a coward, changed the subject. I never saw or heard from him again. Eighteen months later, I read in the paper that he had died. I wonder if, that last time, he knew he was HIV-positive, and was testing me, trying to see what my reaction would be. If so, then, sorry, Buddy, I failed the test back then, but you know I don't today. But it would have been so good to have seen you just one more time. At least you're still remembered, under your real name, and not your favoured nickname, in the AIDS quilt, that moving memorial to all of those we've lost to that bastard virus. Today on World AIDS Day, things aren't as bleak as they were in my twenties, at least not for us in the West, with drugs and combinations of drugs to control the disease. And while there's an enormous amount to do in the developing world, I wish Buddy could be around today to see the progress we've made. And besides, I miss him like fuck. Thursday, November 27, 2003
Dalek, I Love You
Last night, a friend, far too young ever to have met them in real life, and only familiar with black-and-white newspaper photographs, casually asked me what colour a Dalek was. Only, not knowing any better, she pronounced it "Day-lik", instead of "Dar-lek". After I'd corrected her and then patiently explained in great detail that it all depended on which rival faction you were talking about, at which particular point in whose version of their history, and whether you regarded as canonical the telly, the movies, the comics, or the DIY version, it was politely suggested it might be time for me to get my cloakroom ticket and retrieve my anorak from the coat-check. My contacts tell me there's a rather racy new drug out on the streets these days. I believe it's called "Life". Must think about getting myself one. Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Northern Life
I live in North London, no more than a whore's toss from King's Cross. I've done so for the past four years, the longest time I've ever lived anywhere in the capital. Over my twenty-odd years of a gypsy and rootless existence in London, I've had flats in the south, west, east and the centre, and even, for one ghastly year of mediocrity, in Twickenham. But no matter where I've hung my hat or baseball cap, I've always been pulled back by that umbilical cord connecting me to North London. And this time it looks as though I'm settled and here to stay. I love the area's elevated position above the City, so that, no matter where you are, you're either looking down on something (in my case, the dome of Saint Paul's) or up at the green of Highgate and Hampstead, and the good old Ally Pally in the distance. I love its juxtaposition of rich and poor, grunge and glitter, and wide ethnic mix from the Greeks and Turks in Green Lanes to the Irish and Extraterrestrials of Camden Town. Some of the best times of my life have been spent in posh N1 and NW3 (and even better times in not-quite-so-posh NW1 and N7). My first real London mates were here, and we'd meet up regularly, even though, at the time, I lived fifty minutes' tube ride away to the west in Ealing. Even today, we occasionally bump into each other in the very same local we frequented all those years ago. It was also here that I used to – well, let's not get into that here, shall we? I've had some of the worst times of my life here too: break-ups and bust-ups, even the murder of someone I knew, and my heart was once broken, perhaps irreparably, on the bottom deck of the Number Nineteen bus. I remember the tube station when it was just one murky muggers' delight, and not the hi-tech hamster-run it is today. I can recall a time when there were more Oxfam shops on the high street than restaurants and DJ bars, and when that trendy and quite unnecessary new loft development was an award-winning comprehensive. Why, I go so far back that I even have race-memories of Camden before the Goths touched down, and the Market when it was actually rather good and one of London's best-kept secrets. It's these memories, good and bad, which link me to my patch of North London, and make me care what's going to happen to that little development down the road, or persuade me to sign the petition to save that building on the corner from demolition. Of all the London "villages" in which I've lived, this is the one that's shaped me, the one place I feel I most belong. And to feel that you belong, particularly in London, and especially for a single gay man, well, I think that's something worth blogging about. Friday, November 21, 2003
Perfect Skin
Regular readers will know I seldom talk about my personal life. But I've been doing this blog for a while now, and I reckon I can trust you with the details of one who's shared almost my entire life in London. I still remember the day we met. It was Saturday 8th December 1984, round about three in the afternoon, on London's Piccadilly. It was one of those crisp and clear winter's days, the sky a grim shade of grey, and it was lust at first sight. Friends would tell me later they thought him way out of my league, and very high-maintenance. He was certainly different to the biker type I hung out with when I was whoring my way through half of the Coleherne in Earl's Court. Deep inside, though, I knew that here, at last, was the one for me. We were made for each other. What first attracted me was his smooth, perfect skin, soft and warm to the touch as a baby's, and his sexy, distinctive animal smell, which, once scented, could never be forgotten. And even though I would later discover he could be very supple (ahem) in the places where it mattered, there wasn't a hint of effeminacy about him. In fact he was as butch as rivets, and had the classic V-shape physique of broad shoulders and strong, wide back, tapering down to a narrow waist. I was later to discover he was English, but initially imagined him to be a moody Italian. Elegant and smoulderingly sophisticated, he certainly looked the part, and you could easily have pictured him pouting magnificently from the pages of L'Uomo Vogue. We went on our first semi-official date that very night to a posh and pricey Chinese restaurant in West London. I'd also invited along a good and trusted friend to check him out over the crispy aromatic duck, and confirm that I was doing the right thing. I got the thumbs up: my mate could hardly keep his eyes, or his hands, off him all evening. Within a couple of weeks, lust had very definitely turned to love, and I somehow found the cash to take him with me to New York for Christmas. Back home, we'd go out almost every night, and, of course, always to the most stylish places. Whenever we entered a room together, admiring eyes would turn in our direction. We looked good together; and, even though most of the attention was focused on him, I was still able to bask in the reflected glory, as I showed him off to everybody. By now, I think I'd become a little obsessive about our relationship. I'd never let him out of my sight, for one thing, scared that one of the jealous queens at Heaven or the Copa would steal him away from me. They all wanted him, I knew that. Some of them even tried their luck. But, my dears, they never got their grubby hands on him, and next year we'll have been together twenty years. Of course, over the years, people change, and some of the glamour and shine inevitably goes off a relationship. These days, we don't go out together as much as we used to, maybe just five or six times a month. More often than not I'm seen with younger and trendier and more flighty models. But when we do hit Soho, he makes me feel just as good as he did when we first set eyes on each other. And, you know, the old dear still looks fantastic for his age, even though he's getting a little ragged round the edges now, and is starting to creak a little. And no matter where I've been or who I've seen, he's always there at home, faithfully waiting for me at the end of the day, rewarding me for all the care and attention I've given him over the years. In 1984, friends told me I was stark raving mad to spend four hundred quid on a black designer leather jacket from Simpsons in Piccadilly. Nineteen years on, I have no regrets. And we still look great together. Thursday, November 20, 2003
Send In The Clowns
Stranger, dear, could you possibly? And you’re the only one who… And I know I should have mentioned this earlier… And can you fix… And about that teensy-weensy favour… Oh, that's not quite what I meant… And shall I just leave it here then?.. Oh, silly me, is that what it's for… And two o'clock yesterday seems reasonable, don't you think? If you want a job well doing, then ask a busy person: that's what they always said to shut me up, anyway. But can't they see I'm trying to write a bloody blog here? If I'd known a large part of this week would involve me juggling with more balls than a Compton Street slapper on Saturday night, then I'd have run off and joined Billy Smart's. At least there you get to work with the clowns, rather than for them. Monday, November 17, 2003
East End Boy
In the eighties I lived for a long period of my life on the borders of London's East End, and the notorious London Apprentice Strangely enough, I never once felt threatened or menaced, and this wasn't just down to the Dutch courage and devil-may-care attitude you only discover after six or seven cans of Breaker. As far as I was concerned, this was my "manor", and I felt at home and safe amongst the inner-city dereliction and the disused railway yards and the predictable night-time domestics echoing from the bleak high-rises round the corner. Besides, if a latter-day Jack were to come my way then I knew each twist and turn of every alley and escape route far better than any queer-basher or serial killer wannabe. Last weekend, I was back in the neighbourhood to catch up with a friend who manages a pub in the area. It must have been my first return visit in eleven years, and, my, but the old place has come up in the world. And I suppose it could just have been a bad night, but I hated it. Seedy Hoxton Square, last resort for LA leather-queens who hadn't copped off by Time-Gentlemen-Please, is now the favoured haunt of the capital's arty trendies, all unmade beds and Chapman dollies. The London Apprentice itself is now a club venue (although still host to a Sunday gay night, by all accounts not half as dark and dirty as the original). And where once the best you could hope for in the food department was cod 'n' chips wrapped in the News of the World under the railway bridge, now you can max your gold Amex on top-priced Tex-Mex treats. Just about the only thing remaining from my past is Hawksmoor's splendid Christ Church, white and defiant against the iron Shoreditch sky, although I'm willing to bet some property tycoon's already got his eyes on that as an "exciting new Manhattan-style loft development". Darling. So far, so OK-ish. It’s the new bars which I can't stand. Back when I lurked here, you had the LA for the benders, and refreshingly down-to-earth boozers for every one else. The LA excepted, these places were rarely frequented by anyone other than the locals. Now, the area is on the up and up and fabbed-out with self-called sophisticated "style" bars on every corner, hot neon luring punters in from beyond Zone Three to see just how many Breezers Shazza can get down her gob before chucking up over Wayne's new Versace jeans. Cro-Magnons in dinner suits and earpieces patrol the entrances to these bars, picking fights with stag parties, and taking back-handers from minicab-drivers; and, come Chucking-Out Time, the mayhem resembles nothing less than Albert Square after its Christmas special. Heaven knows what the old locals think of it all, if, that is, they're still there, and haven't been forced out by sky-high rents and property prices. Scared? When I was walking back through the area on my way home at four o'clock last Sunday morning, you bet I was, as the lads fell out of the bars and face-down into the gutters. A (straight) mate of mine got mugged round here a couple of months back by a gang of out-of-town piss-heads, something which I like to think wouldn't have happened in my day. Back then, on the rare occasions when there was a Saturday night punch-up, it was usually all kept within the local "family"; and anyway the only people who went there were puffs and genuine East End geezers, who, for some reason I've never quite figured out, have always held a grudging respect for each other. Urban renewal? Give me Desolation Row any day. It's safer. And prettier. Thursday, November 13, 2003
Kids R Us
I am a grown man of a certain age, who can no longer tell you which manufactured bit of jailbait is currently Number One. I have burdens and responsibilities which I should at all times shoulder in a detached, stoic and professional manner; and, given the choice, I'd rather watch Question Time than a late-night episode of Buffy or Angel. And while my personal life is my own affair, it should nevertheless be conducted in the privacy of my own home, or, at the very least, in the company of like-minded and discreet individuals. Bollocks. If I want to skip home from work tonight on this balmy autumnal evening, whistling and kicking up the red and gold and brown and orange leaves as I go along, then whistling and kicking up the red and gold and brown and orange leaves as I go along is exactly what I am bloody well going to do. Don't ever want to grow up. Probably never will. Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Porn Takes Queen
Over the weekend, and following a rather "interesting" Saturday night, I realised with some surprise that never in my life have I bought any pornography. Of course, over the years I've inherited or been given the odd mucky mag or second-generation VHS from friends, but I've never actually gone out with the intention of bagging myself some prime, over-the-counter, hard-core filth. Quite honestly, I could never be arsed. I've nothing against non-exploitative porn, performed between two or more consenting adults, but I've never really got into it, at least not in the way some of my more anal (ahem) friends have, cataloguing and colour-coding their VHS and DVDs according to the variety of sexual positions contained therein and the duration and volume (measured in centilitres) of the "money shot". Anyway, I'm a snooty and arty sort of Stranger, and reckon Genet's Un Chant d'Amour, or a freshly martyred Saint Sebastian, packs more erotic punch than Jeff Stryker repeatedly popping someone in the pooper. I realised that this was doing my Compton Street faggot credentials no good at all. Why, the next thing I'll be saying is that Madonna is past it and Ab Fab a sad and endless retread of what was once a pretty good idea (or should those two be the other way round?). And that would never do. So on Sunday, in an attempt to live down to stereotype, I visited my friendly neighbourhood sex shop, passing the no-under-eighteens sign, and the warning notice that punters weren't allowed to proposition fellow customers, to check out what was on offer out back. Licensed sex shops are big business these days, welcoming in the pink overdraft with bright lights, potted palms and piped classical music, as well as tasteful displays of unfeasibly large things to put up your bottom. The next thing you know, they'll be opening cappuccino concessions, so you can lay back with a latte while deliberating whether two ends are better than one on that shaft of silicone you're had your eyes on for far too long. It's all so upfront and out in the open, which, of course, is a good thing, and nothing to be ashamed of; but it's also so terribly clinical, as you check out the DVDs on sale, selecting tonight's thirty-quid orgasm as if you were choosing a chorizo. Whatever happened to sex being just that little bit naughty and titillating? And, well, teasing and surprising? Less is more, as far as I'm concerned, and a hint of tumescence far sexier than said tumescence being thrust right into your, er, face. I'm willing to bet exactly the same goes for straight videos as well. Nowadays, you might as well be shopping at your local supermarket, with the only difference being that at Tesco's you get a better selection of sausages. For while we're intently studying the blurb on the back on the DVD as though it were the cover copy for next year's Booker contender, all we're really interested in is the size of their willies and what they get up to with them. And the willies of these overgrown wannabe Kens, bodies all buffed and hairlessly perfect, will do exactly what the willies of those overgrown wannabe Kens did in the last dirty video you spent your thirty quid on, which was exactly what… Once you've seen one Californian gang-bang then you've seen 'em all, my dears, which is why I find porn soooo boring (dah-ling), and why I'd never bought any. Well, not until this weekend, that is, when I grabbed one DVD located in and around Berlin, on the grounds that it would offer me an alternative take on my favourite city, and at least the "actors" wouldn't be grunting in cod American accents. That's what I told the man behind the counter anyway. I don't think he believed me. Saturday, November 08, 2003
Smelling A Rat?
I was having a post-work chat the other day with a stranger I got talking to in a bar in Soho. Unusually for Old Compton Street, we were talking about "literature". Each of us was pretty well-read, and we discovered we had many favourite books in common. During the course of the conversation, he told me I reminded him of one particular fictional character above all others. I blushed, and wondered which of my flawed literary heroes he thought I most resembled. Would it be Brideshead's Sebastian Flyte, that golden haunted youth adored by men and women alike? Or perhaps Dowson from Do You Remember England?, my favourite (and out-of-print for years) tale of a doomed Romantic ideal? No, of course not. That would be silly. I don't look anything like Anthony Andrews, and the late Derek Marlowe is remembered, if at all, as a movie and TV scriptwriter rather than the author of some of the most economic twentieth-century prose I've ever read. Perhaps my divinely decadent devil-may-care attitude reminded him of Sally Bowles from Isherwood's Goodbye To Berlin? Or maybe I seemed so much like a (very) older Tadzio, the beautiful boy from Death In Venice? And I've always thought I possessed some of the demonic charm of Steerpike from the Gormenghast books; and I wouldn't be at all offended if he cast me as a broodingly sexy and dangerous Heathcliffe, or even as one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's beautiful and damned. Fat chance. Apparently, I reminded him of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, the leading character in Patrick Süskind's cult read, Perfume. For those of you who haven't yet read it, and I urge that you do, Jean-Baptiste is an amoral and macabre child of hell, a vicious serial killer who meets his end in the sordid piss-stinking backstreets of the eighteenth century and in a particularly gruesome way. I think this was my new friend's very classy way of telling me that a shag was out of the question. Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Demon Barbers
For the past couple of years I've sported my own version of the Compton Street Crop, that low-maintenance haircut of the metropolitan gay man with incipient bald spot and sod-all imagination. Number two on top and number one at the sides please, mate (or a four and a three for queens like me who could never take seriously all that "straight-acting" bollocks in the first place). It's all so simple, you see. A brief buzz of the electric clippers, a quick click-clicketty-click of the scissors, and it's all sorted, and you're out of the door before your pint of Stella next door has even gone flat. No need for pomade, or styling gels, or any other poncey products. And, what's more, you lucky old homosexual, you, you get to look just like everybody else on Old Compton Street. My, and isn't that nice? But now I feel it's time to reassert what’s left of my individuality and independence, and grow my hair back again. I doubt I'll ever let it get as long as it was in the early nineties though, when I dandified my downtown way in frock-coat and breeches, tresses tied back with dark-green velvet bow, coming over all Byronic but looking just moronic. So, a few days ago, I decided that, if I really was going to go with the over-the-collar look, then I'd better get the thing cut and restyled properly. And so, for the first time in about three years, I contemplated that urban nightmare known as: Getting Your Hair Cut At A Posh And Trendy Salon. The intimidation begins even before you enter the place, when you telephone for an appointment. Back in your long-hair days when you were a regular at this particular establishment, you would normally ask for your usual stylist. But he's left, they inform you (or doesn't want to see your split ends ever again), and will Matt do instead? Having not the slightest idea who Matt is, you agree, and then wisely enquire just how much Matt is going to cost. The cluck of disapproval in the background is a fault on the line, you convince yourself, and not the receptionist suggesting that, if you have to ask, then you certainly can't afford, and surely Sandra's more in Sir's price bracket anyway? Ever eager to create a good impression, you arrive a good ten minutes early for your appointment, and consequentially walk around the block a couple of times, checking yourself out in every shop window to make sure your hair is just so. After all, Matt is Stylist to the Stars and you wouldn't want him to think he's dealing with some scruff, would you? Stepping nervously through the salon door (and on-time, so there goes your fash cred, sweetie), you are greeted with total disdain by the receptionist, who's having far more fun swapping celeb goss over the phone with Beryl. Eventually, a junior will take pity on you and relieve you of your coat (which you will never see again), before helping you into the sort of gown that's currently all the rage down Holby morgue. Of course, Matt isn't quite ready for you yet, you're informed, as he is far too busy charming an enormous tip off one of his blowsy blondes of a certain age (and cheque-book); but would you like to flick through an out-of-date magazine while you're waiting? As, even in your campest moments, you're never really been much of a Cosmo girl, and the only butch magazines on offer are Loaded and Classic Cars, you turn down the offer, and study instead the tasteful black-and-white model portrait shots lining the salon's minimalist chrome-metal walls. Each and every face is more beautiful and handsome, more sophisticated and air-brushed than you could ever hope to be. You feel as out of place as Lon Chaney settling down on the Calvin Klein casting couch. After twenty minutes, and just as you're reading last July's Cosmo agony piece on how to cope with rejection and being ignored, Matt slicks over for a "consultation". Matt is tall, and even better-looking than those monochrome bastards on the wall, and you feel unworthy just to be in the presence of his three-day stubble. He also has possibly the worst taste in clothes you've ever seen in a man his age, apart from MTV presenters, that is; and his dark unkempt hair suggests he's been dragged through several bushes sideways. Considering that this mal-soigné look is thought the pinnacle of perfection in Hairdressing Land, you begin to wonder what you're doing here handing over forty quid for a salon cut anyway. But it is too late. Already Matt is asking you what you want him to do to your hair. Matt's oh-so-square-cut jaw drops, and then drops further still, and his mouth gapes ever wider, as you outline exactly the style you want. Yeah, like right, you just know he's thinking, you really think someone like you would look good and be able to carry that off? Matt mutters something about "layering", and "depth", and "structuring" (while tactfully avoiding words such as "mutton" and "lamb"), and, meekly, you nod your agreement. After all, he's a stylish and sophisticated coiffeur to the cognoscenti; and you, well, you're just a nobody and what do you know? Your follicles are his fiefdom now, as you feebly allow him to lead you away to have your hair washed and conditioned. The Nicorette-chomping trainee awaiting you at the wash-basins holds you down, and then pulls your head backwards over the sink, in the swift, practised and uncaring move she probably learnt that time she was earning a bit of cash on the side down Fleet Street way. As she wets your neck and your classic Agnès B menswear (and occasionally your hair) with water (inevitably either too hot or too cold), and then applies invigorating peppermint conditioning treatment (which is neither invigorating nor made of peppermint), she'll ask you what you do for a living. When you tell her you've nothing to do with the telly or rag trade, she will lose all interest, and will pout off to answer her mobile, leaving wrapped around your head a wet towel which smells nothing of peppermint, but everything of Parazone Finally, after she's sorted out her social and sexual arrangements for this Saturday, she'll return and assist you out of your chair, towel still turbaned around your head, and guide you back to Matt, who is awaiting, clippers and scissors in hand, in his eyes an eager gleam to make even Torquemada have second thoughts. Oh, but it's not just the clippers Matt is wielding, but power. You know that, if you upset him just one bit, then that neat (yet stylish) trim you requested will be turned by him into a green and savage Mohican; and, urban professional that you are, just how are you going to explain that to Mamma Boss tomorrow morning as she hands you your P45? But now here comes the scariest bit of them all. Surprisingly, it 's not being forced to make small talk with Matt, who, despite giving the impression of being as queer as a bottle of chips, is irretrievably and irredeemably heterosexual, and will tell you that being bent, well, it ain't natural, is it, but them gay boyz, well, they’re all right, aren't they, and they always know where to score the best gear, knowhatimean, and well, I tell you, mate, you wouldn't believe what some of them wooly wofftahs - No, the scariest part is being forced to stare constantly for thirty minutes or more at your own reflection in the harsh, unforgiving light of the salon. While Matt is doing behind you whatever Matt apparently does so wonderfully well behind people, you have no choice but to contemplate your pale and waxy complexion in the mirror; to evaluate those dark circles under your red-rimmed eyes; to follow the London Underground network of wrinkles which, you finally realise, are here for keeps, as well as that suggestion of a double, or even triple, chin, which you've never noticed before, but mainly because you make a point of shaving in a bathroom into which you only ever allow candle-light or, when you're feeling particularly brave, a 60-watt lightbulb. This is not the most pleasant way to spend forty quid (not to mention the tip, and the host of hair-improvement products which will be foisted upon you before you even make it past reception and escape once more into the wonderfully normal world of the dishevelled). As I said: a few days ago I did indeed contemplate that urban nightmare known as: Getting Your Hair Cut At A Posh And Trendy Salon. And what did I do in the end? Well, what do you think? In the end it was a number two all over, mate. Cheers. That's perfect. In and out in under ten minutes. And, you know what, my dears? I even got change from a tenner. Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Dancing Is Dangerous
We Regret To Inform You That DANCING IS NOT PERMITTED So runs the latest Diktat, which I'm seeing displayed more and more prominently in many venues on and around London's Old Compton Street, and issued by Westminster Council, the authority regulating most of central London's pubs and bars. The deal is that, if you're a venue without a public entertainment licence, in what's supposedly one of the hippest and most happening cities in the world, then you stand the chance of being fined, or your business closed down, should you allow more than two of your punters to dance, or even to sway rhythmically, to whatever's currently being piped through the PA. Actually, you don't even need the music, as the Council's definition of "dancing" is: "The rhythmic moving of the legs, arms and body usually changing positions within the floor space available and whether or not accompanied by musical support." So now you know. (Just under a year ago, the local Pitcher and Piano was fined several grand for allowing the same "rhythmic moving" on its premises. In that particular instance, I would have nuked the entire place along with every last one of its customers, but that's a grievance for another blog.) Interestingly enough, much of this initiative is supported by the Soho Society, an organisation dedicated to promoting the area, and whose meetings I've occasionally been invited to as an interested party. It's largely made up of self-important prigs who, once they've earned enough to live in one of the capital's priciest and most vibrant 24/7 areas, spend the rest of their time moaning about the very vibrancy which made their properties so valuable and desirable in the first place. However, I'm not too worried, if only because Soho is also Queer Central. And it is a fact well-documented that, should two persons of a certain persuasion find themselves together in the same room, with a jukebox overloaded with Kylie and Madge, then there shall be much waving of arms, shaking of legs, and wiggling of buttocks whether Westminster Council likes it or not. There are some behavioural patterns which not even Lily Law can change, my dears. Friday, October 31, 2003
Ten Things I Wish I'd Known Five Days Ago
When you draw up a detailed list for your holiday week of things to do, places and people to visit, and chores to get out of the way, then less than ten per cent of said list will get done. And you will beat yourself up over it. Those dark circles under your eyes are not hereditary. A good solid eight hours' sleep every night gets rid of them faster than Yves Saint Laurent's Touche Éclat ever will. Missing out on going to the gym five days in a row will not result in you blowing up into Leigh Bowery proportions. It may, however, help to put your own personal body-fascism into some sort of perspective. When you plan your entire week-off around the focal point of a delivery from Sainsbury's To You, then you need to do some fine-tuning on your social life. Deciding on Monday that you'd like to hop on the Eurostar later in the week for a couple of days of ooh-là-là-là, means that, come Friday, you won't have got any further than SE1. Day-time telly really is as bad as they say it is. And just when did they move Countdown away from its regular slot? Despite telling your work colleagues to feel free to contact you if there are any problems, your phone stubbornly refuses to ring. This is their sneaky way of reminding you that you are not indispensable. If you decide to spend much of the week working at home on the proposal for a freelance project for which there's no guaranteed payment, then you will invariably remember there is laundry to do, knick-knacks to be dusted, CDs and videos to catalogue, and a blog to be written. London is possibly the greatest city in the world, with a wealth of attractions, the grooviest galleries, must-see museums, top historical sites, and the finest theatre around. Apparently. Just one lunchtime drink on Old Compton Street is never just one lunchtime drink on Old Compton Street, and you really are fooling precisely no-one. Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Here Comes The Sun
Most acclaimed "modern" art, as far as I'm concerned, is crap. There. I've gone and said it now. Now, how many of you wish you'd've said it first? Right. Thought so. Yes, it makes money. Yes, it creates headlines. But most of it, if you're asking me, is a pile of self-referential, media-aware, masturbatory pooh. So there. I've studied this, my dears, really I have. I used to be a member of London's über-trendy ICA. (To be honest, most of us were members, not because of our appreciation of late-twentieth-century "art", but because it gave us an increased chance of a pseudo-intellectual shag with someone else who also wore a black polo-neck.) And, after the shag, our duvets had more tales to tell than Tracy's, and Dawn and Jennifer ended up being far more interesting than Gilbert and George. And as for Damien Hirst,well he should be pickled along with his cows. Can't even run a decent bar, can our Damien. Shock Content does not Modern Art make, my dears, at least not in this Stranger's book. And then today, I saw my latest piece of "Modern Art". One of these ever-so-trendy interactive "Installations", you know. In the grand, soul-less, and mist-enshrouded turbine hall of London's Tate Modern, I saw Olaf Eliassons's "weather installation", a huge, artificial Sun, powered by a thousand orange light-bulbs, hovering above a couple of hundred twenty-first-century spectators, their wide-open eyes, fixed and fascinated inexorably on a blazing, sacred orb, just as their ancestors' eyes were, sixty generations ago. Suddenly we were all pagans again, suddenly we were all flung three thousand years back in time, every single one of us a sun-worshipper again, our civilisation rendered puny in the light of the all-conquering sun. Absolutely breath-taking. The best, and most evocative, review I've read - across the entire print and internet media - is here. And, if you have the chance, I recommend you see it (it's free as well). The Sun, as someone once said, is God. (And he wasn't such a bad painter either.) Monday, October 27, 2003
My Back Pages
Since New Year's Eve 1992, I've faithfully kept a daily journal. It’s a reasonably fair record of what was going through my head at the time, although there are the odd few things of which I'm too ashamed even to tell my diary. Before then, I used to keep scrapbooks of newspaper and magazine clippings which caught my passing interest. So, flicking through the scrapbook I put together for the period 1989 - 91, the time of the fall of both the USSR and the Berlin Wall, Desert Storm and the ousting of Thatcher, I find that these are the things which really interested me: An early-sixties career advice leaflet on How To Become An Atomic Energy Engineer ("Andrew is intelligent and go-ahead, and thinks there is a great future for Engineers in this Atomic Age"); and, as a companion piece for the girlies, How To Become A Kennel Maid. A shirtless photograph of a nameless Frenchman. A celebration of Bob Dylan pushing fifty, and Sinatra heading for seventy-four, and a confident forecast that newcomer Harry Connick Junior was going to be more influential than either of them. A serious examination of the revolution in men's underwear, moving on from the baggy boxers of the 80s to the "muscle-bound cotton and Lycra separates" of the 90s. (With pictures.) A report of a Nuneaton man prosecuted for operating a battery-powered wheel-chair while over the drink-driving limit; and a Londoner who tried to rob a bank with a water-pistol, while wearing full drag, Recipes for the best bouillabaisse (top tip: add some pastis to it), the classiest crêpes (add some vodka), and four different profiles of Antoine De Caunes (add some irony, lots of it). The obituaries of Serge Gainsbourg ("Ugliness is superior to beauty because it lasts longer"), actress Delphine Seyrig (possibly the most beautiful woman in the world), and the Blue Peter presenter and friend of Elton John who died on my thirty-first birthday. A celebration of surf-culture in Newquay, and a feature on the blond-bombshell Cambridge don who used to drive down there every weekend. Another shirtless and anonymous Gallic man, this time in his bath; nine articles extolling Parisian café society, and one on how to carry your baguette with style and élan. Interviews with Quentin Crisp ("The only drink of any help on a desert island would be a magnum of vintage arsenic"),and the great Janet Street-Porter ("They've got me down as a cheery Cockney idiot"), and a rather huffy and possessive review of Marianne Faithfull's successful concert tour of the USA ("Marianne's tragedy was made in England, not America. She's ours."). An interview with men's underwear designer Nikos Apostopoulus, whose sexy lift-and-separate designs look like "a cross between "bondage and stage attire", and a chat with little-known Edinburgh Festival drag queens Lily Savage, and Mother Theresa, the latter played by someone called Graham Norton. A tale of under-age prostitution in Budapest, and (should Andrew fail at his chosen career in the Atomic Industry) tips on how to become a successful gigolo in Tokyo, and an exposé of murder and intrigue in a gay S&M club in the City of London. A quote from John Betjeman on Coronation Street: "Thank God: half-past seven tonight and I shall be in heaven", far too many pictures of Rob Lowe, and only one of the infinitely sexier Ivor Novello from the 1925 melodrama, The Rat. A feature on surfing fashions this time, followed by, er, yet another double-page, six-picture spread on, um, men's underwear. (In colour.) Twelve years on, and my scrapbook would probably contain the very same pieces. Some things just don't change with this Stranger. And you know, I've a great designer underwear collection now, but I still haven't learnt how to surf. Friday, October 24, 2003
The Friday Grrrr…
4: Bad Actors Quite a while back, in those mythical pre-Internet, pre-Gaydar days, I used to do quite a bit of work for a couple of gay publications. One fortnight, I was drafted in as holiday relief on the personals section. My job involved processing the several hundred classifieds which used to come in each week, filtering or editing the ones which were dodgy or illegal, and occasionally contacting the client with a query about their ad. This wasn't the most appropriate job for someone who, even then, still thought "W/E" meant a resident of London's West End, and I was crap at the job. The personal advertisers didn't make it any easier. While some of them were really sweet, and you knew the ads they placed were their only contact with the gay "community", some others I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. There was the woman who threatened to send the Islington mob round when I explained why I had to tone down her ad which described, in graphic detail, just what she wanted to do with her two-foot strap-on and a well-greased fist. And you've no idea of the number of hissy fits chucked my way by latter-day Julian and Sandys screeching and queening their way down the phone, when they discovered that a (mis-placed) apostrophe had been deleted from their ad, or that I'd corrected their (frankly atrocious) spelling. I can handle camp indignation. Trust me, my dears, I do Master Classes in it every Saturday night. But, looking at those ads, I'd invariably find that each and every one of those prissy queens had described themselves as "regular geezer, looking for horny man-on-man action, XXXL, extremely straight-acting". Straight-acting? Come on, precisely who are you trying to fool, my dolly old omi-palomi? You are a male homosexual placing an ad for What really makes me go grrrr is the implied notion in those ads that being "gay- or queer-acting" is somehow inferior to, or at least less desirable than, being "straight-acting", when even the most poppered-up, K-holed brain should tell you that there's actually no difference at all. We're all of us as screwed-up as each other, or haven't you climbed out of your gay ghetto to notice that yet?. A question to my straight friends: if someone described him, or herself, in an ad as "gay-acting", would that turn you on? Is that what's considered to be the height of sexiness in Hettieland? Yeah, thought not. I am a "gay" man, who's also a lousy actor and so refuses to act "straight". But it seems that's what most of the gay men in London want to do. Their loss. It's Friday. Fridays always make me grumpy for some reason. Don't worry: I'll feel better in the morning. Thursday, October 23, 2003
Let's Work!
Things are reasonably under control on the work front at the moment, and, as I've a whopping six weeks' leave owing me, I'm taking the next week off. In today's pre-holiday wind-down, I've already drawn up a two-page, thirty-three item list of Things To Do, grouped under four separate headings, all colour-coded and with check-boxes and footnotes (of course), as well as an attached spreadsheet to monitor my progress. For most normal, right-thinking people in possession of a life, taking time off would include at least one of the following: the Eliasson weather installation at Tate Modern; a couple of nights in rehab; relaxing on a Greek island somewhere, Iliad in one hand, lager lout in the other (remind me to tell you my Faliraki story sometime); a leisurely meal at a fancy restaurant; sleeping in late under crisp, white sheets; or just a long meandering walk in the countryside, enjoying the first frost of an English winter. This Stranger, on the other hand, shall be embarking on constructive and sensible tasks: waxing floors and cleaning Windows; reconciling accounts and sewing on buttons; reading some "improving" literature, and trying to teach himself some programming; and spending at least a daily three hours on a couple of ideas which might bring some extra work his way. You see, I find it almost impossible to just sit around and do nothing. If I've not filled the unforgiving minute with its full sixty-five seconds' worth, then I've not been trying hard enough. It's a work ethic and guilt trip instilled in me when I worked mostly for myself, and not the Grown-Up company I do today. As a freelancer, you never know when that next cheque's coming in, or that last promised job's going to fall through. Constantly on the go, planning my day meticulously to take advantage of every available minute, I used to beat myself up mercilessly whenever I gave myself an afternoon off. It's only recently that I've removed that sign above my desk at home which reads Why Aren't You Working?, and realised that – hey, guess what! – it's OK to take time off (and, now you're an employee, you actually get paid for it!). That's why, even with the coming holiday week, I'm still planning on doing stuff that'll produce something tangible at the end of it. But if anyone can locate my "Off" switch, feel free to press down on it very hard indeed, disconnect me from the mains, and then transport me to the nearest pub to train me up on all this standing and staring lark. Or, at the very least, tell me about your favourite waste of time. And whether you think I'd enjoy it. Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Bog Standards
I've mentioned before that my gym, even with its reputation for having everything for young men to enjoy, is admirably mixed. (I don't think I could face an all-gay gym anyway: you get enough of other men's dangly bits during last-orders on Old Compton Street, thank you very much.) Apart from the odd hetero- or homophobe, everyone gets on together, and it works OK. Well, for most of the time. There are five urinals in the gents; let's call them Urinals One, Two, Three, Four and Five. They are ranged against the wall left to right, with Urinal One situated just by the open entrance from the changing rooms, and Urinal Five furthest away in the corner. Entering the loo area, after your work-out, if you're lucky all five urinals are free, and you may happily choose whichever one you so desire. Heavens, I'm not one to hang around public toilets, you understand, but long years of observation have shown me that, faced with this option, most straight men take the middle way, and head for Urinal Three. There's no "modesty screen" to the left of Urinal One, so people are reluctant to use that one; and if you head straight for Five, the gossipy queens are just going to start wondering what it is you're fiddling with in that corner, out of sight of everyone else. Things start to get more complicated when another man enters. Urinals Two or Four are definite no-no's. To use either of these would not only be intruding on Number Three's personal space, but might lead him to think that you are, in fact, a Predatory Homosexual trying to come on to him. (This is the YMCA, after all.) So our newcomer will, most certainly opt for Urinal One, which, being nearest the door, also provides a quick and easy exit, should Number Three actually turn out to be the genuine Predatory Homosexual instead. Now that Number Three is no longer alone, he will adopt a totally different stance and attitude. Where before he was slouching nonchalantly at the urinal and admiring himself in the wall-length mirror to his left, he will now stand ramrod-stiff, and look straight ahead, trying to avoid any eye contact with Number One which might be misconstrued. However, neither of them will be able to avoid a quick half-second's sneaky shufti at what the other is holding in his hands. (A note to my female readers. This is not a gay thing. All men, gay or straight, check each other out. This is because we are all such insecure individuals and need to know which one of us has the biggest dong of them all.) Things become even more awkward when a third gym bunny enters, and is forced into choosing between Urinals Two, Four or Five. If he follows One's reasoning, as he most certainly will, and heads for Urinal Five, then everyone will be happy, and bladders will be emptied with the minimum of effort. However, if he chooses Four, then it will be assumed that it is he who is the Predatory Homosexual, and has been spying on Three from behind the pec-deck for ages, and is now so pumped and addled with testosterone that he doesn't care who knows. This will offend One, who is strictly heterosexual and doesn't like that kind of thing, but at the same time, and being vain, would also like to think he is the most attractive and buffed person in the gym, and is outraged that the newcomer could fancy Three over him. The imagined attention will upset even more the ever-so-straight Three, who will then find himself unable to urinate. As urination is supposedly the whole point of coming into this sort of place, then our newly-arrived gym bunny will naturally assume that Three has other more carnal things on his mind. If gym bunny is straight, he will then promptly head for Urinal Five which is where he should have been in the first place. If he is not straight, then queens being queens being men, he may just make an indiscreet move, in which case he will get a punch in the face. (However, if the newcomer stakes his place at Urinal Two, between One and Three, then it can safely be assumed by all concerned that he is a proper little slapper.) Assuming he takes his rightful place at Urinal Five, no-one will be threatened or embarrassed. Or at least, not until the fourth person enters, and he has to decide just which two he is going to stand in between. And if he chooses One and Three, then how is Five going to feel being given the brush-off like that? And if the next one to enter is just that tiny bit gay, something which happens now and again down the YMCA, then that's, quite literally, a whole different ball game. Is it any wonder that I always use the cubicle? Monday, October 20, 2003
L'Homme Aux Camélias
Luckily I rarely fall ill, which is probably just as well, as I'm lousy at it. Some of my friends have got the thing down to a fine art, shamelessly pulling a sickie after they've overindulged at the weekend, or whenever there's a major day-time sporting event on the telly. Conscientious Stranger that I am, my sickies are (nearly) always genuine, and two hours of Phillip and Fern are guaranteed to make me get on back to the office faster than you can say "pick up thy bed and walk". I'm off sick today. After a hot and wakeful night, spent unfortunately not in the company of [insert name of current sex god or goddess of choice] but one of those twenty-four-hour fever thingies, I got up to stagger to the loo, and passed out in the hallway. It was a marvellous swoon, my dears! I really wish someone could have been there to see and capture it on film. I felt it coming, and managed to grab one of my coats hanging in the hall, so I could slip, elegantly and sylph-like, to the floor, like some screen queen upon hearing that Armand her lover has just shacked up with the stable lad. Unfortunately it didn't quite work like that. Which means I now have one ripped French Connection coat, a bugger of a bruise on my left knee, and a bent and warped shoe-rack, where I crashed, not quite as gracefully as planned, to the ground. So now I am supine on the sofa, swathed in white taffeta and tulle (well, my blue Calvin Klein dressing gown), rose petals strewn around my pillow, sipping herbal tea from the finest china, and wasting away actually rather magnificently, even if I do say so myself. My face, its skin translucent and porcelain-white, is naturally in soft-focus monochrome, and in the background you can just hear the muted strings of an orchestra. I fear I may not be long for this world, my precious ones, but I shall be brave, yes, I shall ignore the pain and I shall try to be brave. For all of you… OK. Fade-out. Exit. Cut! Friday, October 17, 2003
The Friday Grrr…
3: Soap Spoilers I used to be a soap addict, or "drama serial devotee", as I believe we're meant to call ourselves these days. A well-brought-up Northern lad, I tuned into the Street religiously, and had done ever since Elsie first spat into her mascara. A weekday wasn't the same without a wander down Walford way, and I was always turning up at the Close, although that was mainly because one of my exes was shagging a cast member at the time (and no, I am not naming names, so don't even ask). I certainly didn't watch them for the acting, but rather their intricate storylines, devious interweaving of characters' lives, and often completely unexpected plot developments. Half the fun of turning on your favourite soap was never quite being sure what was going to happen in the next twenty-five minutes. Of course, these days we all knew for months that Dead Den was going to come back from the canal, and that Nick and Todd were set for the chastest, briefest gay snog in tellyland history. That's fine by me. Without publicity, ratings would plummet and the shows would be axed. But it’s not just the big, audience-pulling, loo-flushing events which get trailed way in advance. Nowadays, every minuscule and intricate plot twist and turn, from the colour of Pat's new earrings, to what Emily and Norris are having for breakfast, is reported in such great detail in the individual episode listings that any suspense is gone. And without suspense there's no drama. Most publications carrying daily or weekly telly listings receive their info from one central source. The episode breakdowns, provided a couple of weeks in advance, are pretty detailed, and very rarely embargoed. It's the job of a good TV editor to take that information and edit it, adapting it for the readers, and providing a succinct and seductive (dare we also ask for witty?) teaser for the forthcoming episode. Tell us just so much, and no more, dear Mr Telly Editor, and we'll be counting the seconds to 7.30 to see what happens. Of course, what most of them do is just cut and paste the whole lot in its entirety and piss off to the pub, having just given away the plot, and spoilt it rotten for the rest of us. If I know how Corrie's current story arc is going to pan out just by reading next Friday's episode listing, then there's very little point in my watching it. Instead, I could join the TV Editor down the pub, couldn't I? The Rovers' Return, of course, and with a pint of Newton & Ridley's in my hand, served by Bet Lynch who is just about to – oh, you mean, you really didn't know? Next Week At Invisible Stranger: It's drastic measures as Stranger makes a last-ditch effort to improve his stats. An important piece of gym etiquette is breached, and a midnight stroll leads to darker things. And just who is the boy in the sailor suit, and what sinister secret is he hiding? Stay tuned! Thursday, October 16, 2003
Dead Giveaway
Today, after receiving the nineteenth unreasonably and impossibly deadlined telephone "request" from Someone Upstairs who pays my salary, I penalty-kicked my company phone across the office in a fit of pique, whereupon it shattered into a hundred corporately-beige pieces. God, try it sometimes! You can't believe just how much fun it is! My colleagues kept quiet about it, naturally. They're used to me. Earlier that morning, they'd already seen me KO one of our malfunctioning laser-printers into inactivity, and apparently they're just about to sell ringside seats to tomorrow's encounter with the engineer. Besides, in my immediate boss's absence, I'm in charge for the rest of the week. And that's why, I suspect, no-one allowed the words "hungover", "over-reacting", or " drama queen" to slip their lips. Bet that's what they all thought, though. And you know what? I think they might just be right. (You mean, you never guessed?) Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Picture This
While he's ooh-là-là-ing it over in gay Paree this week, Mike of Troubled Diva is giving over his site to four guest bloggers: Rainbow Villa John; Quarsan of My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts; Gofish Mac; and Mike's own incomparable Auntie Cyn, who, if she doesn't exist, then Ronald Firbank shall just have to jolly well go off and invent her. I was at a dinner party with another Cyn once, none other than ex-madame Cynthia Payne. She was a mate of a friend of mine. I remember she was a short-ish woman, who, despite the brassy image, was surprisingly well-spoken and well-mannered, but with an X-rated glint in her eye. She was your naughty auntie, the one your parents didn't mention, but were secretly quite fond of. All we "gay boys", as she called us, were on our best behaviour. And, as so often happens when you're in a celebrity's company, we tried hard not to mention the thing for which she was famous, and on which the film Personal Services had been based. Secretly we were all gagging to know what had really gone on behind those closed brothel doors in Streatham. We didn't ask though, because that's not something you asked a lady. Finally, after dinner the conversation got round to sex, as it always does. Sitting in the easy chair, with her boys on the floor around her, she talked about the absurdity of the sex laws chucked the odd polite compliment the gay "community" way (to which I got the impression she was pretty indifferent), and only once displayed anger at the hypocrisy of the un-named bishops and clergymen who were some of her perviest regulars. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we gossipy queens nodded in sage agreement, all the time wishing for some prime, juicy gossip. A little wearily perhaps, she clipped open her handbag, and passed round a selection of Polaroids of her parties, all the faces discreetly blacked out and anonymous, of course, and talked with obvious fondness of her clients over the years. There was the inevitable elderly judge, bound and gagged, rolls of fat splurging out from the openings of his bondage gear, who "pulled a few strings once"; a remarkably young (and actually quite horny) guy in dog collar and chain, yapping at the feet of a busty, thirtysomething dominatrix. ("Did well for herself. Married into money. Sends me a Christmas card every year.") And best of all, someone I took to be a younger Madame Cyn herself, stilettoed feet resting on the wide-open backside of a middle-aged paunchy man, trussed up in leathers and begging on all-fours. As a party piece, it certainly beats handing out the After Eights. |
