THEGAYUK

Author: Chris Bridges

  • COLUMN | The Fainting Couch

    This week has seen me languishing on my sofa.

    ’ve always been a sickly person from childhood onwards with migraines, infections, joint pains and a general lack of robustness. This has carried on into adulthood along with an unhealthy dose of health anxiety and a bag full of pills for every eventuality. I I can swallow a whole handful of pills in one (is this the meaning of deep throat?). You’d think I’d be better at it by now but I’m absolutely rubbish at being ill.

    I’ve had a rip-roaring kidney infection with associated back pain, nausea, joint aches and high fevers. Nipping to the loo every five minutes is no fun either especially when it entails what I call Cockburn (it’s pronounced Co-burn, so they tell me). Before you start thinking the worst, it’s not an STD, just some hideous bacteria that has sneaked its way in and knocked me off my perch, probably exacerbated by being tired and stressed. Not that I’d be ashamed of an STD. It happens to the best of us.

    I have fond memories of childhood illness: watching ‘Sons and Daughters’, Tomato Soup, Lucozade in crinkly cellophane wrappers and boiled eggs whilst lolling on the sofa with a favourite book. I except these are just skewed memories. Nostalgia often casts a rosy glow on things that weren’t like we remember them at all. We can look back on a tedious holiday full of atmosphere and recrimination and remember it as a jolly time. Festive gatherings are often edited with family rows and disappointments on the cutting room floor. Being ill is rubbish. It’s boring and dull. Just how much ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ can you watch before going out of your mind? When I’m at work, I crave a week off but never in my fantasy does that week off involve frequent G.P. trips and lying in a pool of sweat and shivering.

    I have a romanticised ideal of illness that stems from reading too many Victorian novels where the heroine languishes on her fainting couch, a small dog on her lap and a bottle of Laudanum to sip. In reality those couches were stuffed with horse hair and terribly uncomfortable, I’m sure, and no one really wants the Laudanum as it’s just a historic term for Heroin and that’s a route I’m not planning to go down.

    It was a bad prognostic sign when I had to walk out of a play, as I was feeling so sick and shivering with fever. I never leave a good play and consider it bad manners to walk out. As bad as it’s been for me to feel so rough, my poor partner (who works from home) has suffered more. As Baby Jane to my hollering Blanche he’s had to fetch and carry, listen to my pitiful whine and exhibit a huge amount of patience.

    Luckily for him, I’ve been sleeping about 18 hours a day so he’s had some respite. I may have dreamt that moment where he hovered clutching a pillow menacingly over my face. Maybe I didn’t, though and I wouldn’t blame him.

    I can’t imagine being seriously ill or having some chronic condition as so many people do. I’m not cut out for it. The people who suffer like this have my empathy.

    I try to look for a positive in most things. I can only find two: I’ve spent less money and lost half a stone in weight. Thankfully, I’m starting to feel better and my diseased urinary tract is settling down, thanks to a course of strong antibiotics. I’m actually looking forward to going back to work and having some normality. Stay well, people.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Amateur Girls St. James Theatre and UK Tour

    ★★★★★ | Amateur Girls St. James Theatre and UK Tour

    Julie is a 30 something auxiliary nurse living in a high rise flat in Nottingham with her cat, Lulu.

    She’s always up for a laugh with nights down at the local clubs with a sneaky bottle of vodka in her handbag, a penchant for Take That and a swig of wine at home in the evenings. She spends her days working with elderly people, making sure their physical needs are met and her spare time, making porn to meet another kind of physical need altogether.

    Amanda Whittington’s powerful yet hilarious play takes the form of an Alan Bennett style monologue that is 70 minutes long. Lucy Speed (best known as Natalie Evans in Eastenders) gives a magnificent performance and somehow the play carries the audience off to another world by the power of superb acting and clever use of sound. Julie’s accidental transition from ‘good-time girl’ to amateur porn star is credible and thought provoking as the piece examines the tension between choice and coercion in relation to women and sexuality. Watching Julie’s naïve progress and hearing her history unfold is a heart breaking experience yet Whittington manages to also make the story extremely watchable with masses of humour.

    Whittington researched her subject, basing the play on the experiences of genuine sex workers and is drawn chiefly from the true story of one auxiliary nurse who worked in the ‘amateur’ porn industry whilst holding down a job in a hospital. The play never feels preachy or predictable and although Julie’s experiences aren’t always good they’re also not always terrible and are at times, really good fun for her. There’s a clever line that wavers constantly over whether she’s a victim, a woman using her sexuality to empower herself financially or a hapless naïve. I certainly left the theatre thinking about the theme.

    I was especially impressed with Speed’s Nottingham accent (I’m from those parts and as somewhat of an expert, can say that she did it really very well) and her performance is absolutely second to none. I laughed, winced, gasped and felt near to tears for Julie, thanks to the tremendous skills of Speed, a woman with fantastic talent.

    Fifth Word are definitely a theatre company to watch out for wit their previous Edinburgh Fringe smash hit success ‘Bones’, which was again an exceptional piece of theatre. I can’t recommend this play enough.

    Catch the play at the St James Theatre, London until 21st February:
    http://www.stjamestheatre.co.uk/events/amateur-girl

    U.K. tour dates until 15th March 2014:
    http://fifthword.co.uk/projects/spring-2014-tour-amateur-girl-by-amanda-whittington

  • THEATRE REVIEW | The Fat Man’s Wife

    ★★★★ | The Fat Man’s Wife

    It’s the early hours of New Year’s Day 1938 and Vera and Joe are just getting in from a New York society party. They’re still drinking, still niggling at each other and Joe is still hankering after some more partying and looking for a way to extricate himself and join the young actress he’s been having an affair with. Complications arise when Dennis, a naïve young playwright, arrives unexpectedly to make Vera an offer that could free her from her troubled marriage to ‘the fat man’.

    This absolute gem of a one-act play was only discovered in the papers of Tennessee Williams in 2000 and has never been performed in the U.K. before now. This is a rare opportunity to see a long hidden masterpiece. It has all the hallmarks of William’s work (the troubled marriage, the tortured souls and the heavy liquor consumption) as well as his lyrical yet tight dialogue. Surprisingly, it remains resonant today, with its themes of being trapped in a relationship that has changed out of all recognition since its rosy beginning.

    The three-person cast are all excellent without a weak link and with a particularly powerful performance from Emma Taylor as Vera. She captures a range of emotional nuances whilst slinking about the stage in her peignoir and negligee, like a caged beast, finally beaten down by captivity but with her eye on the gaps in the bars.

    The theatre itself is stunning in a beautiful location in Little Venice, just near to Warwick Avenue tube station. The only down side to the play being performed in such a beautiful old pub theatre, is the limitations this throws up. The seating was arranged in such a way that the audience felt a little obtrusive at times, but this is only a minor niggle. The actors managers to combat this finely and made the piece wholly believable.

    I’d heartily recommend this to any Tennessee Williams fans but also to anyone who isn’t yet a fan, this is great one act play that is as good an introduction as anything.

  • COLUMN | Deep Down

    There are lots of things that I really like about myself. I have quite pretty blue eyes (if I do say so myself). I can eat a whole pack of bagels without putting on an ounce, can usually empathise with other people and have my entertaining moments.

    I kind of like my weird double jointed big toes and my ability to see at least a little good in most things. I’m also very good at Cluedo and have read the complete works of Agatha Christie.
    Naturally there’s a balance. I hate the little hairs that grow out of my ears, the way I can be prone to judge people harshly without getting to know them well enough first and my terrible eyesight. My clumsiness is a legendary cross which I bare and I tend to be a quitter with a feeble motto of “If at first you don’t succeed then it’s probably just not for you, love.” a motto that’s seen me unable to drive a car, ride a bike or master the yo-yo.

    I suppose we all possess traits and qualities that we have to learn to accept and I’ve written about mine here before: my dodgy mental health. I’m sorry to recur, to bring it up again and to go on about the same old thing but I’m also afraid that that’s just the nature of the beast. It rears its ugly head. It’s also pretty topical with this week’s amazing Time for Change campaigns’ ‘Time to Talk Day’.

    Statistically we were a mental illness once. Gay people were classified as officially possessing a mental disorder, just because they were gay. Loving or even just lusting after, someone of your own gender was considered to be a form of madness and was only removed from the official USA manual of classified psychiatric disorders in 1973. Unsurprisingly, discrimination, homophobia and prejudice have all been linked to alarmingly high rates of poor mental health with associated high substance abuse and suicide rates in LGBT people.

    I don’t know why I get depressed and anxious. I don’t actually care either. I’ve been down the route of therapy (self-help books, counselling, psychoanalysis, cognitive behavioural therapy, medications). I’ve soul searched, analysed and been analysed and it doesn’t matter to me any more whether it’s my stressful job, my childhood experiences, my abusive past relationships or my dodgy genes. It just matters that I can get by the best I can with whatever resources I can access. I try to spot the triggers and try to engage my relapse survival mechanisms when an episode hits (spoken like someone who’s been through way too much therapy).

    So, a week of feeling desperate, bowling balls nestling in my stomach and a sick sense of dread? It’s not much of a joy feeling so joyless. It’s been hard to keep perspective and think about my good career, my relationships, my friendships and the people who love me. So why am I sharing this with you? Is this entertaining or worth the read? I hope that the latter is true. I’m a normal functional human being who just struggles a bit at times. It’s true of one in three of us apparently.

    So, that’s my purpose. I’m talking about it. I’m human. I work, I eat, I sleep and have a good job that I love. This silly depression of mine should carry no stigma. I’ve been ill. It’s like the flu. I’m ill, not weak or defective. I’ve been having a low period and I’m getting a bit better thanks for asking. I just want you to know what I wish people had sometimes told me: lots of people feel like this. It’s really bloody hard, but we can get by. There are lots of us about and we sometimes just want to talk about it.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | How To Be Immortal, UK Tour

    ★★★★ | How To Be Immortal, UK Tour
    Three true tales intertwine in this intimate, bold and funny show about love, science, death and immortality.

    Henrietta Lacks died in West Virginia in 1951, but her cells are still alive today, dividing endlessly in laboratories, their every detail studied by scientists all over the world. It’s taken Deborah years to come to terms with her mother’s death. Now, suddenly, she’s got to deal with her immortality.

    Rosa and Mick are in love. She plays the cello, he plays the squeezebox –they sound great together. The trouble is that she’s pregnant and he’s about to die.

    If we didn’t have bodies would we live forever? Its 1950 and Doctor George Gey and his wife Margaret are about to make a mind-bending discovery using homemade apparatus and some calves liver puree. All they need is the right biopsy.

    Love, death and DNA intertwine in three twisted true tales about what we leave behind. There’s live music on cello, squeezebox and ukulele, 1950s science, nano-puppetry, animation and a song composed from human DNA coding. This is a moving production that is not easily shaken from the mind.

    For such a heavy subject matter, this is actually a very watchable and engaging play with plenty of humour. Writer, Kirsty Housley, manages to present a trio of fascinating stories with a deft touch, conveying both deep emotion and offering up a complex scientific theme, which is quite a feat. The technology worked well too with some breath taking back projections onto the versatile and clever set. The stories blend well together and the trio of talented actor/musicians give sterling performances in a variety of role.

    I was lucky enough to catch the show at the Albany at Deptford, a fantastic small theatre and arts venue which people outside of South London might not be in the know about. It’s well worth a visit and easily reached by public transport.

    The show is on tour until the end of March 2014 and you can catch it at various venues around the U.K.: http://www.pennydreadfultheatre.com/#!tour-dates/cxb5

    Check out The Albany at Deptford here: http://www.thealbany.org.uk/whatson

  • COLUMN | Super(Gay)Man

    I was watching an interiors program the other night and, unsurprisingly, the majority of male participants were gay.

    This led me to ponder why it is that gay people are so talented in the fields of the arts? We’re prominent in theatre, dance and design. Fashion would be stuck in the doldrums without us. The world of hairstyling would be severely depleted and there’d be a lot less fancy window displays in the big shops. Do we have a special gene? Is it a class we all take at gay school? Are we just born amazing, with an eye for colour and where to put an accented scatter cushion?

    We’ve got comedy cracked with our acerbic wit. We can write, sing and paint with amazing results. We’re even infiltrating sports with our buffed physiques teetering on the edges of diving boards and our good legs managing to kick balls about whilst looking hot in shorts. Is there no limit to our talents?

    If you listen to our detractors; we can topple governments, corrupt children and make whole nations quake with just a click of our delicately manicured fingers. We can have whole countries living in terror of us, leading them to pass laws to suppress us, trying to make us impotent and powerless. Religions pass judgements on us just so that they can try to hide our clearly superior talents.

    Is there nothing we can’t do? Maybe we’re the master race. We’re a force to be reckoned with, strong, talented and amazing with a little bit of fabulousness and good skin to add to the mix.

    ..or maybe we’re just people. Maybe that’s why we terrify some people so much. We’re just a group of people who happen to be gay and are pretty much the same as people who don’t happen to be gay, with a varying range and mix of talents and characteristics.

    Now that must be truly terrifying for some people.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Putting It Together, St. James Theatre

    ★★★★★ | Putting It Together, St. James Theatre

    The original New York production of “Putting It Together”, a musical revue created by Julia McKenzie and Stephen Sondheim, starred none other than Julie Andrews. This first London staging of the show is much like Ms Andrews’ famous character Mary Poppins: practically, perfect in every way.

    If you already love Sondheim then this is a rare treat, with a chance to see a whole host of his songs performed to a stunningly high standard. If you don’t know Sondheim’s work then this is a brilliant way to get to know his style and revel in his wit and panache.

    From lovelorn, embittered and angry, through to wistful, longing and hopeful, the song selection covers a huge range of emotions and facets of the terrifying and perplexing thing that is human relations. The cast selection is staggeringly good too. Listening to David Bedella’s voice is like sipping smooth Bourbon, whilst Janie Dee manages to pack pathos, rage and comedy into every word (and what a lot of words some of the numbers contain). Damian Humbley, Daniel Crossley and Caroline Sheen make up the rest of the strong five-person cast and all do more than justice to Sondheim’s numbers with amazing vocal talents, backed by a skilled sextet of musicians.

    The show cleverly utilises a diverse range of songs as the audience watch the progress of a couple as they undergo a tempestuous night at a cocktail party. The audience last night certainly loved the show and there was a standing ovation with rapturous applause.

    I can’t recommend this enough. It’s on for a strictly limited 3 week run until the 1st of February

    Buy tickets here: http://www.stjamestheatre.co.uk/events/putting-it-together/

  • COLUMN: Dogging

    The only time I’ve ever contemplated getting myself tattooed was when I owned a dog. I considered having a banner reading: “Never Get Another Dog, Ever”, on my arm. This was in order to remind myself of the total ball ache that pet ownership could bring and stop me in my tracks in moments of temptation.

    (more…)

  • COLUMN | Chris Bridges’ That Was The Year That Was

    It’s that time of year when we all get reflective, and occasionally sentimental and mawkish, thinking about the past year. I’m definitely not going to do that. Instead, I thought I’d share a few cultural highlights of 2013. I’ve waded through some pretty grim stuff and also been lucky enough to witness some totally stunning stuff. Here’s my gay Top 5 of 2013:

    1) Cabaret: The Black Cat Cabaret
    As sleek and slinky as a black cat stalking the back streets of Paris, this is a diverse mix of burlesque, novelty acts, dance, comedy and music. It’s definitely atmospheric and often dark and enticing. Featuring a variety of hosts including the alluring Dusty Limits, this show played to packed houses at the remarkable Café de Paris in Leicester Square. 2014 sees new line-ups and exciting new venues. Check out the itinerary here: http://www.theblackcat.info

    2) Dance: Matthew Bourne’s Sleeping Beauty. If you weren’t fortunate enough to see this in the flesh then the television screening on Christmas day was well worth seeing. Matthew Bourne dazzles as ever with inventive sets, eclectic choreography and clever reworking of classics. Catch up with the latest projects here: http://www.new-adventures.net

    3) Theatre: The Pride. This was an exceptional play with comedy, pathos and a thought provoking message. Justifiably praised by critics, this was a play that cleverly explored the parallels between gay life in the 1950s and the present day. Look out for upcoming shows at the Trafalgar here: http://www.trafalgar-studios.co.uk/

    4) Film: Behind the Candelabra. High camp, pianos, Matt Damon in tight trunks? What more do you need to know? Oh, it was actually quite moving in places too as well as being hilariously funny. Buy it here.

    5) Comedy: Scott Capuro. One of the most naughty and funniest of our openly gay comedians, he’s a pleasure, albeit an uncomfortable pleasure at times, to witness. Check out his next dates here: http://scottcapurro.com/wp28/upcoming-shows

    2014 is definitely going to be an exciting year for culture. I’ll keep you posted with hot tips.

  • COLUMN | Sunny With A Chance of Cloud

    I was looking out of my kitchen window the other day and watching the sky. It was a sunny day but with banks of clouding blowing past. I don’t become sentimental or wax lyrical very often but I was taken with how beautiful the clouds were with a range of shapes and colours and an ever-changing view. I’m all for the beauty of a clear blue sky but wouldn’t it be a bit boring to not have the clouds too?

    I progressed even further with my sentimentally and began to think about my friends and how they’re much the same: frequently cloudy. I don’t think that I know anyone whom I call flawless and perfect. If I did, then I probably wouldn’t stay in touch with them for long. I’d be severely tried by their lack of blemishes, whether emotional or physical. What on earth would we have to talk about if everything was fantastic and life hadn’t thrown a few punches, leaving subsequent bruises? The media created automatons that we watch and read about are so dull that we desperately wait to have some dirt on them unearthed so that we can gloat. I don’t just like people in spite of their quirks, anomalies and faults; I frequently like them because of them.

    Wouldn’t it be a boring world if we all had sculpted torsos and unblemished skin? The cult of hard bodied youth has its merits but, personally, I’m more intrigued by a bit of imperfection. My eyes will scan over a perfume advertisement model’s bronzed flesh with a barely recognised acknowledgment. Show me a perma-tanned youthful pop singer with airbrushed skin and I’ll show you a thousand others. However, show me a slightly battered and craggy older man and I’ll be much more likely to feel a tug of attraction and curiosity. In a Photoshopped world it’s good to reality check.

    Wouldn’t it be good if we could be less influenced by what we see and weren’t so likely to translate it into what we want to be? It’s a very hard state to achieve. Who doesn’t want to a bit thinner/more bulky/less or more hairy and older/younger/better looking etc. etc.?

    As New Year’s Eve approaches, if you must make resolutions (they’re a bit passé aren’t they, though, really?), then make them about being what you want to be and not what you think you the world wants you to be. Your flaws are so often what makes you fantastic and I for one, love you for them.

  • COLUMN | Very Superstitious

    People talk about spirituality and faith and I’m always left puzzled. Talk to me about organised religion and my eyes glaze over as I reach for my Richard Dawkins books. Lecture me on Eastern mysticism and I shudder and look away. If you want to tell me about astrology, cosmic ordering or the time your deceased neighbour communicated with you from the spirit world then I’m anything but fascinated.

    I escaped my religious upbringing as soon as I was able and I avoid anything with chanting or incense. I suspect that my chakras are more than out of alignment but are actually non-existent. A woman at a party once told me that a dead woman called Marjory was wanting to talk to me and I politely told her to go away and take Marjory with her.

    If I think about it, though, I do have a religion of sorts: superstition. I can’t pass a single magpie without saluting it. If I see a shiny penny on the floor then I have to pick it up and I touch wooden things with alarming regularity. This can prove very awkward. Saluting a magpie during a driving lesson will guarantee that a frantic instructor will shout at you in alarm and grab for the dual controls as you allow the car to veer across lanes of traffic. Ducking down whilst on a date to snatch a coin from the street whilst drunkenly shouting: “A lucky penny!” will almost certainly ensure that date number two will not be forthcoming. Grabbing a penny from a colleague’s desk will get you odd looks too. Reaching for tree trunks in the street to touch wood will perhaps risk arrest, if done too conspicuously.

    My superstition is as sound as anything and no less valid. It’s based on centuries of tradition. I know it’s not true and that it’s a mad way to run my life but what’s not to like about not opening an umbrella indoors or keeping new shoes off the table? It’s hardly a hardship.

    For me, it’s more a way of keeping anxiety at bay, like a very mild strain of O.C.D. I see a black cat and I feel instantly calmer. It has a flip side too, of course. Seeing one magpie can leave me lurching with angst. Its mild angst though and it passes. The major bonus for me is that my religion has no dietary restrictions, no observances and no tricky festivals to navigate. It also doesn’t disapprove of me being gay.

    Maybe I’ll start a festival though. If anyone wants to come round to mine dressed as a magpie whilst bearing wood then I’ll gladly let you pick up all the pennies you like from my carpet. Tempted?