THEGAYUK

Author: Chris Bridges

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Power Couple

    ★★★★ | Power Couple

    Relationships are peculiar things: whether your status is single, in a relationship or ‘it’s complicated’. Power Couple is an innovative comedy show which looks at a relationship from the viewpoint of both participants proving just how funny relationships can be.

    Stephen Bailey has spent the past twenty-something years trying to find true love and romance. For years he prayed for a womb so he could trap a man but he’s done it the normal way – through a love spell (well he tried apparently). Gary John Senior is completely different; he has spent his life avoiding a relationship until almost by accident (or witchcraft) Stephen happened. As they embarked on a relationship, Gary’s brow got sweatier. Not only does he have to deal with his own neurosis, he has to deal with Stephen’s too. Gary takes us through his findings from his first year in his first relationship (ever) to explore the real fine line between love and madness.

    The show takes the form of two sets, each partner talking about the relationship. Gary mourns the loss of days watching porn and playing on his Playstation which has been replaced by inquisitions, insecurities and the minefield that is sending a text to your boyfriend and forgetting the little ‘x’ at the end. Stephen is re-appraising his ideas of romance as he gets treated to Groupon dates and unusual birthday gifts.

    The show is really amusing and anyone who has been in, observed or run a mile from a relationship can identify with the two men and their experiences. The observational comedy is warm and affectionate but no less biting in its wit for this.

    For a great comedy experience catch the boys at the Edinburgh Fringe or at the Edinburgh preview show:
    ‘PowerCouple: 1st-25th August 2013  London Previews: Monday 29th July 2013, Comedy Café Theatre, Shoreditch, London
    Follow them at: facebook.com/powercouplecomedy or on Twitter: @PowerCoupleUK, @StephenComedy, and @GaryJohnSenior

  • COLUMN | What a drag

    I can remember being fascinated by Danny LaRue. I was a child of six and sat transfixed in front of the TV at this strange looking lady who was actually a man.

    I accepted it as a commonplace, ordinary thing and a totally acceptable lifestyle choice. It was on the TV after all. My main ambition was to grow up to be Wonder Woman but growing up to be a drag queen seemed a close second. Of course, I now realise that I could have combined the two options, although my knees are a bit knobbly for satin tights.

    I experimented with my mother’s make-up as a teenager and quite liked how strangely androgynous I looked in a full face of badly applied slap. I didn’t graduate any further and resisted trying on her clothes. This was for no other reason apart from the fact that she had terrible taste in frocks. It was the 80s; everyone had terrible taste in everything. As I grew older I became seduced by the Goth culture and by androgynous gender defying singers. It was the perfect excuse for black nail polish and the odd touch of ghostly pale make-up to make me look like a resurrected corpse. I never considered dragging up though. My drag queen ambitions of early childhood went out of the window and with the advent of puberty and the masses of body hair that accompanied this, i just couldn’t have afforded the razors anyway.

    As I got older and ventured onto the gay scene, I grew to love a bit of classy drag. I adored David Dale, Lily Savage and Lizzy Drip with their witty repartee and clever routines. I even liked the tacky acts with their cheap innuendo and their caterwauling along to ‘It Should Have Been Me’ whilst wearing an ill fitting yellowing wedding dress and swinging a dildo. I’d watch the drag queens and think: ‘I could do that!’ This ill placed confidence in my abilities surfaces whenever I watch any kind of show, whether its a trapeze artist, frenetic tap dancer, ballet or a heartfelt Shakespearean performance; I always think that given a couple of hours tuition I could master that too. I suppose that’s the mark of a skilled performer; making it look easy.

    I didn’t drag up until I was in my late 30s that is very late for a gay, I suspect. Straight men drag up even earlier. They grab every chance they can to pull on a bra and wriggle into a frock, whether it’s pub-crawls, stag nights or just the night the wife is out. My first outing in drag was not at all glamorous. I decided to go as Barbara Woodhouse. For those too young to recall, she was a famous dog breeder who appeared on TV being brusque in tweeds and yanking on poor little pooches leads. I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to tweed up and have a toy dog on elastic that I could vigorously yank around whilst shouting ‘Walkies!’

    Finding the clothes was a nightmare. I trawled the charity shops and eventually found a tweed two-piece in one shop. I asked to try it on, explaining it was for fancy dress. The woman shouted down the shop: “Enid! Can you get the changing room key? This man wants to try a skirt on. He’s going to dress as a transvestite.’

    It didn’t fit. All I could find in my size was an array of foul frumpy dresses. I thought laterally. Which celebrity looked frumpy? I went as Susan Boyle. There was no depilation involved. One cheap wig, sturdy court shoes and a nylon dress plus a pair of stick on eyebrows and a handlebar moustache and I was SuBo.

    My next attempt was a little bit more glamorous. I went to an 80s themed party. As you may have guessed, I loathe the 80s and call it the decade that taste forgot. I really did not want to wear the hideous fashions that make me shudder and recall my unhappy childhood. Again I thought laterally. I wanted a cheap outfit and wanted to go as someone or something I liked. I fired up YouTube and watched Debbie Harry singing along to Atomic in a bin bag. My outfit was born.

    The bin bag proved a bit sweaty and the huge blonde wig was heavy. Worst of all was the heels. I almost broke my neck in the heels. I think I may stick to my brogues for now and leave the dragging up to those who have the gene of utter fabulousness. I seem to only have half of that gene.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Address Unknown, Soho Theatre

    ★★★★ | Address Unknown

    Is it possible to explain the incomprehensible? How can anyone begin to understand what would make a man abandon a deep friendship in favour of joining a radical political movement? ‘Address Unknown’ is a stunning play from 1938 in which Kathrine Kressman looks at just these issues.

    Max and Martin are close friends with strong bonds but when Martin moves back to his native Germany a rift grows between them; a rift that will eventually lead to rejection, betrayal and revenge. The problem being that Max is Jewish and Martin is beguiled by the emerging National Socialist Movement and becomes an official in the Nazi party.

    Max and Martin are close friends with strong bonds but when Martin moves back to his native Germany a rift grows between them; a rift that will eventually lead to rejection, betrayal and revenge. The problem being that Max is Jewish and Martin is beguiled by the emerging National Socialist Movement and becomes an official in the Nazi party.

    It’s a powerful piece, well staged and well acted by the two men and is much more than a dry political commentary. The story is a very human one which subtly unfolds in a well paced and intriguing manner and makes the audience both squirm in horror and laugh with glee.

    It’s a powerful piece, well staged and well acted by the two men and is much more than a dry political commentary. The story is a very human one which subtly unfolds in a well paced and intriguing manner and makes the audience both squirm in horror and laugh with glee.

    He has a good point. Essential viewing for our modern times.

    ‘Address Unknown’ runs at The Soho Theatre until the 27th of July 2013

    Book tickets here: http://www.sohotheatre.com/whats-on/address-unknown

  • COLUMN | Something for the weekend sir?

    I’m trying to be leaner. I don’t mean slimmer, more taut or fitter. I’m quite happy as I am if it means I can carry on sitting down a lot. I mean that I’m meaner.

    CREDIT: ©-everett225-Depositphotos
    CREDIT: ©-everett225-Depositphotos

    I’ve recently moved house and my expenses have rocketed out of all control. The cost of moving hasn’t just been on my mental health but has hit my pocket quite hard too. My savings have been battered out of existence.

    In a spirit of trying to rationalise my finances, I’ve been loitering round the reduced bread section in the supermarket in the early evening, buying unbranded products and taking my own lunch to work. I’m not exactly poverty stricken but my thoughts are that the less I spend on food then the more I can spend on clothes, DVDs and books. I can eat like a pauper and attend the theatre and the ballet like an aristocrat.

    Last week I went a step too far though. I decided to go for a cheap haircut. I’d spotted an unusual looking establishment on the bus to work which advertised ‘Any haircut: £5!”. I decided that as I was passing I’d give it a go. My hair style isn’t complex, just short with a side parting and a bit of grading. What could go wrong? Why do I need to spend £20 or £30?

    I walked in, sat down on the grimy plastic sofa and instantly regretted my rash decision. Firstly, it was warm and I was liable to stick to the cheap sofa. Secondly: the pictures on the walls threw me into a state of panic. Displayed on the walls was a picture of Gareth Gates circa ‘Pop Idol’ with his ridiculous spikes, a fair few thugs sporting mullets and some interesting shaved patterns on the heads of what looked the inmates of a young offenders institute. I was considering leaving when a squat Turkish man frogmarched me into a chair.

    “Wha you wan?’

    “Well, I like the sideburns trimmed to a number two with clippers and up the sides I like a….”

    Before I finished with my admittedly slightly pedantic requests he grabbed a set of clippers and ran them up the side of my head, ensuring there was no going back. I decided to go with it. I felt I’d reached a point where I had no other option. I was certain I was going to leave there looking like some odd 90s throwback or someone with a rare medical condition.

    He pushed my head forward and down, in a way reminiscent of a gay porno. He planted his palm on my face and pushed me sideways one way, then the other way. I felt like I was in a wrestling match. He reached for a huge razor and flicked off a used blade into a dirt speckled glass and deftly slotted in a blade and started shaving round my neck and sideburns at an alarming speed. I wondered just how new the new blade was and considered the fact that Hepatitis B is prevalent in the Borough where I live. I nervously waited for the nick, reassuring myself that like any sensible gay man, I’m vaccinated against Hepatitis B. This reassured me till I remembered about Hepatitis C which there’s no vaccine for.

    There were no cuts, luckily, but there was a liberal amount of water sprayed onto my head and face. Within less than 10 minutes he’d done and grabbed the gown off me, holding out his hand for the fiver. Where was the drying of my soaking hair, the showing me the back for approval (I hate that bit actually, I’m 42. No 42 year old wants to see the thinning bit at the back of his head) or the basic pleasantries?

    I staggered out of the shop, water dripping down my face, razor burn smarting on my neck and a rising sense of horror at what my hair would look like once I got home. You may or may not be surprised to learn that actually my hair looks great. It’s the best cut I’ve had in ages. Who needs niceties? Its a fiver. I think I’ll remain prudent for a while longer. I’ll be back there in a month. Stale bread anyone?

  • COLUMN | Natural Selection

    I was standing outside yesterday (having a sneaky cigarette, naturally) when a flock of parakeets flew past me. I thought I was hallucinating for a moment. I’m not in the Tropics but in South East London. Then I remembered, there are colonies of parakeets all over London.

    The urban myths are that they originate from a pair released by Jimmi Hendrix or that they escaped from Pinewood Studios during the filming of The African Queen. I prefer the latter explanation and like to think that these parakeets may be descended from a celebrity bird who perhaps had his stomach tickled by the steely Katherine Hepburn.

    This is the kind of nature I like. Nature that’s close to a 24 hour shop, is in a grimy urban environment and in a place where there’s full reception on my mobile. It’s much safer that way.

    Every morning a heron flies past my flat at about 7am. He’s huge, like a creature from pre-historic times. He glides over the courtyard at the back of my flat and I assume he’s on his way to work. I think he may be a commuter. He works long hours though. I’ve seen him returning at 7pm. He needs to get on to the ornithological union about his terms and conditions.

    Two minutes walk from my flat is a little park with a lake. The lake is a water bird reserve and contains a variety of newborns at the moment. There are goslings with dense yellow fluff, clumsy little moor hens and a group of miniscule ducklings. These bring out the inner child in me and I can stand and watch them for ages. There’s a sign by the lake advising against over feeding the birds and this sign is a picture of a huge rat. This brings out the inner panicked housewife in me. I want to find the nearest chair, jump on and tie the bottoms of my trousers up.

    An article in last week’s Time Out London did the same to me too. I never respond well to pictures of people holding up over sized dead rodents. I would have mounted the seat for ankle protection and screamed (a perfectly normal response to even the mention of a rat) but I thought that the other people on the train to Charing Cross might think I was odd.

    At the weekend I saw a crow attacking a pigeon, pulling chunks of flesh out of its wing. It was a malevolent beast, mean and brooding yet beautiful with its shiny black plumage; like a pantomime villain. This reminds me of my love/hate relationship with the natural world and why I don’t watch wildlife documentaries. I always end up horrified by the expression on the little animal’s faces as they get eaten alive by lions and I end up perturbed. Why can’t they all be vegetarians? I suppose you just can’t get good quality Quorn antelopes in the Serengeti.

    Yesterday I saw a dead fox. He was laid out on the window ledge of a big Edwardian house. He was magnificent and would have looked like he was just sleeping were it not for the little trickle of blood pooled around his mouth and the bone jutting out of his back leg. I squirmed a little at the sight but not at the corpse. I was more perplexed and disturbed as to why someone would have placed him on the window ledge. Surely a window ledge isn’t the ideal place to lay out a corpse? I’d hate to be that resident when they opened to the curtains. I’m not good with road kill.

    The local high street on the way to work is a minefield too. As a child I hated visits to the local market in the Midlands town where we lived. There were always rows of dead rabbits hanging up and my father would show his usual sensitivity by singing ‘Bright Eyes’: the theme from Watership Down to me. The local high street has stalls with ‘boiling chickens’ hanging by their feet. These are plucked chickens with their heads still on but with jagged knife wounds through their scrawny throats. I’m not tempted by them.

    As a child our house was a place that lacked safety from dead animals too. My father knew a man who knew a man who would provide him with game. I would skip into the pantry only to be confronted by a pheasant or a wood pigeon or a rabbit hanging by its feet. One time, memorably, I screamed to see a massive white goose hanging by its webbed feet. I suppose I should count myself lucky to have never walked in to find a deer hanging by its hooves.

    I know its all part of the natural plan. The weak and soft get killed by the predators or the hazards. I don’t have to try to like it though, do I? I think for now I’ll stick to admiring nature in parks and stick to my humus and lentils. It’s safer that way.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Sweet Bird Of Youth, Old Vic, London

    ★★★★★ | Sweet Bird Of Youth

    I have to confess that I attended The Old Vic with a sense of dread. As much as I love Kim Cattrall, as good a reputation as the theatre has, I couldn’t help but think that this was going to disappoint me.

    The problem is that I’m a massive fan of Tennesse Williams and love the 1962 film version of “Sweet Bird of Youth” and who could match the powerful performances of Paul Newman and Geraldine Page? I was wrong to doubt them. This was an awe inspiring piece of theatre which left me breathless and wanting more.

    The play opens with ageing actress Princess Kosmonopolis (Kim Cattrall) passed out drunk in a hotel bedroom whilst her companion, gigolo Chance Wayne (Seth Numrich) paces nervously, swigging vodka. Chance is a drifter and opportunist with a string of misdemeanours and failures and has hooked up with the Princess (a pseudonym) who is in hiding after a disastrous film premiere, to enable him to return to his hometown in search of the girl he left behind there.

    Both characters are self proclaimed monsters with insecure vanities and fears and regrets. They’re incredibly likeable and attractive monsters though and they manage to reflect the foibles we all have to greater or lesser extents. Numrich is delectable and as he swaggers and lurches about the stage he exudes a fragile masculinity, tinged with vulnerability. He’s also incredibly attractive and has a body which made me shuffle in my seat. Cattrall preens, lurches, has tantrums and breakdowns and is utterly convincing in her role as she wanders round in disarray, popping little pink pills and swigging liquor. The two leads are both exceptional and are well supported by a large cast.

    The staging is also worth commenting on with a versatile and stylish set which transforms from hotel bedroom, to bar room to Southern mansion exterior.

    I’d definitely recommend this play. It’s an absolute tour de force and a stunning take on a rarely seen classic play.

    ‘Sweet Bird of Youth’ runs at The Old Vic until: 31st of August 2013

  • COLUMN | We’re here, we’re queer and we might go shopping

    I’m at that age where I’ve become a bit jaded. Let’s just say I’m over 40, A.K.A. dead in gay years. I get the sensation that I’ve seen it all before and done it all; more than once.

    The thought of hanging about in a park all day whilst a lot of drunken people watch the latest celebrity boy bands whilst trying to get Grindr to work and buying cheap tat that’s had the word “gay” added to make it saleable, is my idea of hell.

    Thinking back though, this wasn’t always the case. It was the late 1980s and aged 18, I got on a coach laid on by the local gay bar from the Midlands town where I lived, and came down to London to attend Gay Pride. I was intrigued by what it would be like and had no idea what to expect, media coverage of such events being largely non-existent then. I wasn’t expecting what I saw.

    The huge throng of people was a sight to see. I’d also never seen so many gay people or even had any idea that they’re that many LGBT people in the whole of England. I’d also never seen men kissing in public or holding hands and thought that I’d landed on some strange planet where things were as they should be. There were many other things I hadn’t seen before: two women with their breasts pierced and chained together (Health and Safety hazard: one slip or trip and you’d lose a nipple), 30 men dressed as Wonder Woman charging along to the theme music from the show, drag queens in vertiginous heels and many many other weird and wonderful sights. The appeal wasn’t that alone though. There were also a huge amount of people just like me. Representatives from the emergency services, various social, political and career groups were all out and proud with a rallying cry of “We’re Here, We’re Queer and we’re Not Going Shopping”. I liked the more strident political side to it and the inventive banners as much as the comedic ones and the fripperies of the O.T.T. drag.

    For once, I actually didn’t really want to go shopping. I passed Fortnum and Mason’s without as much as a twitch. I was amazed that we were so public and that we passed so many London landmarks and also staggered that no one was throwing bricks, spouting venom or condemning us to hell-fire.

    The festival on the park afterwards had a drag tent which kept me amused, as well as some bad pop and a wealth of people watching opportunities. I felt strangely empowered as the fireworks went off with a bang (as they do) and the bus set off for home.

    It’s hard to remember our youth and more innocent joy at things we now take for granted so maybe I’ll try again. Well, I may have to pop in Fortnum and Mason’s first. One needs a good picnic and a comfy rug if sitting on a park at my age.

  • THEATRE REVIEW | Scott Capurro Islamohomophobia, Soho Theatre

    ★★★★★ | Scott Capurro: ‘Islamohomophobia’

    Waspish Californian stand-up Scott Capurro is performing his latest show for 4 nights only at the intimate Soho Downstairs at The Soho Theatre on Dean Street. It’s not a show for the faint hearted but is definitely a treat for those with a dry and dark sense of humour.

    Capurro regales us with tales of his recent marriage to his boyfriend, a near lynching in Cardiff and the events surrounding the death of his mother; a story that is by turns irreverent but ultimately poignant.

    Although you may not feel safe sitting on the front row, as he cunningly wheedles out sordid details of the audience’s personal life, Capurro ultimately comes across as a charming and likeable man who’s enjoying his art. He may have the power to make you choke on your Martini with his acerbic comments but he also could probably manage to seduce you if you gave him enough time or wore loose enough trousers.

    The content of his routine may seem controversial, initially, but it’s all fine as Capurro manages to insult absolutely every group of people without discrimination.

    Catch Scott Capurro live at The Soho Theatre until Saturday the 8th of June

  • BOOK REVIEW | Peggy Lee Loves London Katrina Leskanich and Sher Harper

    ★★★★ | Peggy Lee Loves London

    Being on the verge of moving to London, I’ve been looking for a good tour guide to take me around some of the more quirky spots that only Londoners know about. I didn’t expect that my tour guide would be a glamorous lady poodle called Peggy Lee, but I’m very glad that I’ve found her.

    Eurovision has just been and gone and it may serve you well to reminisce about happier times when we actually made a dent on the score-cards. This lovely book was written by our last Eurovision winner, Katrina Leskanich of Katrina and the Waves, along with her partner, writer Sher Harper. They’ve spent the last six years pounding the streets of London along with pretty little Peggy Lee, exploring the curiosities so you don’t have to.

    The book features a wide variety of haunts including bars, open spaces, markets, eateries and landmarks. Each page has brief but tantalising description of each off-beat attraction along with a picture of the aforementioned poodle and links to transport to get there. The pictures are comical, beautiful and intriguing. Although there’s not a huge description of each place, this works well in the context, making you want to go and find out more for yourself.

    It’s a delightful book and if you’re looking for a fun guide to London then look no further. If Peggy Lee is available, I’m also prepared to tag along on the end of a lead. I’m very well behaved and never shed a hair.

    View the website: http://peggyleeloveslondon.com

    Available from Amazon to buy

    Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/peggyleeloves

  • COLUMN | The Anti-Social Network

    I have an ambivalent relationship with social networking. I love it and hate it in equal parts. Twitter irritates me. It seems to have a huge element of self promotion and bizarre grandiosity but more importantly, I can’t possibly say what I have to say in that small amount of letters. I’m too verbose to tweet. I need to rant and expound, not chirp a pithy one liner.

    The whole concept of social networking, for me, fits in with the whole “Only Connect” concept. Connection with others is what makes life bearable for lots of us. I’ve found out loads of stuff on Facebook which I wouldn’t otherwise have known. People I nod at in the corridor at work and have never managed to get to know, suddenly become more interesting when I find that we have something in common. I like the glimpse behind the curtains of people’s facades when they rant or rave about something.

    The bad things for me on Facebook are the boastfulness, the distasteful over sharing and the pleading attention seeking. You know the kind of thing. Here’s my guide:

    1) “Gail has had enough of it and can’t believe it has happened again.” This is purely meant to elicit curiosity, draw attention and so is best ignored. Do not under any circumstances type back “What’s up babes?” or “((hugs))”. Tough love is the answer. Ignore these people. Knock them off your news feed. Now! You’ll feel better for it.

    2) “Sheila can’t believe the cancer is back and she has to have her womb out tomorrow and may be dead on Thursday.” Really? You want to share that with the 300 people on your friend’s list including the woman from the Post office and that cleaner at work with the dodgy eye who you politely accepted a friend request from for fear of causing offence? Maybe it’s not so bad if you have a select list of close friends on Facebook but who does that? We all have lots of random people we nod to on there but wouldn’t know what to talk about if stuck in a lift together, don’t we? One ex-acquaintance updated her status that her mum had died (which was fine) but the status said “R.I.P. Mum who died at 1230am” and was posted at 12.31am. Phew. Speedy work on the laptop there and a small case of inappropriate priorities. One married couple I knew, publicly split up on Facebook. That was fun for everyone. Seriously, it was fun. I’m not being sarcastic. I love a bit of rancour and airing of dirty laundry. Some of their posts were like lines from “George and Mildred”

    3) Posting pictures of happy toddlers/dogs/husbands/bouquets of flowers or the nice tea you’re having. This is purely meant as an act of spite and is to rub single and miserable, dieting, pet-less people’s faces in your joy. Stop it.

    4) The “everyone” statements: e.g. “Everyone is proud to be British right now!” “Lovely weather for us all” Erm,..maybe but also maybe not. We’re not in a Fascist regime or a nation of Stepford wives. Get over your extremism and drop the generalisations.

    5) The “LOL”, the “ROFL” and the embarrassing “PMSL”.These people generally have bad grammar too. They’re strangers to the apostrophe and as for the their/there thing. They should be made to attend classes and also if they really are PMSLing then they need to get that checked out with their local practice nurse. It can be helped by simple bladder exercises and techniques.

    Trawl through my social networking accounts and I suspect you’ll also find me guilty as charged on a few of the above (but not the LOL, naturally).

    I did go on about my piles once and have often made remarks about my dodgy relationship break-ups too. When I used to drink to excess, I once also woke up on the kitchen floor after a session to find that I’d somehow written a poorly spelled comment to out a closeted ex. Thankfully a lovely friend saved my honour and sent me a text message suggesting it was an error to post that. That was lucky as I had no recollection of doing it, so thankfully it was only there for a few hours. I would have lost even more of the remaining self respect, which was rapidly ebbing away, had it been up longer. I hate that kind of behaviour too, especially in myself.

    I’ll redress the balance now with some truth telling of a different kind:

    Social Networking status: Had an amazing time at the nature reserve and saw herons, a weasel and fed the swans. Lovely day and great lunch.

    The truth: Yes, I did have a great time. My partner was there, we ate a lunch which was well presented on a balcony over-looking a pond and watched lots of interesting birds. To be honest though, there were only two non-meat options and I ended up with egg mayonnaise again which does get to be a bore. The sun was out and we laughed a lot. What I failed to mention is that I saw a weasel and was absolutely terrified and only just managed to contain my panic. It is after all, an elongated rat. I had a nervousness and protective instinct about my ankles the rest of the walk around the reserve. If I’d had some string I would have tied my trousers at the bottoms.

    I saw herons and swans but to be honest the swans were a bit mean faced and all had cuts and scars and were brawling with each other a lot which depressed me slightly. I went in a hut called “The Kingfisher Viewing Area” and saw no f***ing Kingfishers, just a sparrow or two. I wanted kingfishers. I didn’t get them. It was sunny but I was battered and tired after 7 shifts at work and it felt a bit stark at times. I sweated a lot. A man told me off for smoking too near the cafe and I almost pushed him off a bridge in rage and stuck my lighter up his arse (but contained myself). I brooded a little about this but not much. My partner’s back was sore and he was fretful about some work he’s got to do for University. Finally, I was bitten to pieces by insects and now have a swelling on my neck like a goitre. It itches like mad and makes me look like an inbred Derbyshire hill person from the 1700s.

    Happy now?

    I once declared a “truth day” on Facebook and people joined in with gusto, counterbalancing smug posts with reality bites. It’s amazing how many people admitted to being bored at home, having flatulence or sitting around in a baggy old tracksuit watching TV.

    So, next time you see a photo and posting about a loved up couple and their happy toddlers, just remember: one of them may well have cheated, one has a persistent fungal infection and they’re yet to find out where the toddler has hidden the turd. It’ll make you feel much happier.

    Disclaimer: If you’re still on my social networking lists then it’s not you I’m talking about. The above mentioned culprits have been removed and my news feed cleansed.

  • Tallulah Bankhead | A vintage gay icon who defined wild

    You can’t beat an old fashioned high camp bitch and Tallulah Bankhead was one of the wildest, most original and best.

    Embed from Getty Images

    She’s sadly mostly forgotten nowadays. How can you not love a crazed bisexual woman who slept with hundreds of people, smoked 100 cigarettes a day (and even employed an assistant to wake her on the hour in the night with a lit cigarette at the ready) and drank bourbon and gin like it was water? She was also renowned for her great wit. I’ve quoted a few examples below.

    “If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.”

    “It’s the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time.”

    “My heart is as pure as the driven slush.”

    “They used to photograph Shirley Temple through gauze. They should photograph me through linoleum.”

    “Cocaine isn’t habit forming. I should know, I’ve been using it for years.”

    “I’ve tried several varieties of sex. The conventional position makes me claustrophobic and the others give me either stiff neck or lockjaw.”

    “I was raped in our driveway when I was eleven. You know darling, it was a terrible experience because we had all that gravel.”

    Her last coherent words reportedly were “Codeine… bourbon.”

    Tallulah went to Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City one Christmas Eve. Tallulah was already hideously drunk, so when the Bishop proceeded down the aisle in his finest vestments swinging a censer full of burning incense, through very bleary eyes, Tallulah took one look at him and shouted “Darling, your dress is divine, but your purse is on fire!!”

    How’s that for an iconic wit?

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