Fur the Love of Money

The only problem with wearing furs to work is where to hang them during meetings. I'm quite versatile regarding office based attire, but generally find the middle ground suits me best. A smart casual slack, a Banana Republic crisp cotton shirt and a sumptuous silk tie (often striped) does me just fine. I have also been known to wear a smart jean with my BR shirts, although one of my correspondents worries that this look is too far along the trendy teacher spectrum to be without fault. But what I don't wear is a suit. You see I've long held that if you wear a suit every day, then when you need to step it up a gear; you have limited places to go.

But furs, no I think furs would be great for the office, save for moral and ecological hurdles caused by the barbaric inhumane production, and the issue of moths. For if you were a suit wearer and found yourself at that crossroads with regard to a need to 'turn it up', then the addition of a stole, cape or muff, could just tip the style balance in your favour, and help you with that work based situation you believed elevated dress was required for. That inspection to pass, that interview to excel in, that new boss to impress, that work colleague who you accidently slept with (no homo) following an evening of Lambrini fuelled, squinty eyed, slurring lust, and who has now caught twins - and with whom you find yourself needing to make peace. I know a lot of you like a few pearls splashed across your neck, but nothing says Blake Carrington meets Prince Andrew at Annabel's like fur.

So why all this talk of fur, pearls and Blake Carrington? Oh my friends, but of course you don’t know yet do you? You see I am a lottery millionaire; well not exactly a millionaire, but I have won £83,000 in a work Euro Millions syndicate. Yes me a millionaire (83K) who'd have thought it? Or at least I will be when we win tomorrow. I must say I am a little concerned about the man on the Euro Millions ad. Is he supposed to be 'European'? There are so many looks which encompass the Euro feel, that's the problem with the choice of a single image for such a vast cultural and geographical cocktail. Personally I prefer the dark swarthy, just draped in a towel, at his villa, by his pool, in glorious Grecian sunshine, with meaty forearms stylee if I were to pinpoint a specific continental identifier which suited the milieu.

Three things - Duran Duran's Rio, Creed's Virgin Islands Water and an Arabian promise (new euphemism), they sum up for me, as well as my milieu from above, the Millionaire lifestyle choices I am already making as I plan for my new life away from London. I did want a yacht, and as some of you might remember, I had it out with my Father about him not buying one for me. I firmly questioned what this was really saying about how he felt for me and more importantly how seriously he took his responsibilities as a father.

The waves are already lapping over my toes and I'm drifting back to memories of Ibiza; Spain as you know is where my heart is, and where my retirement Bordello will be. But before I have my Volver years, I need to have my Rio video meets Shirley Valentine years. So I'm off to the sun with my winnings and a grin to find my Euro man and to have a swim in his pool. I'm sure there'll be a mountain café where the lady will make something gorgeous with olives, big juicy tomatoes, goats milk and fresh breads, and we'll laugh and watch the sun go down and drink honey and wild fruits or teas or something. And I shall spend the evenings writing poetry and sending my journal extracts to you all. I miss you already, you are very warm.

Adiós and kalispera

A Moment to Shine

One moment in time……... I've got this song going through my head as I stroll, sun blazing, towards my south circular vantage point for the Torch. It is so nice to finally see the sun, it really is. I walked in to work, worried that getting into the car park would be a nightmare, and that all the roads in the locale would be marshalled by burly outriders roughly blocking my passage and manhandling me at every turn, but unfortunately all was normal, and If I'd had a blue badge I could have even parked right outside the Town Hall if the fancy had taken me. But there were loads of people around, and the Torch route was satisfactorily lined with kiddies and old people alike, and they all seemed quite cheery even though it was far too early and they hadn't been given anything free yet. Quite a few of them had union jacks (or union flags as we now call them), and a couple had stuff with Lisa Simpson committing a sexual act on them.

So before you actually see the torch (and I'm not sure I did actually see the Torch mind, one photo came out black, and the other had a big head in the way) there's all sorts of tomfoolery. First of all there are a number of support vehicles. I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to use the word vehicle - I'll check with LOCOG. Some have got tea ladies in, some have got people with puncture repair kits in, then there's one with all the lovely torchbearers being bussed to their drop off points in the next borough - very much like the shopping service we run for old ladies. Then there's another one, not sure what that one was for although it says 'Your moment to shine' on the side of it which chimes in well with my humming. My moment to shine... well today it's all about my new tie  - gorgeous, certainly the smartest tie this side of Dulwich. Then there are sponsor lorries. Like pride, but with fewer homosexuals. All the 'extras' are doing their best to channel a carnival atmosphere by waving pom poms, swishing their hair playfully to over loud Heart FM stylee music, smiling stage school smiles, and someone, someone even said over a megaphone…. 'Lovin' the noise'.  Somebody shoot me - at least if it had been ITV I could have turned over. So there is a Samsung lorry, then a Coke Lorry and then a Lloyds Lorry, then there's another van carrying spare grey shorted security people in case any of the running ones pop a vein. Then there are some more lollipop ladies, then a film crew and then, then the shell suited flamer (and I've known a couple of them in my time) themselves. Apparently they were stood just near me for a couple of minutes lighting up, but I missed all that as I was busy enjoying the sunshine, the roar of the greasepaint and avoiding getting touched by anyone in the crowd.

And the low point? Well for me, apart from the strong urge to take my own life when the man shouted 'Lovin' the noise', it was probably not getting a free Frisbee.  

Although not wild about the outfit, I'm surprised I wasn't asked to be a torch bearer, and now that I know that you get to keep the torch, and you were allowed to nominate yourself, well, it seems like a lost opportunity if you ask me. And maybe if not a torch bearer then perhaps a volunteer. I said to my brother at the weekend, that's not his name, it's a calendar identifier, that we should have applied to be dream catchers, or dust makers or whatever they are, and then we could have had a lovely contrast trimmed trilby (could be a new euphemism) and a coordinating fleece with NEXT on the lapel. I really could have had my moment in time then, my moment to shine, new tie or no new tie?  

So up west it's all about union jacks and things on lamp posts - a lot of them let over from the jubilee I know, but the Queen doesn't mind and it's cheaper not to have to take them down betwixt events - much like my Christmas decorations. All sorts of artistic japes and hoots going on in the name of T'Lympics festival - painted phone boxes, people in hats, and lots other things like that. Many of the dust catchers look a bit churchy and over keen though, which did put me off a bit. If you're going to be sharing a mini bus with someone from zone 3 you need to be able to rub along and like the same sort of sandwiches. But I suppose a free big Mac's, a free big Mac, whether or not the Lord's (Jesus not Coe) work is affected by your additional time commitments.  

I'm not sure these Games Lanes are going to work though, although I am very taken with the name, 'Games Lane' - perhaps my favourite bit of the programme so far. I was traversing adjacent to the Olympic Village yesterday evening, and behind a Hungary support BMW if the truth be told - just to check on things for you and wink at the armed police, and it's all games lanes this, games lanes that. And they swap over from the left to the right and back again, so staying in the correct lane could increase the chances of travel sickness for a young or an invalid if you ask me. You're allowed to use them until Wednesday, but I wasn't taking any chances as I didn’t want to get a ticket on a school night and the last time I swerved that much I closed the M40 for half an hour. But by George, I'm not going out in my car once it all starts. London roads are going to be a frigging nightmare. I'm tellin' you. Lovin' the noise? Maybe, Lovin' the traffic - not on your Nellie!  

So to conclude, I only have one remaining question and that is 'do the Athletes from London have to stay in the Olympics village or can they stay with their mum and just get the bus in for their races?' I think we should be told.

Showbiz and Ironing (or the fine line between Domesticity and Diamonique)

‘So many men, so little time, how can I lose? So many men, so little time, how can I choose?’

The neighbours must have been thinking that Dame Kiri had moved in but not taken her hormones. What was actually happening below them was that Danny La Rue was rehearsing his next disco classics album. Yes I know. So on Saturday morning, as well as discussing t-shirts and men with my Australian no.1, preparing a season appropriate look for my 11 o’clock ménage (mélange) a trois in Clerkenwell, splashing the social networks with badinage, persiflage and intellectual rigour, I was also channelling Danny.

Dan was singing Miquel Brown’s ‘So many men, so little time’, in a very deep voice. You couldn’t pay for this stuff, (although paypal, using my usual email address, is a quick way to get financial benefice to me, should the urge take you). Gloria had got me to thinking about drag queens – it’s the New York meets Black Cap state of mind you see, and preparing my brunch outfit took me way back to an evening I spent in the company of Ruby Venezuela, her from madam Jo Jo’s, in her own intimate (tiny) club, one dark, cold night in early 1996. 

I had been reviewing the club for Time Out, (it was part of my divorce settlement), and due to the period and the prevailing trends of the time I was wearing an Yves St Laurent shirt – 10 a penny in those days and they all had a little logo on the bosom which said ‘YSL’. I don’t remember the exact colour of the shirt, but the evening was very red as I recall; red wine, red decor, red eyes, and lots of red faced mature gentlemen on the lookout for some restorative firm flesh. MATRON!

‘Larger than ever, Ruby stands over suitably cute barmen, not to mention the doormen, even though with the amount of red wine passing her lips, perhaps she should be lying down.’

‘I’m not saying this space is tiny, but I can see the whites of the act’s eyes, and I’m standing at the back.’

So dear reader, why did I remember this particular evening as I was steaming a chemise, and why did I remember what shirt I was wearing all those years ago? Well I’m glad you asked. 

The shirt I was ironing for my 11 o’clock mélange was a Ralph Lauren shirt, and it had a little RLS logo on the front, which reminded me of the YSL shirt from all those years ago. The reason why I remembered what shirt I had on that night, and the reason I was transported right back to January 1996 was because of a bit of a 'to do' I’d had with Ruby whilst I was there. 

On meeting me, Ruby had given me the once up, and clocking my market grade rags she said ‘Oh are you one of those YSL queens then?’ Innocent enough I suppose but I’d misheard her you see and thought she’d said ‘Oh are you one of those LYC queens then?’

‘LYC’ was abbreviated parlance in the day for the Long Yang Club, which we understood (although my solicitors tell me it is, and never was anything of the sort) to be an inter-nationality loving organisation whose membership was 50% older white gentlemen, and 50% younger oriental gentlemen. I wasn’t a member of said club, and didn’t want to be badged as an old lech, (I was 27 for heaven’s sake!) and so I excitedly (drunkenly) challenged her assumption of my peccadillos, only to realise once the hoo ha had died down she’d only been on about Yves. 

It was a bit embarrassing to say the least hence the file in the memory banks. It was also I suppose the immediate end to what could have otherwise been a long and mediocre acquaintanceship. Anyway 3 letters and the whoosh of a steam iron was all it took.

Please be careful out there and iron safely!

Tom Wakefield - 13 December 1935 - 26 March 1996

From the Archives  - January 2010 (edited)

Tom lived around the corner form my sister Mary when she was on Gillespie road. How many of the Arsenal fans who roamed up and down her street every Saturday during the football season knew that they were but yards away from literary history is hard to say, but I bet it wasn’t very many.

My dear friend Tom was a wonderful man, full of love, fun, history, intrigue and a good thick dose of mischief. He loved a bet on the gees gees and wrote some of the most beautiful books I have ever read.

Before Tom became a full time author he had been a headteacher. Not any old headteacher but one managing special schools in Hackney. The education system was a little different then and Tom had freedoms with his charges - even if no funding, that would not appear on an OfSTED checklist these days. He wrote about some of these wonderful and inspiring times in his books ‘Special School’, and ‘Some mother’s I know’.  Both these books are wonderful personal accounts of someone making a difference and giving life and worth to children usually passed over where opportunity was concerned. He transformed lives and gave so much to the parents, the children and indeed the local community.  Reading about his time as a headteacher is, like reading his fiction, utterly liberating.

One thing about Tom that always had me smiling was that each time he had a new book out, the author picture was always a good few years old, with him smiling up with his pseudo handle bar moustache. I'm sure most writers do this - well I know they do, and I know I would.

Tom’s house in Arsenal played host to many good times, and often when I visited he would present me with a copy of another one of his books to add to my growing collection.  I remember one morning waking up to the phone ringing; it was Tom. We’d been for dinner the night before. Tom would regularly produce some of the strangest concoctions for dinner, and would often serve a hardboiled egg as a starter – with a bit of garnish of course. I loved him even more for this strange avant-garde cuisine. I answered the phone somewhat groggily. The night before we had enjoyed, not the usual boiled egg extravaganza, but instead a beautiful soup. It had been so full of flavour that it was worthy of much discussion. Tom had taken great pleasure in describing in detail the ingredients – many, and the various stages he had gone through in preparation and cooking. The description was as magical as the taste. Tom was on the other end of the phone. ‘I feel so bad; it was out of a tin!’ As if that could ever matter, just being in his company was more of an honour than I could ever have wished for. But the apology and confession were so wonderful and so in character. There was no hesitation and I immediately forgave him, must to his relief.

When I came out of a long relationship in the autumn of 1995, Tom was great. He would have me round to lunch and be cheeky and playful and help me look forward to the future and not be sad about the past. He knew so many people and so when I started dating someone new, it came to pass that he and Tom were friends, and Tom loved being able to meddle and mix and play the role of gossipy fairy godmother.

Tom’s magical books, of which there are many, are inspirational and glorious. Tom’s plots and characters are filled with brilliant observation and commitment to showing the extraordinary lives of those usually considered very ordinary. His contribution to gay fiction is to be celebrated. He wrote fiction which included gay characters as they are; part of the world, just like everyone else, and with a strong sense of understanding that families are made up in many different ways. I don't imagine that Tom ever set out to be a liberationist, but he was, and as a reader and a friend I am eternally grateful for this.

He was only 61 when he died on 26^th March 1996, and in the days that followed there were obits in all of the broadsheets, and he received many fitting reviews, celebrating all his wonderful achievements. Amongst his papers a half finished novel was found. The novel ‘The Scarlet Boy’ was eventually completed by Patrick Gale who was a friend and colleague of Tom’s. Patrick wrote ‘To “complete” it seemed a monstrous breach of writer etiquette, yet what I had read was so enchanting that to leave it unpublished would have been an act of cruelty to his readers and to him’. It is strange to think that Patrick is now my favourite author and I drink up his every work in the same way I did with Tom. 

There was a wonderful procession for Tom’s funeral from his house in Arsenal to his local church.  At the service there had been a number of speakers. I remember Rabbi Lionel Blue telling a great story about Tom repeatedly squeezing his leg at a dinner party and then Patrick gave an eloquent and honourable eulogy.

I will never forget Tom and I celebrate his memory surprisingly often and consider myself so lucky to have had the pleasure of sharing a short window of his life, and being able to call him my friend.

Tom Wakefield 13th December 1935 - 26th March 1996

Crossing the line of beauty

So I remembered 2 things today; quite good going considering I’m not actually on any senior assistance medications yet. Although saying that, I was reminded of one of the things by a good friend, so I can’t really take the credit for that memory. ‘Thanks for the memory……..’

So what was it? What was what? The memory! What memory?........ Oh yes.

That I am in love with Bruno Langley, he from off the Coronation Street previously. Let me first swim then drown within thy dark beauty, and gaze, forever yours, into the dream like pools of love’s abandon, your eyes, your soul, my love.

Anyway, I would lift my ban for just one sniff of his hem.

The second thing I remembered (well remembered) was that I am so pleased that the end of this week welcomes a full year off the booze for me. I’m not a non drink harper, as you know, and am very free and easy about other’s drinking. I’m still a bit of a smoker and a drinker at heart even if I’m nil by mouth in the actual.

So why was I reminded of this? Good question and thank you - it may be best if I speed to the point as I know some of you are very busy and some of you aren’t that interested.

So, bona to vada your dolly old eek. Yes I was at the second Mrs Godwin’s literary salon this evening, to hear and say hello to the most wonderful Patrick Gale, he of my favourite author fame. There were some other top turns reading as well which was great, but Patrick was our raison d’etre and wonderful his reading was too. And so handsome, and very well turned out.  He read from his latest novel ‘A Perfectly Good Man’, and I was gripped, yes I was. Although that could have been the Yasi Katsu repeating – I digress.

Now having trolled there with another unmarried mother, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else who knew me - lots of people there that I knew mind you, but they don’t know who I am these days, it was 20 years ago after all, and they weren’t wearing their bifocals.

But as chance would have it I did bump into an old chum who I don’t think I had seen for about 15 years – no names, no law suits. Lovely to see her, and her male friend (carer). Now she’s obviously been at the barmaid’s apron prior to our arrival, but she was still walking the line, as Johnny Cash would say. Like us she was very excited about seeing and hearing Patrick. However by the end of the session, the Chardolini had kicked in and she wasn’t at all happy about Patrick’s new novel.

‘Why is he always writing about the past? Why doesn’t he write about more contemporary issues?’ she asked.

Oh dear, she was off - she’d got messy, and this ladies and gentleman is the one thing on the wine list of sobriety I don’t like people ordering.

So, messy, schmessy, what’s a bit of mess between old friends – it usually wipes off doesn’t it?

She proceeded to march up to Patrick at the end and start having a ‘discussion’ at him for being so stuck in the past and only writing about the 80’s. The excerpt Patrick had read hadn’t obviously been set in the 80’s I had thought; perhaps it had a warm summer’s evening glow of vintage times about it, but nothing obvious. Anyway we prised her away, so his fans could say hello and get their books signed. He was unharmed.

When I got back to my seat having had my book signed, she was still at it, defending her right to discuss his lack of contemporaneity with him.  Then she launched into her manifesto.

“Why’s he still writing about the 80’s, he’s done that already in that thing he wrote about the Tory boy, beauty something, set in the 80’s”

“Line of beauty?” we enquired.

“That’s it, they did a version for the telly” she said

“That was by Alan Hollinghurst” we said

“Was that not Alan Hollinghurst?” she asked

Savin’ all my love 4 me or 0 out of 10 for effort

Dear Readers,

As we approach this most joyful time of year for Hallmark, Thorntons, Champagne style wine producers nationwide, and Hugh Grant, let us just reflect for a moment on the joy togetherness alleges versus the known peace of the holy state of single.

I’m often asked whether I am ready to put the sturdy walking boots of love back on and set off up dating hill. But let’s just say I am still having therapy inducing flashbacks on a daily basis from last time. If love comes knocking, tell him I’ve got one of my heads.

You see you have to be so so careful with the suitors, as there is plenty of opportunity for poor choice and misguided judgement. This can be brought on by sentimentality, sherry, sex hormones (sorry ladies), and in some - thank heavens not me, desperation and a phobia of being alone. 

But surely I hear you call, surely we are all finally well-adjusted enough in our dotage, having been through the mill enough times to have learnt all those silly silly lessons and recognise all the silly silly games. Surely now we are strong enough in our understanding of what we need, and importantly for the mature dater (other websites are available) what we certainly don’t need, to stand up and not take any nonsense. Surely?

Well if only it were that simple. Beware!

For they have tricks ready to conjure from up their sleeves, they are wily and will tantalise you, not with a true picture of themselves, but with carefully edited highlights of their personality. Putting a positive spin on their dysfunctionality and hiding away the more annoying family members, they will pounce. They will lure you towards a Truman Show version of a beautiful sunset, then when they’ve got their feet under the table (your table), and you have started to grow fond of them - BAM!

This is when they start to put their master plan into action; they work quietly and without warning to turn otherwise pleasant moments or occasions nasty at the drop of their twisted witches hat. This will come completely left field to you and you will be to blame. You will have triggered this crash of happy energy by unknowingly not living up to one of the many points on their exacting, but never shared, list of what they want you to do and say, when and how.

No wonder you weren’t sure what to do and missed your cue - no one cued you! No one even showed you the script. You didn't even know there was a fucking script; you thought you were having a nice relaxing afternoon. Wrong! STUPID! DUH!

Now, I have regaled you with stories of my track record (derailments) in loving before, and some of you have even had the unadulterated (if only there’d been some adultery) joy of experiencing a lot of my traffic in the actual. So to those of you, I apologise if I am repeating the same old stories, but for the rest of you, and by means of my Valentine gift to you all - here for your amusement and hopefully your education are some comedy highlights from some of my spine chilling less successful forays.

For one, my greatest fault was I never got the right gift at the right time. Very poor I know. This would be explained to me through the expressive use of mood and inharmonious disquiet. So for Valentine’s Day I might have bought them a new jacket, some new trainers, some movies, books or music, you name it – all lovely gifts yes? No, don’t be silly, they were wrong – they weren’t romantic enough gifts, so I shouldn’t have given them (I was actually told this). My desire to be nice and give lots of lovely things was, I thought, the way to go. Generosity and imagination have always been my words du jour regarding gifting and I thought the gesture and the motivation were the romantic parts of it all, not the detail of the stuff itself. But no, silly.

Another time I planned on buying a nice ring, as this was a big, big issue. You see this one had bought me a ring, but I had also had it taken off me several times, and told that I didn’t really deserve it and it should never have been given to me in the first place. So I realised that a ring was the thing, and a big want at that. So I thought, I don’t want to marry this fucker, but I am happy to lavish a token of affection if it will calm the old goat for five minutes. But no, silly.  I did it wrong again, I told him I would like to get a ring for his birthday, and asked for hints at a preferred style, and confirmation of ring size. I’d seen the ring Aidan bought Carrie, I know how these things can go. So all good, a sensible plan, can’t go wrong! No, silly. He didn’t want it for his birthday - that was the wrong time to give a ring.

Oh dear, what was I to do? – well you’ll be pleased to hear - that straw led me to inform this one that he was ungrateful and impossible to please, and so mean not to share this detailed rule book by which he was expecting me to live and by which I was failing on a daily basis. I also made it clear that he had just ruined any chance of ever getting a ring at all! Yay me – go William!

Now I don’t want you to think it was just my lavish gift giving that I wasn’t very good at. No, silly! I also got greetings cards wrong. Once, on opening a very fine Christmas card, I was told ‘I didn’t know that we were going to buy humorous cards for each other!’ I said that we hadn’t actually discussed the type of cards we were going to buy, as I hadn’t known there were right and wrong cards (silly me). He wasn’t having any of it, he didn’t like it, and it was very unthoughtful of me. How dare I!

The real problem I suppose was that he wanted one which said 'To my darling boyfriend on this our special Christmas together, may the angels and the baby cheeses bless our love and cement our union, for thine is the kingdom the power and the glory, world without end Amen. Well no, it didn’t say that. But it did come with more presents than you could shake a stick at. Just not good enough William!

Oh and I could never get the TV right either. As you know, I don’t really care for the TV that much apart from Take me Out, Downton and anything with Joanna Lumley or Sue Lawley in. I think the problem with this one was that he was a bit too ITV for me, although he tried to pass himself off as a BBC3/Channel 4 combo. The other thing was that he wasn’t that keen on P&Q so the TV provided the correct dose of white noise he needed to function. This went head to head with my desire for quiet. So even though I smiled and put up with the TV, feigning great interest in all sorts of valueless shit, I did like to turn it off whenever I got the chance. There was one wonderful instance where we were watching some drivel, and he said that he was going into the bedroom to do his exercises. He normally took about 30 mins to workout, so I thought I’d be alright to turn the TV off. But 30 minutes later when he came back, he asked why I had turned the TV off ‘I WAS WATCHING THAT!’ My protestations that he had left the room and gone to do something else fell on deaf ears. I should have just killed myself then, I know. But I found it easier to just have another large wine and tell him to fuck off.

Once I got told off for watching a documentary with my brother about the Royals if you please. This one had had a real go at me afterwards saying he hadn’t enjoyed it and ‘hadn't known what to do or where to put himself’. I said he could have always mentioned that he wanted to watch something different or left the room and gone and done something else. But no, Silly! That was the wrong answer and not in the script. How dare I!

ENOUGH ALREADY! I’m exhausted remembering all this joy.

Oh my, what a lot of to do do, but some sound reasons I think you’ll agree for why the walking boots of love remain hidden under the stairs, and why I say tread very wisely in love my pretties. Be open to its glorious possibilities, yes, but by God be ready at a moments’ notice to run for your fucking life.

Happy Valentine’s Day my Darlings

Post Script

Can I just say to those happily together, and those looking forward to the joy a good relationship can bring, please do bear in mind that the above is a) mostly written for comedy purposes, and b) only using one person’s extra bad experiences.

For all of you who are in a happy pair, or who are looking for love, I wish you every success, and unless they are a twat, have serious baggage they omitted to tell you about, or are just plain rubbish, then there is every chance that you could be happy. And I do hope that you will be. But please, the second they start to get on your nerves, aren’t nice to you anymore or start demanding that you change or put up with a sub quality standard of happiness in the name of keeping the relationship going – run like the fucking wind, and don’t leave a forwarding address.

We all know people who have stayed in relationships longer than they should have done simply to avoid an argument or because it’s cheaper to share the cost of the verruca cream, I am one of those people. But it doesn’t have to be that way, and now that we are all grown up and the masters and mistresses of our own lives and destinies there really is no excuse. Only stay in a relationship if you are really happy and the other person is nice to you, and the whole thing enriches your life. Otherwise pack a bag, leave a note, catch the next stage coach out of town, and get on with your life in peace.

Spent, but not Spending

I’ve nothing left; I’ve given it all up. I’m just a shell, left empty by my former addictions. I’ve even given up two new things as part of my New Year’s Resolution (Revolution) Suite (NYRS).

I’ve now given up spending money on stuff and nonsense, and will be ploughing the millions saved back it the Godwin Foundation’s Charitable arm*.

I’ve also given up wasting so much time on the internet** (also helps with the not spending)

So how do I plan to fill the void left by all my newly former vices?

Good question!

Well for a start, the Godwin Foundation will keep me busy planning an extension to the east wing, and having the windows washed on the back bedroom. And I have decided to actually read all the piles of books I’ve bought over the last few years. This, like my diet, has taken quite a bit of building up to. I have so wanted to read more; all of last year I tried to make myself read more. I have the books, I have the time, but I haven’t quite been able to put two and two together. I had several serious chats with myself about it, even a couple of rows. But now I have done it. You see the beauty of an NYRS system (NYRSSYS) is that it is a Paddington hard stare in the face of procrastination.

And after all that, it was very easy, I just went to bed 30 mins earlier and picked the book up, and opened it (not rocket science you see, although it felt like it was when I was trying to talk myself into it last year).

Luckily because of the day job I hadn’t forgotten how to read and none of the words were too big. AND I really enjoyed it. I will be doing it again, every night before lights out even. All I need now is a light I can operate through a series of claps - now that would be good.

I’m thinking I should write a guidance pamphlet called ’Beating off Procrastination - how to stop and start all the things you really want’

Chapter 1:     JUST DO IT FOR CRAPS SAKE - IT’S NOT THAT HARD, and it’s not going to kill you, you just think it will - it’s an h’illusion!!!

Chapter 2:     Please disregard advice given in chapter one if you had Astro physics or a serious heroin habit on your list.

Chapter 3:     I’m hoping chapter 3 will be ghost written by someone with an ology so as to give plenty of Eat, Pray, Love, film stylee option opportunities. Although I’m not having Julia Roberts play me, oh no. Goldie Hawn is more my rank. I’ll get my NY production people onto it - that’s you Glo, just as soon as I’ve checked the vegetarian options and found someone to write the score. Is Elgar still working? Didn’t he do that Chatterley thing with Kenny Russell and Ollie Reed?

My only sticking point with using the NYRSSYS advice in chapter one is I haven’t quite been able to make it work for exercise. Although I have traded in my weekly car park permit at work for a half weekly one, so as to force regular walking half of the time. I suppose reading is easier because it doesn’t hurt, not spending doesn’t hurt, not drinking doesn’t hurt - but walking up the chuffing stairs instead of taking the lift! Julia Roberts or no fucking Julia Roberts, are you trying to kill me?

With all this talk of NYRSSYS, and all the solution focused love I have to offer the world it makes me think that maybe, after all, I should have done a Christmas Message to the Commonwealth.

Each year I do always plan to do a round robin stylee Christmas newsletter to share, packed full of dry comedy value and tongue in cheek (or tongue and cheek as Charles Aznavour once said to me) yearlong observations. But I never do get a round tuit. One of my closest advisers said if I was pushed for time I could always produce it as a New Year’s message, like the one David Cameroon does, we’ll if it’s good enough for him why not the Duke of Dulwich himself?

But what could I offer?

Well I would notably review how myself and the commonwealth has fared over the past 12, very well thank you for asking. I would pick out some of the key Royal visits, I am out of my post Switzerland counselling now so that would have been OK to use. I would showcase some of the cultural inebriation I have wallowed in, as highlighted in my previous instalment, even though as I hadn't seen Charles Dance in anything last season, some of you have suggested I shouldn’t have wasted the ink.

The laughter, the tears, the formula 1 racing drivers and their Monaco love nests, the gastronomie, the great British countryside, the rough hands of the French military, the hats and the hair pieces and of course the roar of the greasepaint.

I would then, importantly, want to offer some lubrication to eeze you into the New Year. A glimmer of hope perhaps, an offering or two by way of sharing, and some sturdy advice from my 42 years of patient learning.

But I haven’t really got time, you’ll be relieved to hear, so I’ll just leave you with my key thought from the family planning leaflet I’m pulling together for the ED WI. I’ll be off cataloguing my collectables if anyone needs me.

‘Keep yourself nice and don’t mix men and Margaux’

* all foreign coins to charity

** Independently verified by me

A Year in Culture

 
As Camus always says ‘Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle. This is why any authentic creation is a gift to the future.’ My thoughts exactly!


If Music be the food of love, play on, and pride comes before a fall, a stitch in time saves nine and nothing for a pair, not in this game.


I do like a spot of culture, I can’t deny it, although it must be said I am a creature of habit and don’t often stray too far from the National or the Tate. I love the Southbank; in fact it is one of my favourite things in London, being next to two of my other favourite things - the river and the view from Waterloo Bridge.


But saying that I do sometimes stray, and have, like so many adventures off the beaten path, often found some great joy in cultural corners less trodden (both mixing our metaphors there Mrs O).


And even if what you see isn’t the best thing ever, no boat was floated, no tears were formed as you screamed ‘author!’, it’s been a new experience, a night out, your horizons have been broadened a little and you’ve been taken away to somewhere new for a couple of hours or so. All culture is good for the mind and soul, even if you question its quality or validity. Look it’s made you question, got you thinking and discussing.


So as 2011 drew to a close, I went off piste, otherwise in a good mood, to Sadler’s Wells, where I hadn’t been since I saw the Rambert on the opening night following the SW’s major refit of 1998. My sister’s company was a major sponsor at the time, so I got to have a canapé, a good seat and some nice men in tights (lords a leaping) all courtesy of a FTSE contender. 


My fond return after so many years was for Matthew Bourne’s Nut Cracker. Well I suppose it all depends on how well fitting the tights are. My lady accompanist asked by way of deciding which seats to purchase ‘How close do you want to be to the balls?’ Really! I mean! But that’s the ladies for you, very forthright in their approach and always focusing on the nuts - I find. Anyway an excellent production, very much enjoyed, although with ballet, I do keep expecting someone to say something and then think it feels a bit strange when they don't.


How we love the ladies. It must be said, I do spend a lot of time with the ladies. My brother, for it is he, always asks when I say I’m going out; yes we do live together in a big showbiz house, ‘are you going to the theatre with a lady friend?’ And of course invariably I am. Well if I am ever to take/find a wife, I must practise curtsying, pinning a corsage and laughing at ponies. How gay the ladies are.


The new cultural year, for it is now 2012, was joyfully christened with some Gerhard Richter at the Tate Modern last weekend. This was followed by a skinny latte and a brie and grape sandwich in the Members’ Room with my afore mentioned brother. I only buy soft drinks now, and spend the tax saved on shoes. And excellent it was too.


2011 was certainly varied in its cultural pursuits, and looking back, as I am just about to do in edited highlight form, reminds me that it was a very fine vintage. So which cultural puddles did I splash in during 2011?


First there was Gaugin and Ai Weiwei’s Sunflower Seeds at the Tate Modern. Now the Ai Weiwei was very good and terribly interesting even though my companion kept on trying to get me to distract the security guard so she could assist some souvenirs into her handbag. The Gaugin I could take or leave, and wish I had left. But I was still on the wine then so the day was saved by a large Sauv Blanc or was it a suave blond?.


Then there was a visit to one of my favourite places in one of my favourite places, in one of my favourite places. Barbara Hepworth Museum, St Ives, Cornwall. Gorgeous, very much looking forward to going back in June!


Next up was 12^th Night at the Cottlesloe. Excellent and very funny. It was a very special production as well, as former Director of the National Theatre Peter Hall returned to direct to celebrate his eightieth birthday. Tickets were very much along the lines of hen’s teeth and ginger nuns. The only down point was the lady with the zip and the speed of the old people – thank heavens there wasn’t a fire. Full details previously blogged here.


Later on in Feb I experienced some young people doing a version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and some other young people talking and rustling their crisps throughout. Well it was Catford. Not bad though apart from the scene where the set started to smoulder. Well if you will use lampshades to set the scene what can you expect!


Two days later I made two debuts, the Southwark Playhouse and some Sondheim. Now I know I’m a Gay, but I don’t usually go in for musical theatre. This was very good though and I thoroughly enjoyed it, apart from Mark Curry’s American accent, him from Blue Peter. The wine wasn’t up to much either. Cheap roadhouse whiskey! Great venue though and I am looking forward to returning to it in a couple of weeks for a bit of Harvey Milk.


March saw a return to an old hunting ground of mine, and if you’ll excuse the indelicacy, very good hunting it was too (well mostly). To the Stag pub, which now has a theatre upstairs. In our day it was a disused function room. But a very good programme they have up there and we went to see a stage production of the film My Beautiful Launderette. All in all very enjoyable and some very good acting in parts. The lead was very handsome, but I will never be able to work out quite how he kept his shirt so perfectly tucked in throughout the entire performance. He must have had the tails velcroed to the tops of his socks. Well it’s an outing.


April and May saw two visits to the second Mrs Godwin’s literary salon Polari at the Royal Festival Hall. Some wonderful writers reading from their work, and even the glorious Fenella Fielding doing an excellent if not rustly reading (papers very close to microphone). I must say it is a very good idea, and a great opportunity to hear new Gay authors reading from their published and unpublished works. I shall be back in March as the wonderful and very talented Patrick Gale will be reading from his forthcoming volume. He lives with a farmer in Cornwall don't you know!


Local art for Local people was the focus of the wonderful Dulwich Open Studios 2011. I won’t bore you again with the amazing variety of art I enjoyed, but there was some great stuff and there’s nothing nicer than walking round the neighbourhood on a lovely sunny day going into strangers’ homes and looking at their things. I wrote about it all here with pictures.


May also saw a lengthy but excellent evening with Zoe Wanamaker in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard at the National. If you ever go and see it I strongly advise a cushion and maybe even a hamper. Slow to start, but very gripping and really enjoyable. She’s very good at the acting.


June, now there were two very wonderful culturals this month. First there was the magnificent wonderfulness that is Mx Justin Vivian Bond at the Soho Theatre in their great new downstairs cabaret space (Oh look I’m all New York) – quite unsurpassable really, in many ways. I first came across Mx Bond in the film Shortbus, and have been mesmerised by Mx Bond and v’s music ever since. Wonderful.


Later in June and another joy to behold, apart from the old people grunting hysterically in the adjacent seats (very strange and disturbing), was the sing-along version at the Prince Charles of one of my most favourite films. The Wicker man (1973 version of course). Luckily I have the soundtrack and so know all the words, as did my trusty companion. This is currently my most anticipated blu ray release.


The Royal Opera House beckoned as La Wainwright and family took residence for a week in the middle of July. Of all the nights on offer, I was drawn to the one where he was double billing with his father Loudon III. And what a voice Loudon has - excellent. And together they were really great. Very teeny tiny seats far far away, but the beauty of the place is that it was still an excellent view. Gorgeous ice cream, and what a place the ROH is - another first for me. Champagne for Rufus! So glad I got to see them together on stage - brilliant.


The end of July heralded a return to the National for a cleverly staged production of A Woman Killed with Kindness. Written in 1603, set in 18somethingorother and produced in 2011, quite a mix of the visual, aural and moral, but an interesting domestic thriller and a night out at the theatre in some very good seats, and no riposte. 


August was dry culturally but I made up for it at the start of September with some art and a very intriguing installation. In the end I could take or leave The Vorticists at Tate Britain, but was completely spell bound by an intriguing installation by Mike Nelson called The Coral Reef. This piece is a disorientating network of 15 interconnecting shabby, seedy and slightly post-apocalyptic feeling rooms. You find yourself somewhere which has obviously been very recently abandoned and clues are strewn around as to what had gone on before. Not quite sure why you are there, what has happened or what you are going to find, this was very exciting and I think a real winner for me.


Then there was the Miro exhibition at Tate Modern which I also adored.  I love a bit of Spanish, art, and even though it was sometimes hard to work out which of the 3 red dots represented the fate of the peasants and which the oppression by the fascist regime, it was great, so much colour and life all expressed with that vibrant Spanish exuberance. When I retire to Andalucía to run my brothel – you’re all invited by the way – I will hang a Miro to remind me of my middle years spent in the galleries of London.


Towards the end of September I ventured back to the National to see Arnold Weskers’ The Kitchen. This was a wonderful production, and the way the work of the kitchen and the lives of the characters were brought to life was very clever and captivating. I once worked with Arnold Wesker’s daughter, or was it his niece – I forget, anyway the production was brilliant and far less forgettable, and again in my favourite seats. I’m so easy to please.


October brought music in the form of a wonderful evening at the Assembly in the Royal Spa of all places, with Mr Marc Almond, singing very well in an evening of chanson, torch songs, and Russian romances. I think it is a miracle that he is still with us; he is like a cat with nine lives. But thank the baby cheeses that he is. And what an oeuvre! A most enjoyable evening in an excellent newish venue so close to the ancestral home.


Dashing back to the National for 13 – OMG, got to see it to believe it. ‘Across London, people wake up from an identical, terrifying dream’. Edge of the seat stuff and one of the most inventive exciting sets I have ever seen there. Action packed and good looking - a bit like me I suppose.


A return to musical theatre later in November, this time for a slap up evening at Priscilla Queen of the Desert with a few showbiz pals. This was a glorious reimagining of one of my favourite films and the music and the performances were just divine. And my first visit to the Cambridge Theatre, and I got eyed up by a handsome man with a beard! Well done everybody - they could certainly all get their Mabel to the back of the gallery.


And so to the penultimate outing for 2011 and this time to St Martin in the Fields for a spot of your actual Messiah at the end of December. Excellent seats and some very rousing performances, even if the second violin was chatting to her mate throughout! The key thing for me was the timps, we were sat right behind and I was fascinated by the many many adjustments the timpanist was constantly making to his drums. Now there’s a euphemism waiting to happen. Either he was a perfectionist or he slept through his sound check/rehearsal. The life of a jobbing orchestrati is a busy one I imagine. Absolutely lovely and such a wonderful prelude to Christmas - completely made up for the lack of mulled wine over the yule tide.


So, there you go. I don’t spend my entire life on the sofa in my pants, as some of you imagine, after all. And there’s plenty more where that came from. Here’s to even more Kultcha in 2012. Let me know if you hear of anything good!

New Kids on the Block

I think it all started when I saw Cheryl Cole learning to street dance a few years ago on the ITV. Why was I watching the other side? A very good question. Well I think I might, repeat might have liked one of her combo’s ditties (no homo) what was in the charts at the time - and any Pointer Sister’s cover is ok by me, I am a Gay after all. So I thought I’d have it on in the background. It’s company for the art and gives me a moment of distraction from contemplating Zoroastrianism or cataloguing my back issues of Scaffolder’s quarterly.

Firstly the trousers, what did MC Hammer called them - loon pants was it? I mean, really. I know it is important to have all the right equipment (no homo) but this wasn’t sensible gym wear, or something comfy you might throw on following an aqua  aerobics (libra) session or a carrot juice at Pineapple. Or is that a pineapple juice at Carrot? And secondly, and the real source of my most painful and ongoing angst, was the stage school Johnnies talking as if they were fetched up in the hood.

Rickmansworth isn’t quite the harshlands of deepest Peckham and there isn’t really any need to pretend you were born in the projects if actually your labels are ‘bay window by Acacia Avenue’ and ‘jazz hands by Italia Conti*’. 

Then there was diversity on the Pop Factor, and everyone and everything was suddenly going urban. I’m sure at one point I even saw that Mr David Cameroon with the label on his academic gown still showing and him not tying up the laces on his Church and Co’s. 

Now, I’ve lived in South London longer than Molly Parkin’s been wearing those hats and I’ve had drinking sessions with Glaswegians (in fact I’ve had drinking sessions with most people), so of course I can understand what everyone is saying urban or cut glass, but I must say I was challenged the other night. 

The occasion was a social viewing of Attack of the Block (DVD). Now I’m not going to get into a long discussion about Anti Heroes or my position on their celebration in drama or real life, or the social consequences of children growing up in poverty and neglect - I’ll leave that for the grownups. But what I will just say, whilst I’ve got you, is that I do wish there had been subtitles. Don’t get me wrong I enjoyed the film; I’m always very warm towards anything set in London, and I know the neighbourhood featured very well. But I had barely a clue what anyone was saying. Luckily it didn’t really have a detrimental effect/affect on my viewing enjoyment or my understanding of the wider plot; it was mostly skunk and aliens anyway. But it did rather mean that I missed some of the finer points of the character and relationship development, and couldn't always catch everyone’s moniker or what they were having for their tea.

So I piped up to my hosts, for I wasn’t viewing alone. 

I said “I have absolutely no idea what these young people are saying”. 

And the retort? 

Well let’s just say I was told off for being too middle class. 

Too?

I said              ARE YOU NEW HERE?

*other stage schools are available

Creaming the Coconuts

Darlings, the opening lines from my new steamy racy novel.

*****************

As the morning cracked through the crisp white silk and linen shell of the night, it filled the room with the sparkling diamonds of a kaleidoscopic dawn; blue, white, and yellow rainbow beams bouncing excitedly across the walls and celing, dappling an ever new pattern as it broke the dark fast.

I was still only half awake when he called. He was in Monte Carlo again. Jacqueline Bisset had hosted yet another of her legendary soirees, all of which end up with him naked in her swimming pool playfully rutting with Mario Testino's latest muse.

He was still flirtatiously drunk and whispered the soft half-awake pillow talk spanning the warmth of the morning bed sheets which stretched across the continent, lying next to me whilst being so far south in the same dream like moment.

He rang so I could remind him of the details of his flight. We may no longer be together; if we ever were, but he still has his assistant courier me all his travel details so that wherever he is - drunk, stoned or in flagrante, whatever the time zone or prevailing political wind of his waking and whosoever's love soaked bed his body is caressing, he knows someone, somewhere will be able to remind him which flight to get and how to summon his car service.

The collection of blue Smythson leather portfolios containing the intricate details of his hotels, drivers, engagements and seat numbers (always 3A) fill the shelves of my study like ripples in an emerald sea. Sometimes in the evening if I am restless or missing the sun, I flick through this library and dream of far-away shores, bronzed and warm, washed by a soft breeze, and I imagine the sweet smell of oiled muscles, and the taste of salt in the air from the crashing break. There is a promise in these dreams and a hungry, delicious ache for times and places still to come.................

And a Blond

Well it has been very lovely - weather wise.

My brother and I used to have a descriptor for the perfect day. It was called a Halifax cash card day. This was based upon an advert at the time for the Halifax Building society, as it was called then. Like the polytechnics becoming universities – I think they’re all banks now.

The advert featured a docklands type having a day of ease in the sunny city, smiling, skipping, grabbing a coffee, walking by the river, nice chambray shirt, laughing – head thrown back stylee, lunching with friends at Pont de la Tour – that sort of thing.  And to help him with all his fun post Thatcher activities and Jermyn Street shirt purchases, he jogged to the cashpoint to use his Halifax Cash Card.  Oh how happy we were.

So whenever we are kicking back, as our American chums used to say, well that’s what we’re having, a Halifax card cash day. And very nice they are too.

I had a couple of HCCDs recently, stealing a cheeky day off last Friday and immersing myself in the sunshine, an entirely new wardrobe of tailored gems, a walk through East Dulwich, chatting with the lady who makes the jam on the market stall, trying new cheeses – god I love being so terribly middle class – it’s liked cooked cocaine to me. Then off to lunch or brunch as they say, with a young lady who works in the arts, then checking in with one of my old Grande dames for some wise wit and walnut cake. Oh how my cup runneth over.

I’m pretty certain that life is good at the moment. I’m even enjoying work which means I must be coming down with something. I feel purposeful and content. And importantly I am slim; slimmer of the fucking year and I love it.

Now this brings me onto blonds, because gentlemen certainly do prefer blonds, and I mean many things by this. But the gist is that the young and the pretty shall inherit the world. Now I’ve dined on my wit and my charm for many years, I could even turn a head in my heyday (very different to one’s prime) like maturity and sex drive – rarely arrive in tandem. But it is true I did get up to a size 12/14 over the past few years, and even though with the beard it was socially acceptable, it wasn’t, I think my true being. I think being slimmer is more me and I feel like I have returned to my equilibrium (aqualibra) rather than reduced. But I have noticed some very interesting things. People have been paying more attention to me. And I don’t mean in a how’s your father sort of way (he’s very well thank you for asking), although I was blind to that even when I was 25 and gorgeous. But I mean in life in general, at work, in the street, etc. etc., people are paying more attention to me and I am in people’s radar more, just in ordinary ways, and I really think it is because I am looking better and I think people respond and react to that. Now as well as being terribly interesting, it is quite shocking. This a) means that people are that shallow, and that’s scary in a work situation where prospects and respect are concerned, but b) it means that the ignorant workshy could carefully alter/adapt their image to enhance their staged existence and in doing so obtain advancement over those who were quietly performing and being non manipulative. I suppose I knew this, but it has really brought it home.  You can see this across society with people trying to stage their lives to be things they are not, in order to achieve a perceived higher standing to obtain things they haven’t earnt or deserve or to smoke and mirrors their work, art or ideas to appear as something new, relevant or worthy, when it is in fact not.

It takes more than a terracotta tile and a bottle of balsamic vinegar to make Tuscany my dears.

(Reads back to check whether rant has been exhausted? Yes)

But the young and the pretty will inherit the earth, and good fucking luck to them.

Where was I? Oh yes HCCDs.  

I accidently joined the 2 minute silence lest we forget, i.e. the radio was on and I wasn’t talking to myself. Silence on the radio is a very strange thing. I once heard a documentary about it – to be avoided those in broadcasting circles tell me. I then read the paper. The paper was of course 5 weeks old, but still, an article on Margaret Atwood is an article on Margaret Atwood, whenever it was published. I have put aside the Observer guide to writing your novel – for closer attention over an alcohol free cooking sherry at a later date.

Did I mention that the sun was shining? It always does on HCCDs. I had one of Robbyn’s gorgeous rolls which she purloined for me via her emporium du fromage and which I had sliced and frozen ready for toast one day. And that day was that day. I had them with butter and bon mammon berries and cherries, a cup of Yorkshire Gold and the resonance of Nimrod saluting those who had fallen.

Also, the National Trust – did I mention I was middle class? They sent me their holiday cottage brochure. This was ordered when I was first researching for my Cornish sojourn with Gloria next year. Now NT places are very expensive, but if you don’t have kiddies and are not averse to sharing with two dustmen from Cleethorpes, the rates can be very reasonable. I am now pondering March in North wales.

HCCDs for me are all about being out and about, exploring, the sunshine, just some gorgeous music for company. I don’t need the Pont de la Tour (wasn’t she is rising damp).  Don’t get me wrong I don’t mind others. In fact some of my best friends are a bit other.

The weather, well the sunshine had to break and it did finally yesterday. So when I found myself in the lift with a need for small talk I said.

‘These cloudy days, they really do make you want to snuggle up under the duvet with a good book’

And he said,

‘And a blond’

He didn’t look the type!