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Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
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Saturday, May 31, 2003
Summer (The First Time)
I've always prided myself on being something of an individual, a Lone Stranger valiantly bucking the trends, warping the preconceived notion of what an urban gay man should be. So I'm not too sure what happened to me at approximately half-past-one this afternoon. But, as today looks like being the hottest day of the year so far, I'm going to blame it on too much sun. For, on the last day of May 2003, my dears, in this, the fifth decade of my life, I have just gone and bought my very, very first Ben Sherman shirt. Admittedly, it’s a short-sleeved jobbie, decorated with pretty blue flowers, and is, I have to admit, one-hundred-per-cent, and irretrievably, nelly; but it is a Ben Sherman, the sine quae non of every self-respecting Old Compton Street Queen of a Certain Age. While the Street breathes a collective sigh of relief because that Weird Fortysomething, in the funny clothes and the even funnier mind-set, seems finally to be reverting to stereotype, I see the sun is still shining. So I'm going out to play in the park. Friday, May 30, 2003
The Writing On The Wall
There's a fair lot of graffiti and "street-art" on the walls and shop-fronts round my way. Much of it's either obscene or, worse, artless. It's the work of kids with little prospects, biding time before the inevitable stint at Her Majesty's, and announcing their presence like mongrels spraying territory. Only occasionally do you get something which actually adds to, rather than defaces, the neighbourhood, and lends a brash splash of colour to some otherwise grimy streets. However, North London intellectual (pretentious git) that I am, I prefer the more erudite graffiti. Not your Kilroy Was Here, not even Don't Bomb Iraq, but the ones which make you stop and think with their deft turn of phrase. EAT LANGUAGE, advises one graffito down the Cally. For all I know, it's probably a line from a Morrissey song, or a quote from David Crystal, but it's a sentiment I altogether agree with. One of my all-time favourite pieces of graffiti, however, was spotted near London's Waterloo Station. I can't remember exactly when I saw it, but it was sometime last century. What I liked was its (accidental?) omission of a colon after the word "cool", which adds to the sentiment a delightful ambiguity. In bold white letters against a blue builder's hoarding, someone had written: THE RULES OF COOL DON'T BOTHER THOSE WHO ARE
Bored Of The Rings
I adored the books, which forever instilled in me a love for language and myth. Finally warmed to the movies and decided they were great too. But even for an all-singin', all-dancin' Broadway Babe like me, this is just one ring too many. This madness must stop. Wednesday, May 28, 2003
Goodbye to (West) Berlin
I'm leaving the rent-boys and their hairbrushes at home today (they're a little tired, bless them, and they so need their beauty sleep). However, I'm still sticking with Berlin. (Now stop yawning – and yes, that does include you lot at the back. Sit up and pay attention: you might even learn something. Looking at my timetable, I see today's lesson is: History.) When I lived in Berlin, the city, like Germany itself, was divided. The Berlin Wall, 166 kilometres of concrete, barbed wire and anti-personnel mines, ripped through the city's heart. Remarkably, it was something you got used to pretty quickly, and there's no denying the Wall, and West Berlin's enclosed status in the middle of communist East Germany, gave the city a vibrancy and edge. After I left West Berlin and moved to London, I'd return for visits, but never thought the Wall was anything less than permanent. On Monday 6th November 1989, I was sitting in a Soho restaurant with an old friend. For once we weren't bitching about who was or wasn't bonking who. Instead, we were talking politics. Everyone was, that November. Over in East Germany, people were making use of relaxed border controls to reach the West via Hungary. The East German government seemed powerless, or unwilling, to stop them. Back in the USSR Gorby was staying well out of it. When I was questioned over our dinner table on the likelihood of the Wall ever coming down, I confidently predicted that it would. In about eighteen months' time. Just three days later, on the night of Thursday 9th November, I arrived home and flicked on the news to see hundreds – no, thousands – of East Berliners pouring through the now-open checkpoints. All restrictions had unexpectedly been lifted only a couple of hours earlier. Given the right for the first time in many of their lives to go where they wanted, East Berliners were literally coming over to see how the other half lived. After I'd dried the tears – as I said yesterday, this was the city that made me – the ticket was booked within minutes. If that bloody Wall, the Wall that had wrenched the heart out of the city I loved, was going to come tumbling down, then I was going to help knock down the f**ker as well. A couple of days later, and after I'd dumped my bag, the only place to head was the Brandenburg Gate, once the focal point of united Berlin, entry to it now forbidden by the Wall itself and the Death Strip which had claimed over a hundred lives in its 28-year history. On the Western side it had become a natural place of assembly. It was here that the international news media, caught on the hop by the East's sudden political volte-face, were still setting up their satellite dishes, and flying in their prize commentators to report on the opening of several East-West crossing-points the length of the Wall. Most of the people gathered here couldn't have cared less about the media. An impromptu party of several thousand Westerners of all ages had sprung up beside the Wall. With the rock and punk and reggae and folk and opera blaring out from ghetto-blasters everywhere, it was hard to think - and practically impossible not to dance. And, serving as a counterpoint, was the constant tap-tap-tappety-tapping of the "wall-peckers", people chipping away with hammer and chisel for their own piece of Berlin Wall. The air was filled with marijuana smoke, and the popping of champagne corks: as far as we were concerned, it was the biggest party in the world. Across from the Reichstag, the former German Parliament, armed East German border guards were standing on top of the Wall, glowering down at us, trying their best to look stern. They fooled no-one. We all waved up at them; a couple even offered them a joint. A few wolf-whistled. Some of the guards couldn't help but smile back. It was then you sort of knew things were changing for the better. I walked south down to Potsdamer Platz, once Berlin's Piccadilly Circus, now a bleak No-Man's Land. This was one of the places where a checkpoint had been opened up, and, though some of the excitement of the past few days had gone, there was still a steady trickle of Easterners – or "Ossies" as they were known, not always affectionately – coming through to take a look at the West. Waiting for them were three unofficial welcoming committees. This part of West Berlin fell under the jurisdiction of the Brits, so the squaddies were out in force, offering free packets of real coffee, and mammoth bars of chocolate. Fair enough: those two were rare commodities over on the wrong side of the Wall. A second group handed each newcomer one single red rose. Big softie that I am, I thought that was a nice touch. The third group was the most popular of the three. They were giving out grubby little maps and flyers, pointing the newly-liberated Ossies in the direction of the nearest Burger King. Enough said. Slowly the party was starting to sour. Back in the centre of town, the Ku-damm, West Berlin's main shopping street, was packed as I've never seen it before or since. A huge billboard, advertising a appropriately-named brand of cigarette, urged in bold red letters: "Try The West!" And yet most of the West had been barred shut. Store-owners had locked their shop doors, knowing the East Germans had come only to gawk at Western goods they couldn't afford, but might just be able to shop-lift. (The only businesses which seemed to be open and making money were the sex-shops. Outside the one on the corner at Wittenbergplatz, past the smack-heads and the rent-boys, a queue stretched down one entire block in orderly German fashion.) For those few days I was there, the whole town tumbled around in a daze. It wasn't quite out-and-out euphoria, more a delirious astonishment that this was actually happening. Certainly no-one was listening to the economic doom-sayers who were already asking who was going to come up with the deutschmarks to clean up after this particular party was over. As I checked my bags in at the airport, I was pulled over by a fierce, hard-faced official, a Brunhilda of a woman, Hitler in skirts, who demanded to know what the black shadow in the X-ray of my backpack was. Nervously, I told her it was a piece of the Berlin Wall, chipped off by myself just round the corner from Checkpoint Charlie. "Ach! Everyone is taking that home with them. Good riddance to it, that is all I say! You can have it all!" And then her face broke into one of the loveliest smiles I have ever seen. Tuesday, May 27, 2003
Love For Sale
Back when I was young and pretty, and, for a while, almost idiotically naïve, I lived in West Berlin. It’s the city where I did my real Growing-Up, and came to terms with my sexuality. Twenty-plus years on, I still return every year. Whatever I am today, it was that city which made me. At the time I lived there, the place had a major heroin and child-prostitution problem. The movie Christiane F was based on a best-selling account of that scene. Rent-boys from twelve to twenty haunted the piss-stinking main station, on the look-out for punters, before scoring tiny wraps of smack in nearby Jebenstraße. In the lock-ups at the Wittenbergplatz public toilet, leather-clad punks and their teen tarts jacked up, while underage boys jacked off greasy old men for five deutschmarks in the pissoir next door. Thank God, I never got into that scene. I was having better times innocently drinking in bars with names like the Blue Boy, or dancing at KC's to Boney M and Baccara. And just like any nineteen-year-old wanting to fit in, I made an effort to look the part: uniform of white tee, bracelet, and Brutus jeans. I used to stuff my hairbrush into the back-pocket of those jeans: that's what I'd seen all the really cool kids do, and I so wanted to be like them. In these places I'd usually attract the attentions of older gentlemen. My German wasn't too hot then, so I never quite understood their surprise, and then annoyance, when I said, no, sorry, but I wasn't interested. It was only when one of them started to get violent (appropriately enough, just by the main rent-boy drag outside Bahnhof Zoo train station), that I was rescued and taken quietly aside by a bunch of well-meaning but dodgy-looking teenagers. Each of them was dressed just like me. Each of them was carrying a steel-wire hairbrush in their back jeans pocket. That was where they carried their gear, they explained; it was also a signal they were up for business. The bloody hairbrush suddenly explained a lot of things. Explained why, in my first three months as an out gay man – and an out gay man in Berlin of all places! -, no-one my own age had ever made a move on me. Why complete strangers would approach me in the street, rubbing together their thumb and forefinger in the universal sign for easy money. And why policemen would regard me suspiciously, and suggest I move on. Berliners didn't think I was a cute and trendy young thing dressed in the height of street-wise fashion. No, for those first three months they all had me marked down as someone on the game. Talk about making an impression. Why didn't someone tell me? Could have made a fortune. I'm back in the old place next month. But this time the hairbrush stays at home. Monday, May 26, 2003
What I Did On My Holidays
A Bank Holiday. Twenty-four hours in which to do exactly what I want. Am I up to the challenge? Well, there are those slatted blinds, I bought six months ago, which have been staring accusingly at me ever since. I could do a Handy Andy and put them up. I suppose. Or, if that's a little too butch, I could play back last night's Six Feet Under, the one I missed because I was getting sentimental (drunk) in a bar in Islington. And then watch those episodes from the first series I missed because I was being everyone's best mate (drunk) in a bar in Soho. Then again, I really should sit down and fine-tune the CV. And I ought to clear the cupboard and fridge of anything with a sell-by date earlier than 2001. As well as collating, indexing, filing and rationalising all my various financial papers. And those windows need cleaning. And the blog redesigning. And the leather jacket repairing. And the Improving Book to be read. Sometime. But, as it's a holiday, I should take advantage of all the fine cultural opportunities this city has to offer. Visit a museum or gallery, Take in a black-and-white movie with subtitles. Fly a kite on the Heath.. Mince on down to Brighton. Or get in a couple of bottles, invite some friends over, and whip up a Delia. Or I could just simply get the first round of Stellas in. Saturday, May 24, 2003
Those Were The Days
No prizes for guessing my telly-viewing tonight. A UK newspaper recently called it the "gay Cup Final". They might just be right. For a song-by-song analysis, commentary, and post-mortem, probably accompanied, I wouldn't be at all surprised, by Excel spreadsheets, obscure statistics, back-stage photos and first-hand gossip, click here or here. As for me, I'll just be anaesthetising myself with ten Stellas before wallowing in the gloriously primary-coloured, big-haired, fluffed-up, sequinned kitsch of it all. (Oh, they sing songs as well, do they? Gosh, I never noticed.) But it won't be as good as it was in my childhood. None of this post-modern irony in those days. Then we took it deadly seriously. Back when Sandy had bare feet, Cliff had sideburns, and the Mary Hopkin Friendly Society had me as a junior member. I'm not sure I should have let slip that last piece of information. Friday, May 23, 2003
Don't Fence Me In
Tonight sees the return of Big Brother for a fourth series. As usual, I'll be finding something else to do. Peering and listening in on the lives of a bunch of self-seeking grotesques is not my idea of a particularly dignified pastime. But, hey, don't worry, I've no reservations about catching up on the minutiae of your personal lives. But then I believe in monogamy, and love, and puppy dogs forever, just not in Amsterdam, or Berlin, or the local slut hut on Saturday night, OK? And I can discuss the progression of dance music and club culture from 70s Disco through to Hard House and Trance, by way of Northern Soul and Garage, but still know the lyrics to every single thing Stephen Sondheim has ever written And I love kids' lit, think Narnia is cool, but despise the entire insipid, derivative, hog-washed oeuvre churned out by That Woman, for whom I refuse to provide a link. And I support a whole load of charities, have walked for life, but have never once bought a copy of The Big Issue. And I can usually get a table for two for tomorrow at the Ivy without having to go down on the maître d', but much prefer a Sloppy Giuseppe, or a fry-up at the greasy spoon on the corner. And I speak fluent German and pretty decent French, but come over all tongue-tied in English. And I'm anti-war but wear a MA1 flying jacket and combats, and, though a regular on Old Compton Street, I occasionally allow my hair to creep over my shirt collar, and I have never seen Queer As Folk. Contradictory little bugger, aren't I? Do I contradict myself? Thursday, May 22, 2003
Never, Never, Never
Hey, Mr DJ, I do not do Camp in the mornings, OK? I've written about my gym's music policy before, but today's work-out was the queerest yet. Despite its reputation as a fun place for young men to stay, my gym is officially mixed and heterosexual. Well, usually: I'll admit in the early evenings you sometimes can't move for the Marys you saw at Crash last weekend. However, it usually straightens itself out by about half-seven, as all we pumped-up Gym Bunnies waddle off to the latest event in our ever-so-glittering social calendars. Which is why, at seven a.m., every metropolitan queen with half a brain cell (and there are many, my dears) is still in bed, usually recovering from the excesses of the night before. So what music do we get playing on continuous loop in the all-male, all-straight Free Weights Room, this morning? Shirley Bloody Bassey, that's who. Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Moanday, Monday
Why is it that, when I've not eaten in twenty-four hours, am wearing clothes which show I've not slept in forty-eight, and resemble something even Caligari would kick out the Cabinet, I am considered to be the most "interesting" man in the bar, and am so shattered I can't be bothered to do anything about it? And why is it that, when I have Clinique'd, Clarins'ed and Biotherm'ed myself within an inch of my life, everyone treats me as though I've just walked off the set of Gormenghast? So. How was your Monday night? Monday, May 19, 2003
City of Strangers
Darren, over at These Moments I've Had, feels saddened by the transformation of his home town of Skelmersdale from sleepy village into concrete New Town, and the passing of the way of life his grandparents knew. It's something I can relate to. For the first eighteen years of my life I lived in a grotty Lancashire town, in a row of terraces which people from the posh parts would rather patronisingly pronounce to be "just like Coronation Street". It was a tiny two-up two-down with no bathroom and just an outside lav. We were probably poor, but never noticed, because the rest of the street was too. That poverty, if indeed poverty it was, engendered a community spirit. All of us made a point of knowing our neighbours' business, but everyone also kept a helpful eye out for everyone else. We all lived together on the same street, after all. Front doors remained open and unlocked from early morning to round about ten at night. No-one played their Dansettes loudly after dark. The biggest crime was nicking a sherbet dip from the corner shop. And yes, they did have a street party for the Queen's Silver Jubilee. A house and garden out in the suburbs might have been prettier, but this was still a safe place to grow up in. I moved out to go to University, the first and only one in the family. And when I returned home for the holidays, now an outsider, I noticed things changing. Graffiti on the walls of the factory down the road. More and more doors locked and barred shut, not just at night but during the day as well. Gossip, some of it vicious, rather than good-natured banter. A stabbing in the local pub. I can't place the precise date when all this started happening, but I know it coincided with Thatcher's rise to power, and her introduction of a culture of greed and envy into a society she claimed didn't exist. And now I live in London. I've been in the same flat for four years, which, for me, is something of a record. Yet I've never once met the neighbours, let alone borrowed a cup of sugar from them. Nor have they come up and introduced themselves to me. We increasingly shut ourselves away in our own little boxes, scared of any intimacies, fiercely protecting our privacy, wary of getting ourselves involved. The old street up North has long since been bulldozed away, and probably for the best. I doubt there are any streets like it anywhere in the country now. And while things certainly weren't rosy in those days, I do miss that sense of belonging somewhere, to a community where it's not Me First, but rather All Of Us Together. Sunday, May 18, 2003
That Girl's In Love
I love a diva as much as the next boot-boy in Comptons, but, until this weekend, I've never quite understood Jane Birkin. She's incandescently sexy, of course, in a gawkily gap-toothed gamine-with-a-great-bum sort of way, and as gloriously nutty as a fruit cake, but, at best, her voice is weak and brittle. Yet this 56-year-old Home Counties girl, who's lived in Paris since the sixties, is one of France's national treasures, up there with Piaf, Trenet, and the incomparable Barbara. As far as I was concerned, the only things she's done of note were replacing Brigitte Bardot on the breathy female vocals for Je T'Aime, Moi Non Plus, and managing repeatedly to shag Serge Gainsbourg for years, without first putting a paper bag over his head. For the first she deserves a mention in my kitsch-catalogue; for the second she should get enlisted in the Legion d'Honneur. It's as the ex-shag, one-time muse, and forever keeper of the flame of France's greatest-ever songwriter, that she's justifiably loved over the Channel. But watching her on stage at London's Sadlers Wells in Arabesque, her new tribute to Gainsbourg, you realise she's much more than that. Bravely, she weds Gainsbourg's familiar songs, and her breathless little-girl voice (and occasional naff notes), to unfamiliar sensual Algerian rhythms and deep, dark and doomy Moroccan beats. She gets away with it, making the whole concert a marvellously intimate experience, a sexy tribute to "my Serge". When an a cappella version of La Javanaise ("it's sort of like God Save the Queen in France," she tells the audience) can drive the heterosexual, rugger-bugger Frenchman one row behind me to tears, then you know she's not taking the piss. You know that, twelve years after he died, and twenty-three years after she left him, she's not just trading on his memory. That girl's still in love, my dears. Friday, May 16, 2003
Stormy Weather
I love the rain. I love those full-blown storms, gales crashing against my window, the sky rolling through twenty changes in an hour. Or freak summer downpours, sending people skittering into shop doorways, clearing busy city streets in seconds, washing everything clean. And I especially love the rain we've had today. A gentle pit-pitter-pattering on the pavement and leaves as I made my way to work. Enveloping me in its refreshing mist of moisture, waking me up for the day ahead. Umbrellas, on the other hand, and especially golf umbrellas, are the invention of Satan himself, their size in inverse proportion to that of the brains of the people beneath them. Anyone caught wielding them in my direction shall be drawn and quartered, before having their heads removed to be rammed onto spikes fashioned from furled brollies, which will then line the narrow rush-hour streets of Holborn as dreadful warning for all to see.
Diamonds Are Forever
Bored with this blog? Then go someplace else, and find out how to deal with those boredom blues. Scroll upwards, starting at twenty and ending at one. For once even I am speechless. Thursday, May 15, 2003
My Favourite Waste of Time
"This place free? It is? Perfect. Mind if I sit next to you?" "No. Of course not, feel free. Please take a seat. " "Cheers. Whoops, sorry. Didn't mean to spill that coffee. Nice place this." "Yeah. Guess so. PC crashed at home. That's why I'm here." "So what you doing? Invisible Stranger. What's that? Your chat-room alias?" "No." "Me, I come here to visit them chat-rooms. You ever done that?" "Occasionally." "Met any tasty birds that way?" "No. Now, if you'll just excuse me. . ." "Hey, c'mon, tell us what you're writing. Some sort of lecture, I bet. You a teacher? No? Reporter?" "Not exactly. Well, maybe. Well, not quite. Look, it's just a few notes, that's all." "Let's see." "Look. If you really must know, I'm blogging." "Still feeling the effects of last night's party, then?" "No, you don't understand. This is what's known as a blog." "Blog? Sounds dodgy... What’s a blog when it's at home then?" "Short for web log. Bit like an on-line diary." "On-line diary. Right… You mean, you do your diary on the Internet?" "Post it. And it's not exactly a diary. But yes, that's right." "Look, mate, you should be careful. I mean, anyone could read it." "That's the point." "You want perfect strangers to read your diary?" "Umm, well, yeah, I suppose so…" "Got any friends?" "A few." "Well, what do they think?" "Actually, they don't know." "Oh. Hang on. Let's see if I've got this right. You've been sitting here for hours, writing about yourself, to people you've never met, and you're not letting your mates in on the secret. How come?" "Well, they'd laugh at me. They'd say it was silly." "No. What I mean is, why are you doing this blog thing?" "Well, some would say it’s a form of therapy — " "So you're, like, talking to yourself?" "— while others would regard it as a form of creative self-expression — " "Ah, showing off, then." "— and, of course, there's no doubt it engenders a trans-cultural sense of community — " "You mean, there are others doing this?" "We're all over. In the places you'd least expect. Maybe you even know one. Look, I've blog-rolled some of them." "Well, if that's what you call it. But do people actually read this stuff?" "Admittedly, my stats aren't that high at the moment, but it's early days yet — " "Your what?" "Stats. Oh, never mind." "You know something, mate?" "What?" "You should get out more." Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Holding Out For A Hero
Two observations from this morning's session at the gym: In the whole world there is no sight more guaranteed to instil in me a smug sense of superiority, than that of a naked man in the shower with two large Arsenal tattoos, one on each buttock. Unless, of course, they are Chelsea tattoos. When your gym's new PR campaign revolves around the fact it's a gym for "real people", and not "superheroes", then a reception desk staffed this morning by a man dressed as Batman is rather missing the point. Monday, May 12, 2003
Happy Talk
To darkest EC2 and the Barbican for Happiness, the new performance piece by Laurie Anderson. No flash-bang multi-media spectacular this. Just one spotlight on a darkened stage, the barest musical accompaniment, a couple of songs, and Laurie. Laurie telling tales. Tales to coax a smile, raise a laugh. Stories of her brother's parrot, or bartered kisses in the Amish Community. Even personal job satisfaction at the Chinatown McDonalds. It wasn't quite Laurie Anderson does stand-up, but at times it came endearingly close. The show's called Happiness, after all. But just when things seem a little too cosy, we're slipped a killer blow. She makes us chuckle, recalling the time she broke her back as a kid, and was slammed in the children's hospital. And then she pauses, rewinds, plays the tale again, but now including all the bits omitted first time round – infant cries echoing down hospital corridors; children dying in the night; ward-sisters remaking their emptied beds in the morning. A funny, moving, and surprisingly intimate performance, delivered with all the knowing understatement of a master storyteller, and in a voice capable of seducing every nuance out of every last syllable. It was my first trip to the Barbican in quite a while. A bit like the so-hip-it-hurts ICA in the Mall, the Barbican is one of those things we arty-farty Londoners take for granted. Translation: we usually can't be arsed to make the effort and go there. This is due, in part, to the place's not entirely unjustified reputation of being a bugger to find. But sitting outside on its Waterside Terrace on a fine spring evening, a glass of red in my hand, a family of ducks on the lake; and then strolling leisurely inside to catch a performance in a theatre or concert-hall with damn-near-perfect acoustics, is one of my Seven Definitions of Heaven. What the other six are, I'll let you know some other time. Saturday, May 10, 2003
Never Talk To Strangers
Monday Morning (2am, house party, Camden):"Oh, jolly embarrassing, I know, but I do have the need to share it with someone, you understand? Oh, is that your name? Lovely meeting you. Now, about this problem situation of mine…" Tuesday Evening (10.25pm, pub, Soho): "Naah, can't fool me, mate, your sort always know where to get some gear, like, doncha, know-wot-I'm-gettin'-at? Huh? You mean? Piss off then, stuck-up little queen." Wednesday Evening (5.30pm, wine bar, Covent Garden): "You're a smashing, smashing fella. Yes, you really are really, really smashing. Really. Smashing, that's what you are. Ooh, just a Chardonnay then." Thursday Evening (8.20pm, pub, Islington): "Got summat to tell you… Dunno what, but know've got summat to tell you." Friday Evening (6.15pm, wine bar, Covent Garden): "I've broken too many hearts, you see. I've slept with far too many women. I'm going to hell, I tell you, I'm going to hell. Right to hell, that's where I'm going. To hell. She your girlfriend?" Fine. OK. I can handle this. I accept that this past week has been my turn for attracting all the drunken strangers in town. Next week, my dears, it's your turn. And don't worry, I'll find you. And the Stellas are on you. Friday, May 09, 2003
Empty Chairs At Empty Tables
A few nights back, I had a pleasant pint or three in the Salisbury in London's Theatreland. If you don't know the pub, drop by next time you're in the area. It's a bit of a tourist trap, especially in the evenings, but putting up with the odd Teuton or two thousand is worth it for the interior magnificence alone. It's a glittering example of late-Victorian opulence, dazzling you with splendid frosted-glass windows and giant, beautifully etched mirrors; polished mahogany, plush velvet banquettes, and bronze, art-nouveau lamps and fittings. If a preservation order hasn't been slapped on it, there should be. God knows how many years it's been since I was last in here. Way, way back when I was a regular, it was the capital's biggest gay pub, and the only homo alternative to the notorious Golden Lion, where Dennis Nilsen regularly dropped round for a rum and rent boy. Over there, where the pay-phone used to be, that's where Miles and I… And that place at the white marble-topped bar: yeah, Ben and David always stood there… And do you remember when Alastair…? And wasn't it a laugh the time Stephen…? And then New York Buddy, of course… "Phantom faces at the window, It's OK. I snapped out of it and back to 2003, and, as I said, ended up having a thoroughly pleasant evening. But I don't think I'll be returning. For much the same reason as I just can't see myself ever going back to Heaven on a Saturday night. Too many ghosts, my dears, just too many bloody ghosts. Thursday, May 08, 2003
Stuck In The Middle
"I don't believe this Wood is a World at all. It's a place that isn't in any of the Worlds, but once you've found that place you can get into them all." "The Wood Between The Worlds," said Polly. "It does sound rather nice." - The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis Most of my friends in London know where they're at. Geographically, at least. They live in Notting Hill or Hackney, Putney or Pimlico. All solid, identifiable, clearly-defined places. And they keep very much to their own turfs, adapting their personalities to fit. I inhabit a wind-swept No-Man's Land at the top of a hill, one of those inner-city twilight zones, neither here nor there, not one thing or another. There's a N7 post-code, but the health-food emporia up the road, and the converted lofts on the corner, make it not exactly your standard patch of scraggy, mangy Holloway. So when asked, I usually offer the non-specific "Oh, you know, just behind King's Cross." It's actually a fifteen-minute walk, but at least people can convert this information into J6-45 of the A-Z. There's also the added advantage of it sounding up-and-coming, but with just the right hint of red-light danger; as well as being reasonably central, thereby increasing the chances of a decent stop-over shag. I pay my taxes to Islington Council, but not even the most imaginative estate agent would have the nerve to call this place Islington. Round here, my dears, it's Southern Fried and Special Brew on a bench in Cally Park, rather than polenta and Pinot Grigio down Granita way. And, while the walk to the Black Cap is just twelve minutes, the dearth of Bohemians, Japanese punks and Guinness drinking dens really rules us out from ever being considered part of Camden Town. Which is precisely why I love the anonymity of the area where I live. It's my very own Wood Between The Worlds, letting me switch identities like a comic-book hero. Jump off in one direction and, in ten minutes, I'm playing the N1 media-babe, enjoying the chi-chi charms of Upper Street restaurants; jump off in the other, and, less than a quarter of an hour later, I'm deep among the goth 'n' grunge of Camden and some of the most cracking boozers in the world. And to the south, looking down from the top of the hill, I can even catch sight of the great dome of Saint Paul's and Norman Foster's Swiss-Re Tower, glittering in the early-morning sunshine. Of course, none of this explains why I seem to spend most of my life on Old Compton Street. I suspect, however, that some of you may have figured that one out for yourselves. Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Always Look On The Bright Side
Out on the impromptu razz last night. On school-days, this usually means a civilised two courses followed by one half-bottle too many, rather than topless abandon, sordid goings-on, and pass the poppers, please. So old mate, Foodie, and I dropped by one of our favourite restaurants on the off-chance of a table. The place has a well-deserved reputation, and, as they operate a no-booking system, there's often a queue outside. Surprisingly, even pre-theatre, we didn't have to wait. Duty Manager Edwin shooshed us through and to a free table immediately. Food, as usual, was perfect. Crispy aromatic duck, expertly shredded at the table, and dipped in hoi sin. Juicy king prawns in a sizzling garlicky sauce. A couple of bottles of dry white, an on-the-house pot of oolong too. Service was so helpful and attentive we were made to feel like the only people in the world. Which is, more or less, what we were, with one entire floor of the restaurant just to ourselves. There's one thing you can say about this whole SARS hysteria bit. It doesn't half increase your chance of a decent table in Chinatown on a Tuesday night. Monday, May 05, 2003
Morning Has (Unfortunately) Broken
Well. Thought we were the proper little Oscar Wilde last night, didn't we? All bons mots and charm, wittily holding forth on every subject from British theatre to sexual identity, by way of Eurovision and Arsenal football club; flattering the drunken ladies and eyeing up the far-too-sober gents; offering advice and understanding along with your mobile phone number. Quite the perfect little guest, in fact. Charmingly limp-wristed flourish in one hand, glass of green liqueur in the other. And now, ten hours later, peering out from under the duvet at this shabby, shabby little world through red-rimmed eyes, you run through the options. Cabbage soup with Neurofen. Naked romp through wind-swept wastes of N7. Devouring (dead) bull's penis. Prairie oyster. Cholesterol overdose. Sweating it out of the system (look, I'm just going for a sauna, that's all. Honest). Sticking thirteen red-hot pins into the cork of the offending bottle. Or just vowing to grow up and to do it never, ever again. No choice, really, is there? Cheers, mate. Mine's a Stella. Saturday, May 03, 2003
Putting It Together
Before assembly, please ensure your purchase is complete, and that you have all the required tools. Should any listed part be missing, please contact our telephone support desk *(special rates apply), where Manisha (or her mum) will be glad to help. Any missing items will be despatched immediately from our centrally-located warehouse in Pyongyang, and you should receive them sometime. In the meantime, position Side Panel 2A ("D" on the accompanying diagram) at an angle of approximately ninety (90) degrees to Front Panel X1 ("1A"), ensuring that Plug C of 2A ("D") and Plug D of 2A ("D") slot firmly into, respectively, Socket CA of X1 ("1A") and Socket CB of X1 ("1A") . While still holding 2A ("D") and X1 ("1A") firmly in place, slide Panel P1 ("2A/X1") (following the direction of the arrows) into the groove made by the conjunction of 2A ("D") and X1 ("1A"), simultaneously connecting Side Panel 2C ("J") to Front Panel X1 ("1A") You may find that Plugs E and F of 2C ("J") may not fit securely into Sockets CE and CF of 2C ("J"). If this is the case, it is quite acceptable to take a hacksaw (see: tools you will need) and apply it to your jugular ("F/C(K)"). Yes. That's right. You've guessed it. Argos. Cheapo chest-of-drawers. John Lewis next time round. Friday, May 02, 2003
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
There are to be redundancies at work. The word arrived by E-mail from Mama Boss herself. About ten per cent of the workforce dumped due to the "uncertain economic climate"/ the war/ SARS/ some puppy-dog's sore paw/ anything to shift blame away from fat-cats. Luckily, mine and the jobs of the others in my department are safe. It seems we're still needed by the Big Boys Upstairs who don't even know our names. And, in case you're wondering, that repetitive tapping sound you hear is me knocking very firmly on wood. But would I really mind if I was given the Big Heave-Ho? The job's not so bad: the pay's fine, and, theoretically at least, I can hire and fire. And, while not exactly letting me get away with murder, it does, at least, occasionally allow me to indulge in some serious GBH. Yet, it wasn't ever planned. It's just a little accidental something I slipped into a couple of years back, one of only two "proper" jobs I've ever had in my life. Forced redundancy might actually get me off my bum, in search of work more appropriate to my talents, as well as getting me some colleagues who think possession of a pink, fur-lined bathroom is the height of cool. As I type, secretaries are stabbing themselves with their nail-files and leaping off high balconies; middle management is JD-ing itself into a stupor; and Fleet Street is swimming ankle-deep in corporate blood. And the Stranger is putting his hand up and saying: "Hey, can I be made redundant too?" Did I ever mention I can be a contrary little Mary when I want to be? Thursday, May 01, 2003
A Night At The Opera
Last night was spent with trailer trash and smack-heads, fat-bitch pole-dancers and cock-sucking faggots, in-bred hillbillies, big-dicked chicks, and diaper-clad "babies" into "brown". All women are whores, you know, and all gays must die. Yes, my dears, I was down the National, having my very own Jerry Springer moment. Jerry Springer – The Opera is a cult-in-the-making twist on the TV confessional, where guests line up for fifteen minutes of humiliation, and end up beating the crap out of each other. The National's show is foul-mouthed, misogynistic, homophobic, blasphemous, and grotesquely over-the-top. It's also a brilliantly funny, beautifully sung, top-notch piece of satire. Hosted by Jerry (Michael Brandon) himself, what we're offered is an all-singing, all-dancing critique of confrontational TV. Along the way, it asks us who the real freaks are: the saddos baring their inadequacies live on prime-time TV, or the saddos sitting at home watching them. But most of all, and if you're not too easily offended, it's a rip-roaring, belly-achingly hilarious two-and-a-bit hours of complete and marvellous Trash. For another view on the production, click on the April 24 entry at Overyourhead. And grab a ticket now – it's only playing in rep till the end of August, although the run's already been extended once. Let's face it: anything which has Jerry anchoring a one-off special from Hell, with guest Satan having "issues" with Jesus; or which closes Act One with a tap-dancing routine by the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan, is bound to appeal to the likes of me. But what most warmed the cockles of my theatrical heart was the fact this was being staged by our very own, dear National Theatre. That's right: our very own, let's-not-tread-on-too-many-toes-shall-we-old-chap National, whose recent line in cutting-edge innovative drama has stretched, if you were lucky, to Martin Clunes in a not-bad Tartuffe, or a pointless revival of another done-to-death musical. Suddenly, the National's in danger of becoming hip and controversial again. Blame artistic director Nick Hynter. Officially only in charge since last month, he's already brought sweeping changes to the concrete eyesore on the South Bank. And it's not just in an exciting new programme, but also in ticket prices slashed down to a minimum. This season, two-thirds of all seats for every performance in the thousand-seater Olivier auditorium will knock you back just ten quid. Yes, ten quid. Less than you'd pay to see X-Men 2 in Leicester Square. So get on down to the National. You know you should do. And now you can even afford to. (And here endeth the Invisible Stranger's Theatre Rant for this month.) |
