THEGAYUK

Author: Chris Bridges

  • COLUMN | Nudity No-No

    My partner used to like to take off his clothes in public. This was a frequent occurrence, the minute he’d consumed alcohol.

    I blame it on the set he was hanging out with; horsey and aristocratic. That sort of running into ballrooms naked at midnight and jumping into swimming pools is more acceptable there than it would have been in the urban backstreets and dull suburbs where I grew up.

    Funnily enough, I’ve always had a bit of an issue with public nudity. It’s not that I don’t like my body. I have the standard love/hate relationship with it that most of us possess. I wasn’t one of those teenagers who strutted around the locker rooms at school in the buff. I was too embarrassed. There was a whole dimension to growing up gay in the 1980s whereby I was mortified that the other boys would think I was ogling their bodies. I’d hastily change in the corner and dash through the showers, hoping to stay inconspicuous. I also didn’t grow up in one of those liberal families where everyone wandered about the house naked. Thankfully: to recall my father happily chatting about the day’s activities whilst stepping out of the shower with water dripping off his appendages is not something I’d want in my memory bank.

    As an adult I’ve had brushes with public nudity, as many gay men have. The obligatory nudist beach on holiday, the drunken visit to a sauna in Blackpool and the ill advised trip to a clothing optional bar in Amsterdam: these things happen. If you’re anything like me then they only happen once. I’m a quick learner.

    I decided to venture to a nudist beach once, whilst on holiday in the U.K. I’d never been naked in public before and decided that it sounded like a liberating and romantic notion to swim naked in the sea. I trekked the standard torturous 3 miles to the gay part of the nudist beach, arriving with aching limbs and a sweaty face. I put down my bag, stripped off my clothes and let the sun warm parts that the daylight had never seen before. I had a sneaky look round and it was like I’d suddenly entered a leather sofa store. The only difference was that the sofas were in the shape of elderly gay men. Expanses of orange leather flesh dotted the horizon as a variety of shapes and sizes of toughened hides stood lifelessly. Strangely, they seemed to be imitating poses from Kays’ Catalogue circa 1978. There must be something about being naked on a sand dune that makes men want to look out to sea with one knee flexed and their hand on hip at a jaunty angle. I didn’t stay long on the beach. There were drawbacks to the idyllic experience of sunbathing naked which I hadn’t thought through a) I’m not keen on sunbathing b) where would I stow my belongings while I dipped in the sea?

    Another daunting experience was visiting a gay nudist beach in a slick resort in Europe. This was a time when I was going through a hate cycle in the love/hate body thing. The sight of gym fit gay Europeans with perfect pecs and all over tans, lolling on designer label towels was enough to send me scurrying back to my hotel room to hide under a duvet. I’d have been like the ‘before’ picture in an advert, had I taken off as much as a cardigan.

    Naked bars, saunas, nudist beaches: they’re not for the insecure like me. They’re also not for the practical minded. Where do you keep your wallet and change, for one thing? I reproach myself sometimes. Why should I be ashamed to be naked? It’s our natural state and think of all that Vitamin D we’d absorb too. Then I remember all those lovely things that you can buy which can flatter and accentuate, hide and mask and make us all look better: they’re called clothes. I’ll keep mine on for now.

  • COLUMN | Freak Like Me

    Last week I saw a tiny little man who was wearing a floral shower cap on top of his turban. He was all of 5 feet three tall, wizened and elderly and a lurid 1970s shower cap topped off his immaculate dark suit exquisitely. I think he was a very sensible man, it was raining after all and no one wants a damp turban all day.

    I often see a man who dresses as an Edwardian gentleman. He must be in his 50s and is tall and rotund. He sports a series of fetching waistcoats stretched over his ample belly and he has a huge waxed moustache that sprawls over his face. I saw him walking through the city centre one evening and he was also wearing a cape that night and carrying a sliver topped cane. I admire him and often smile at his outfits, commenting on a particular natty cravat or a dashing checked trouser. I asked him once if he lived in a re-created Edwardian house and I was gladdened when he affirmed that indeed he did.

     

    There used to be an elderly woman who walked around the streets with a small white poodle in a huge Silver Cross pram. He was harnessed in by his lead and would sit quite happily, yapping at passers-by as he was wheeled around in style. She would merrily chatter away to him as they strolled.

     

    I always admired a tall thin elderly lady who lived nearby. She would set out from her house with a very purposeful gait, striding briskly, head down, sending people scurrying out of her way in terror. She always wore a blue raincoat and a matching hairnet and had a full beard. She would often smile at people, revealing a lot of missing teeth, and give a jaunty wave with her hand held high. She’d shout “Hello!” at deafening volume. Occasionally she’d appear with a huge brown dog on a lead that would drag her around and she’d trot along breathlessly behind with a happy expression on her whiskery face.

     

    I could write all night about these people. There are scores more of them in my mental bank of people I regularly see. To me, these people are rational and normal. No one wants a wet turban. They must become so heavy. Why not arrive in style in a shower cap if it keeps you dry? The Edwardian style suits a large man and if you can get away with sauntering around in full costume then why not? It’s fun. Poodles are unwieldy things to carry around. They wriggle so. If you have a spare pram to hand going to waste then why not convert it into a poodle carriage? I’m sure he was a good listener to as she talked away. If you struggle with messy hair and don’t have time to shave your beard then why not be proud of it? Walk along with a tooth deficient grin and shout greetings at full volume. The depilatory process can be wearing to maintain. Brazen it out.

     

    My point, I suppose, is that “normal” is all about perception. Maybe we’re the mad ones for spending time plucking stray hairs or walking around with wet hair when we have perfectly nifty shower caps to hand?

     

    I asked on social media last year for people I knew to come out of the closet and admit their inner freakiness. The response was quite phenomenal. People admitted bizarre rituals, filthy habits and strange beliefs. They collected nail clippings, believed that their identical twin was better looking and were scared of sponges or wet wood. They ate inappropriate foods, had attachments to unusual items and perceived things in peculiar ways. All perfectly normal to me. It doesn’t take much chipping away at the surface to reveal a great big scary freak underneath. As for my odd habits, well, I describe them enough on here.

     

    My definition of strange is a teenage boy in canvas shoes on a wintery day, walking along with trousers halfway down his thighs and buttocks showing. Wearing jeans with elasticated ankles and a baggy gusset that makes it look like you’re wearing a nappy, suits no practical purpose and looks pretty odd. Surely we should stop stare and point.

     

    I think madness is to spend thousands of pounds on a huge white wedding party, inviting people you barely know to attend the protracted rituals and wasting money on a frock you’ll wear once and then look back on with blushes as the fashions change. I’m puzzled by people who watch TV constantly, celebrate Christmas with gusto, believe in vengeful deities or find clowns endearing. Now that is very weird.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | The Sound of Music: Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre

    ★★★★★ | The Sound of Music

    Singing nuns and handsome widowers? Lederhosen and dresses run up using a pair of old curtains? An innocent yet savvy governess saving the day against a Nazi threat? No wonder that The Sound of Music has always had a massive gay following.

    Whether you’re a diehard fan or (like me) have merely snoozed off in front of the film on a rainy Bank Holiday Monday; you’re sure to find something to love in this fresh and highly accomplished revival of a classic musical.

    The beautiful Regent’s park Open Air Theatre is a suitably outdoorsy setting for a sojourn into Austria, with its banks of Alpine flowers, a stream at the front of the stage, the backdrop of trees and the night sky. It’s not just the surroundings that dazzle and imbue atmosphere, as the cast bring a series of classic songs to life and manage to convey a storyline that keeps the audience rapt throughout and last night, ended with a thunderous standing ovation.

    The painfully handsome Michael Xavier is a dashing and alluring Captain von Trapp, equalled only by Charlotte Wakefield’s passionate performance as Maria, which oozes vitality. The songs may be over familiar but the gusto and skill of the large cast combined with witty choreography, makes them seem brand new and every bit as accomplished and exciting as when you first heard them.

    I’ve always been more Cruella DeVil than Maria von Trapp when it comes to schmaltz and singing children with rosy cheeks, but even my stony heart contracted just a tiny bit by the end of the show. I briefly considered joining a convent just so that I could learn to sing like that awe inspiring Mother Abbess but decided that black just isn’t my colour. I heartily recommend this wholesome but inspiring treat. You’ll be humming about lonely goatherds and raindrops on roses all the way home, whether you planned to or not.
    The Sound of Music runs until the 7th of September 2013

  • COLUMN | Sunset Strip

    Cabaret and burlesque is currently making a big impact on the entertainment scene. Watching some quite subversive cabaret the other night, I began to think about nudity. A beautiful woman had just stripped to her underwear and was putting the tit-tassels to good use. Usually, I watch a show and think: ‘I could do that!’ As the tap dancers reach a frenetic climax, the actor hits his dramatic high point or the trapeze artist spins on his aerial swing; I like to think that give or take a couple of lessons, I’d be great at doing this.

    Of course this isn’t true at all. I’m terribly clumsy, have no acting talent and am no good with heights. This fantasy of my own performing ability does not emerge when I watch strip tease. I know I couldn’t do this, ever. The reason being this: I have no desire to exhibit my naked body. Stripping is not for me.

    As a teenager, I loitered shyly on the gay scene and the weekly schedule in the small city where I lived included a drag act on a Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon. Bingo on a Sunday night and a stripper on a Friday. I became pretty blasé about their naked bodies gyrating in a small back street bar. Swinging cocks splashed baby oil over a bar full of men who were just tipsy enough to not be too worried about getting the stains out of their best Burtons Menswear jackets. There was always a local vicar who had barged to the front for a good eyeful, craning his neck and applauding with gusto as he leered at the sun bed orange flesh.

    The routines were often samey and on the more obvious and tacky side of ‘fantasy’. The three foot stage would be peopled by unconvincing policemen, cheap and stained ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’ air force pilots and construction workers who were so manicured that they had clearly never seen a cement mixer. The routines were mostly the same and give or take an inch here and there, the physiques varied very little with their inflated muscular, just the wrong side of deformity, and their rubber band constricted penises. There was the odd exception.
    On one notable occasion a hulking man pulled out a cucumber from his obligatory giant holdall, bent down on all fours and rammed it straight up his sphincter. This was fine and earned a healthy hum of approval. Approval turned to horror as he pulled the said fruit back out of his arse and bit the end of it off. A bar full of slightly uptight gay men gasped in unison and considered the food hygiene implications. Of course, there was always talk of the odd performer who over stepped the mark with audience participation, but I never witnessed this, which I have no regrets about.

    There’s nothing wrong with cheap back street bars, ropey strippers or the joys of the hen party crowd. In all its place and its own particular and unique merits. Striptease can also be a real art form and burlesque (and indeed Boy-lesque) combines the art of dance, glamour, drag and strip to make an often dazzling spectacle. Just don’t ask me to do it. I’ll be the one dashing to cover myself with a towel in the changing rooms.

  • COLUMN | Insecure Me

    My insecurities are boundless. They seem to straddle all the domains: physical, social and intellectual. I’m even insecure about other people’s emotional sturdiness.

    I went to the theatre yesterday and sat next to a very well groomed actress. We got talking (how else would I know she was an actress?) and it turned out that she sees more theatre than me. Her breadth of knowledge was extensive and her ability to critique was impressive. Naturally, I felt a little inferior. She was stylish and had poise and I felt like a crumpled sweaty heap in a theatre which sorely lacked air conditioning. As I sweated and reddened she gracefully flicked a stylish fan across her unblemished face.

    Sitting at a cafe in Hyde Park later, I noticed a well groomed gay couple sitting at the table next to us. They spoke in clipped tones, dripped money from every pore and made me feel slightly shabby in my chain store clothes and with my flat Midlands vowels. As I got latte foam all over my cheeks they daintily sipped their tea.

    Walking by us was a very handsome man with his girlfriend. Naturally, I had to appraise him. It’s the duty of the gay man. He had broad muscular shoulders, a chiselled jaw and striking eyes. He also had a better head of hair than my thinning mane, model good looks and a dominant way of striding forward. Of course, I felt inferior and my insecurities rose to the fore again as I contemplated my weedy upper arms and face which could only model as a ‘before’ in an advert for cosmetic surgery.

    Thinking back later, I felt a rush of satisfaction as I wracked my brains to look for these perfect specimens’ feet of clay. The actress sat in the wrong seat in the theatre, initially and displayed a clumsy gaucheness, apologetically fumbling her way back to the correct seat. Of course she’s an expert in theatre too. It doesn’t make her next in line for a Nobel Prize. It’s just that theatre is her business. Ask her questions on my chosen career subject and she’s have surely floundered. The well groomed gay couple were perfectly poised in the cafe but as we left the park we saw them walking purposefully, several feet apart. They’d clearly had a row and their body language positively screamed pent up rage and resentment. Speaking like a BBC announcer and wearing good clothes does not equate happiness. As for the dishy bloke: he passed us again and the rear view was less than appetising. He had childbearing hips and a set of buttocks that would have fed a family of four for a week.

    I wonder why I feel the need to compete, to mentally compare myself and score points. Maybe it’s evolutionary, maybe just societal. Whatever the case, if we meet then you can sure I’ll be looking for your flaws. You know what though; I’ll like you so much for having them.

  • COLUMN | Turkish Delight

    I made an embarrassing revelation a few weeks ago about my shameless quest to save cash and how I had a £5 haircut that was like total carnage. Today I upgraded and went for a £10 haircut. I’ve not only upped but have doubled my ante.

    I was feeling slightly sticky after a brisk stroll from work. The weather was hot and stark and I couldn’t face the bus with its heaters constantly blasting out in spite of the 30-degree heat. Walking felt like the better option. Every bus journey of late has left me on the brink of throwing up in the aisle. I stopped off by the station near where we live at a light and airy barbers which looked clean and vaguely stylish. Being greeted by a hot six-foot bloke in his early 30s with olive skin and good arms made me forget the sweat pooling in my crevices.

    He was a talkative barber. I never know which is worse: the surly ones who ignore you or the prattling ones you have to make an effort with. This one was entertaining and to be honest, he had such a handsome face that I really couldn’t have cared if he read out the cricket scores. I’m a fool for a swarthy man brandishing tools (or scissors).

    He began the snipping and was actually very nifty. My eyes occasionally noted his handiwork although I must admit that he did appear to have what looked like a small mammal nestling in the front of his trousers that drew my eye. I started to feel very warm indeed under the cape type thing.

    “I am from Turkey! I am living here one year and I practice my English. Do you mind me practice talk?”

    “I’d love it!’ I exclaimed with a smile, like he’d just offered me a winning lottery ticket.

    We began to make small talk and I tried hard not to look at the ageing pink thing in the mirror that was being groomed by this Adonis.

    “Is very hot in Turkey. Is hot here too, no? For Irish man like you is bad when you are very pink.”

    I wasn’t offended. Irish is fine with me. They have great writers there and the drinking culture is great.

    “Is also very bad in the day. Turkish people sleep from perhaps 12 till 5. Is 42 degrees there today. For a man like you is very hard to go outside when he has a patch of…what is the saying!…on his head. What is it I say?’

    “Bald patch?” I replied, instantly feeling just a little more humiliated.

    He nodded vigorously: “Yes! Big bald patch!’

    I smiled coquettishly in spite of dying a little inside.

    We carried on like this for a while: me getting pinker, him getting more unfeasibly handsome in spite of his casual lack of tact in front of this aging red faced sweat machine: “You have very hairy neck! Do any barber tell you that you have very hairy neck?”

    I decided there and then. I’d rather he’d spoken to me in Turkish. I wouldn’t have understood a word, but in my mind he’d have been telling me how beautiful I am and how he wished the men of Turkey were so fair and ravishing.

    As it was: it cost me ten quid, I got to glance sideways at a hot man with what looked a massive schlong in his slacks and my hair looks great. Everyone is a winner but my poor pride. I’ll be back for more in a month.

  • COLUMN | Starey Mary

    My partner and I made a rare sortie into a central London gay bar the other evening, on our way to see a play. He was craving a cool pint of beer and the nearest decent bar just happened to be one where the more stylish boys hang out.

    I’m pretty accustomed to gay bars and am a jaded pub goer, having launched myself on the gay scene at a slightly scandalous 16 years old but my partner has never really partaken in the scene much at all, being a much later starter and having lived in more rural areas. It sometimes takes an outsider to spot something and pinpoint a factor that you take for granted.

    My partner noticed the constant staring. Being slightly vain, he loved it. Its normal practice in a gay bar to be appraised and I don’t even notice this anymore. The quick look up and down, the sideways glance and the full on full body scan are all perils that you face when entering a bar. It’s habitual, standard practice and is done without thinking and with no terrible breach of etiquette. In fact, it is the etiquette. I wouldn’t even think it rude were someone to look down pointedly at my crotch to see what I was packing or to perform a lengthy examination of my buttocks. It’s just the way of the gay. It often ends in dismissal (I’m with a partner, I’m over 40 and therefore unavailable/decrepit and not necessarily worth the effort) but can end in a brief eye contact, a mutual appraisal or a mutual disdain.

    We talked about it and I explained the code of practice in a gay bar to my partner. I explained that it’s often meaningless; that gay men appraise men, just as straight men appraise women and it’s as much a habit as biting your nails or chewing gum.

    I have a thousand sneaky ways of looking attractive men up and down in the street. Lechery has to be a skilful art at times. There’s the brief sideways glance at a hot businessman on the tube, over the top of a paperback novel. The window reflection study of a scantily clad hottie in shorts on the top deck of a bus is a classic manoeuvre. The distracted ‘just casually looking around but my eyes have accidentally taken in the lycra cyclist with the muscles and I’ve noted that he appears to have a massive penis’ is a very retro one which is easy to perfect, provided you can feign the right level of nonchalance.

    Let the Starey Marys stare in the bars. It’s not at all intimidating unless you let it be so and is actually, quite flattering should their facial expression register a glimmer of approval or lust. If they dismiss or grimace, then just let it amuse you.

    They clearly have no class or taste or you’re just in the wrong bar.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Miss Nightingale: The Burlesque Musical

    ★★★★ | Miss Nightingale: The Burlesque Musical

    It’s 1942 and Britain is in the grip of war. Northern nurse Maggie Brown has moved to London to try her hand at a singing career but along with her Jewish refugee song-writer, George, she faces rejection at every turn.

    Things change when the pair meet aristocratic nightclub owner Sir Frank Worthington-Blythe and the saucy burlesque singer, Miss Nightingale, is unleashed on a rapturous London crowd. Complications ensue when Maggie’s relationship proves to be less than perfect and Sir Frank falls in love with George.

    Near the start of the show George states that he wants to bring a touch of pre-war Berlin to war time London and the show certainly achieved that aim with witty numbers, corking dance routines and enough sauce and innuendo to outdo even the cast of a Carry On film. The show is very funny and incredibly infectious with a fantastic set of songs which run the gamut from bawdy through to mournful. Composer, Matthew Bugg has written some corking numbers which had the audience cheering and applauding like crazy and the standing ovation from the crowd at the Leicester Square Theatre proved that the show was a massive hit.

    Award winning burlesque star Amber Topaz is a tiny but powerful ball of cheekiness with a talent to amuse, titillate and dazzle and the two male leads are also well cast and show incredible talent. As well as acting, they sing beautifully and play instruments in the band. How’s that for multi tasking?

    The main theme of the musical is the difficulties faced by gay men in Britain in the 1940s, with fears of damaged reputations, prosecution and ruined lives. The love story between Frank and George is actually quite charming and beautifully rendered.

    For a cracking night out I’d recommend this wholeheartedly.

    The show is on 7th July at Leicester Square Theatre followed by
    • 9th to 13th July: Yvonne Arnaud Theatre, Guildford
    • 15th to 17th July: Victoria Theatre, Halifax
    • 18th to 19th July: Lyceum Theatre, Sheffield
    • 22nd to 27th July: Theatre Royal, Windsor

    Book tickets and read more here: http://missnightingale.co.uk

  • COLUMN | Happy Birthday To You

    So, TheGayUK has hit a memorable birthday and what a fantastic year it has been. I’ve interviewed choreographers, writers, poets, cabaret artists, actors, painters and singers, reviewed theatre, film, dance and even a book where a poodle showed me the sights of London.

    The site is also going from strength to strength. I just hope that the site has a better track record with celebrating birthdays than I have.

    1976: I’m five years old and have the one and only birthday party of my childhood. My mum organises a treasure hunt and hides sweets all round the house. For the next year we find melted Blackjacks in extraordinary places. The food is fancy for the 70s (i.e. the tomatoes are cut into little crown shapes). The party goes seriously wrong when over-excited, I lean in too close to ‘Pop-up Pirate’ and the little plastic pirate hits my forehead with velocity. Being a trainee diva, I order the party terminated and ask everyone to leave, before flouncing upstairs to my room in a huff born of indignity.

    1989: My 18th was less than monumental. I remember having bad 80s hair and trawling round bars with my partner, drinking gin. That’s where the memory ends. There was a lot of gin. I don’t like being 18 much. I feel gauche and am horribly shy and am hopeful that this will improve with age. It does, mostly.

    1992: I’m 21 and having another tantrum. I’m stuck in an overheated restaurant, which has an American diner theme, drinking cocktails and eating over cooked greasy food with a group of friends and my partner. I feel terribly old and wise (I’m actually neither) and also very unhappy with the life I have and I’m taking it out on everyone around me. The mature option would have been to change the bad things and move forward (e.g. ditch the abusive partner) but I’m not able to visualise that one. My Brandy Alexander (see how sophisticated the 90s were!) isn’t the right drink and I get some hideous banana thing. I do the mature thing and deflect my unhappiness on to the waiter and embarrass everyone around me with a drunken rant.

    2001: I hit 30 and am officially dead in gay terms. I actually don’t mind though. I’ve finally got a partner who is treating me well and we hit London for the occasion. A trip to the theatre, a whiz round the London Eye and a night clubbing in Heaven with a lot of drinks bought for me are all followed by my birthday itself where I feel each and every day of my 30 years as I spend a hung over day clinging to the rim of the marble toilet in the plush hotel, crying in pain and praying for oblivion. I get bought a T-shirt which says: ‘Big Dicks and Vodka’. Although these are valid hobbies, I never wear it.

    2011: After spending the last few years having nocturnal sweats thinking about being 40, I actually love it. I have a new partner, who makes me happier than I’ve ever been, I have a great circle of friends who I love and am more comfortable with myself than I’ve ever been. I hire a local arts cinema and screen a film for my friends and the day is fantastic. I no longer drink vodka, although I still quite admire the big dicks, but from afar now. What’s not to love about being 40? Bring on more birthdays.

    Have a happy birthday GayUK x

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Private Lives, Gielgud Theatre

    ★★★★ | Private Lives

    If you’re not familiar with Noel Coward’s work then you’re in for a treat with ‘Private Lives’ and the lavish new production at The Gielgud is well worth catching.

    Elyot Chase (Toby Stephens: Jane Eyre, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall) is on his honeymoon in France when he finds that his ex-wife, Amanda (Anna Chancellor: The Hours, Spooks) is in the adjacent hotel room and is also on her honeymoon. Still reeling from their tempestuous failed marriage the pair revisit the havoc that ensued previously.

    Beautiful, stylish and utterly selfish, they are witty, snide socialites. Coward’s dialogue is acerbic, devastatingly vicious and alarmingly witty. The two leads capture the spirit of the play perfectly, with dialogue that feels like a deliciously deadly fencing match. They lunge, parry and attack with rapier sharp put downs and impeccable comic timing. Chancellor is monumental in a series of stylish costumes, looking like she’s stepped straight off the pages of a book of Erte illustrations whilst Stephens captures the louche selfishness, suave posturing and petulant impishness of Elyot perfectly. Chancellor in particular makes the play her own with a seemingly effortless performance that conveys the nuances of Amanda’s character with serious style.

    The set is stunning and Amanda’s apartment in Paris is a visual feast of Art Deco styling. I could have sat in my seat and quite happily stared at the set for an hour but luckily there was much more to see.

    An interesting aside is that Toby Stephen’s wife, actress Anna-Louise Plowman, plays his new wife, Sybil. Added to this, Stephen’s parents, Maggie Smith and Robert Stephens, played the parts of Elyot and Amanda in the same theatre in 1973.

    Highly recommended for those who like their comedy with lashings of clipped tones and sharp witticisms. The audience loved the show and so did I.

    Catch Private Lives at The Gielgud Theatre until 21st of September 2013
    Buy tickets here: http://privateliveswestend.com

  • INTERVIEW: Dusty Limits

    Award-winning vocalist, director and compere Dusty Limits has been at the forefront of the London cabaret scene for over a decade.

    He has performed all over the world, from London to New York, Amsterdam to Berlin, and has shared the stage with many of the most exciting performers in the ‘new cabaret’ scene. Described as ‘the Trailblazer’, he was one of Time Out magazine’s ten cover stars for their special edition on cabaret. He is the director and resident host of the stunning Black Cat Cabaret every Friday at the Café de Paris.

    The cabaret star and dangerous drinker is soon to be seen presenting a one-hour show at The Soho Theatre celebrating the big things: life, death, sex, drugs, but mostly singing. Wickedly comic and bracingly honest, Post-Mortem is a self-penned musical obituary, charting a life lived badly. The show incorporates songs from each of Dusty’s previous solo shows, plus some brand new offerings, strung together by implausible reminiscences and barbed observations. The show was a huge success at the 2012 Edinburgh Fringe and was shortlisted for the inaugural Time Out & Soho Theatre (TO&ST) Award.

    I caught up with Dusty to talk obituaries, cabaret and Spiegeltents.

    Can you tell us a bit about ‘Post Mortem’?

    We were planning last year’s Fringe show and thinking about how to get our work out to new audiences, and the idea of an obituary came to me – a kind of edited highlights of a life, told through songs. So we took some songs from each of the previous solo shows I’d done and smashed them all together to see what emerged. In planning it I had to write my own obituary, so we could put the songs in the right order, and I highly recommend that as an exercise. It’s both humbling and inspiring and certainly focuses the mind. This version of Post-Mortem is updated and reworked; one song in particular, Dear Mr Cardinal, about a certain Scottish cardinal with a penchant for mouthing off against gay marriage, has had to be very extensively updated. It’s now my favourite part of the show.

     

    You’ve covered such an eclectic range of artists in the past. What can we expect to hear in Post Mortem?

    Just as eclectic as ever: Hollander, Bowie, Joni Mitchell, Stephen Merritt, Cole Porter, David Wilcox, a bit of gospel, plus quite a few original numbers… everything except Kurt Weill. My MD, the brilliant Michael Roulston, pointed out that it’s very strange for us not to have a single Kurt Weill song. Next year’s show will be all Weill!

     

    There’s a huge element of darkness to your work which I absolutely love. What inspires you to work comedy with themes such as self-harm, death and the pointlessness of love?

    When I started out I realised that trying to copy other comics was pointless. I could only write the stuff that made me laugh personally and hope other people laughed too. As it happens, those dark subjects are the ones that make me laugh. It’s why I love the Tiger Lillies. I’ve suffered from depression most of my adult life, and learnt to find the humour in it, probably as a coping mechanism. I was a very morbid child.

    You’re very much at the forefront of the recent cabaret revival. For those not initiated into the scene, what can they expect from 21st Century cabaret?

    I’ve said it before and I’ll say it now – this age of cabaret in London is up there with 19th century Paris, Berlin in the 20s and 30s and New York in the 50s. I think what makes this current scene so exciting is the breadth of skills on display – from amazing circus to clowning to puppetry to opera etc etc etc. What’s more, the people who make true London cabaret are committed to it as a form in itself. They’re not just musical theatre singers in between theatre jobs. I love (good) musical theatre, but I’d much rather go see Bourgeois and Maurice sing original stuff than sit through someone belting out Being Alive or I Dreamed A Dream…

     

    You perform at some great venues including The Café de Paris and the famous Spiegeltent. Do you ever feel the ghost of Marlene at your shoulder?

    Absolutely. She whispers in my ear occasionally. Mostly trash-talk. It’s actually quite weird to be on stage and realise you’re standing where Dietrich/Coward/Garland stood.

     

    Do you have any hot tips for us of any up and coming cabaret stars we should look out for?

    I won’t single out individuals, but I will say – get yourself down to the Double R Club. That’s where cabaret turns go to do the kinds of acts that they just can’t do in mainstream venues. It’s niche – all the acts are inspired by the works of David Lynch – but it’s very exciting.

     

    Finally, where do you get your amazing wardrobe from?

    It’s sort of cobbled together, to be honest. I’m fond of a cock feather trim. I absolutely hate shopping, so I tend to buy bits and pieces online and then sew them together clumsily. A lot of pricked fingers go into that trimming. I bleed for my audience.

     

    Post Mortem runs from the 9th to the 13th of July at The Soho Theatre

    Book here tickets: http://www.sohotheatre.com/whats-on/dusty-limits-post-mortem

    Read more about Dusty here:http://www.dustylimits.com/Dusty_Limits/Home.html