April 1st - April 7th 2002
Sunday Respec
Saturday Spring studs
Friday Noise annoys
Thursday Vague
Wednesday Dead queens
Tuesday Holida-ay
Monday -
Sunday 7th April 2002
The humour of the graveyard shift being what it is, we all laughed ourselves silly when someone referred to "yoda in chintz." And then felt thoroughly chastened when we read this interview.
It was two or three Christmases ago and we were sitting down watching Ali G on television. We were laughing when she came in. She couldn't understand what was going on, so we explained.
She saw Ali G click his fingers and say 'respec', and Harry and I showed her what to do. She loved it, and after three goes she had it. Later that day we were all in the dining room, having Christmas lunch, when she tried it out.
It was right at the end of the meal, and she stood up and said, 'Darling, lunch was marvellous - respec', and clicked her fingers.
Saturday 6th April 2002
As you're getting dressed today, or undressed, or anything in between, zipping zips, buttoning buttons, spare a thought for Bronze Age Man with his perennial costume of loosely-fitting furs held together with the odd bit of bone and animal intestine.
In his idle moments (even Bronze Age Man has idle moments, right?), as he sat and sipped his mead, do you think his thoughts ever wandered forward to contemplate the mystery of the collar-stud? Or, more mysterious yet, the collar studs of the collar of the most important tribesman in the land?
Admit it, you think I've been smoking something. But follow my train of thought:
"An amateur archaeologist has stumbled across one of the oldest treasures ever to be found in Britain: a ceremonial cup fashioned at the time of Stonehenge.. The cup was almost identical to the Bronze Age Rillaton cup, found in Cornwall in 1837 alongside a skeleton and used by George V to store his collar studs."
Ok, not so much a train of thought as a mental six-car pile-up. But blame my mood: whimsy to the max.
God, I love Spring.
Maybe it's the Spring, maybe it's the simple joy of having finally managed to face down the pile of dirty dishes that's been infesting my kitchen for the last eight days. That, and the fact that I no longer have to stumble to bed through the slush of discarded dirty clothing that's been piling up since, ooh, February?
Too tired, too busy, too lazy to pile everything into bags and heave it round the corner to the washeteria, I admit I've been living with a permanent laundry crisis for the last month.
At Kew last week, when I snatched up a child's discarded cowboy hat, David said "I like it, it's a look."
"Somewhat Joseph Beuys you think?" I ventured, admiring myself in a passing display-case.
"Definitely. But do you have any lard or felt about your person?"
"Well... these underpants could definitely do with a wash. Does that count?"
Dishes washed, clothes cleaned - plus I have almost enough money in the bank to pay my outstanding bills. I feel at one with the universe. Now all I have to do is get someone to cut my mad March hair...
Fully sprung with the joys of spring, I staggered back from the launderette just a few minutes after writing yesterday's entry to see, looming on the late-afternoon horizon, the envenomed figure of my mad next-door neighbour, a down-market Cruella de Ville, looming towards me down the street.
"Hi, Leigh," I cried, hypocrite écriteur. "Enjoying the spring, tra-la?"
"'Ere," she said, no customary greeting nonsense for her, "You live next door to me..."
(At which, I admit, I thought she'd finally lost it.)
"And I only see you once a month. It's as if you're livin' in bloomin' Australia!"
Spooky! You think she reads my blog?
Friday 5th April 2002
Taiwan's refuse lorries, which currently call people out onto the kerb with classical music, will shortly begin broadcasting English lessons.
"Even grandmothers and grandfathers will be able to speak the most basic conversational English after listening a few dozen times," the town's mayor, Hsu Tain-tsair, told a Taiwan newspaper.
What an excellent idea.
Perhaps the principle could be applied to smarten up some of the noise pollution in this particular patch of east London.
Those mini-cab drivers who summon their fares with prologed toots of the horn at all hours of the day should be required to substitute appropriate phrases in core curriculum languages: "Andiamo!", "Allons-y!"
The ice-cream van that draws up outside my window, regular as clockwork at 2pm and 5pm, with precisely one and half bars of Greensleeves played on an antique glockenspiel; it might prefer to rouse me with, what, the core refrain from Soave si'al vento?
And the robotic monotone that warns the entire sleeping universe each morning that "This car is reversing" could deliver a brief weather forecast instead. Or better yet, a joke or two: "Wad-dew-yew-call a-man-with leaves on-his-head?" "Russ-ell. Ha. Ha."
Those council cleaners who, twice a week, sweep down our common parts, taking particular care to rattle their brooms along the metal railings sending a cascade of dissonant metallic chimes echoing up and down the stairwells.. master classes in traditional English church bell ringing for them, I think.
And my mad noisy neighbour, she who regularly stands in her kitchen hailing her grandaughter as though she's already moved to Australia? Definitely a language learning opportunity: "Shaaaaaron! Tu veux quoi pour le petit déjeuner? Les baked beans ou les spaghetti 'oops?"
(Redundant to suggest any change to the halal grocer's van that arrives here every lunchtime. If I ever need to sell vegetables in a Bangladeshi market I already know just how to do it: "Ha! Mumbla-looooo-calay! Vellit!")
Thursday 4th April 2002
"Vague assignation" is right - vague enough to turn out non-existent. So I staggered home too.
Wednesday 3rd April 2002
I have referred before to my habit of scanning the obit summaries, for the tell-tale omission of any reference to grieving wives or children, before moving on to the main piece to see what other clues one might pick up.
The Independent, bless it's pink cotton socks, increasingly makes such detective work irrelevant.
Here are some (lightly-edited) recent examples:
John Joseph Wieners, poet born Boston, Massachusetts 6 January 1934; died Boston 1 March 2002.
Returning to Boston in 1970, Wieners became involved with the burgeoning movement for gay liberation. A fifth-floor, walk-up apartment in Joy Street, in the winding Beacon Hill area, would be home for the rest of his life.
The poet had answered a query as to his theory of poetics in eminently practical terms: "I try to write the most embarrassing thing I can think of."
In pieces such as "A Poem for Tea Heads" and "A Poem for Cocksuckers", the poet presents a mental world at once kaleidoscopic and imprisoning.
Here's another:
Alanson Russell Loud, actor, performer and journalist born La Jolla, California 1951; died Los Angeles 22 December 2001.
When Loud found fame in 1973 in the groundbreaking, 12-hour fly-on-the-wall PBS show An American Family, his stated ambition was to become a flamboyant homosexual Bohemian "character" and at this he succeeded, wildly.
As the producers of An American Family hoped, this standard suburban nuclear unit with four children, swimming pool and four-car garage generated plenty of drama, not least when the unfaithful father was thrown out by his wife.
But even more riveting was the outrageous appearance of their 14-year-old son, Lance, already a flaming homosexual militant with dyed white hair and blue lipstick, perfectly happy to ham it up and queen it out for the networks.
Inevitably Lance Loud became a gay icon as he steadily took over the series and practically made it a one-boy solo show. Loud was the first person in the world ever to "come out" on television, whilst being watched by some 10 million viewers.
Embarking on a musical career, he called himself "the Fred Astaire of Uncool" or, as a reviewer put it: "Lance has star quality, which is not to be confused with talent."
As the punk scene died Loud shifted to the new disco-celebrity culture embodied by Studio 54, where he managed to maintain his VIP status as "boy-toy" to the so-called "Velvet Mafia".
In 1981 Loud had moved back to his native California, working as a journalist for the hardcore political gay magazine The Advocate as well as for Interview, set up by his hero Warhol. He kept a secret journal of his assignations with high-power closeted Hollywood players and revelled in his clandestine life as a quasi-hooker.
He matched an addiction to gym body-building with a dedication to cocaine and became a full devotee of crystal meth, dangerous sex and Formula One fast living.
Now a fabled West Hollywood and Silver Lake eccentric, an animal activist living in a run-down Echo Park estate surrounded by hundreds of his adored stray cats, a gay diva version of Grey Gardens, he wrote gossip columns, reviewed films, interviewed the famous and pruned lime trees.
And one final (gloriously camp) example:
Leonard Gershe playwright and lyricist born New York 1922; died Beverly Hills, California 9 March 2002.
Gershe moved to Hollywood after forming a close personal and professional relationship with Roger Edens.. who always worked closely with Judy Garland.
He was telling the writer Clemence Dane about his friend the photographer Richard Avedon, who had made his wife into a top model although she had no interest in such a career. Dane responded by saying, "What a glorious idea for a musical - the fashion world, a fashion photographer, and a model who doesn't want to be a model. Why don't you write it?"
With the help of a young editor at Harper's Bazaar who fed him information about the forceful editor-in-chief Diana Vreeland, Gershe fashioned a third leading character, even incorporating a word Vreeland had invented to describe the ultimate in chic and style, bezazz.
For the film's opening, Edens and Gershe wrote "Think Pink!", in which the editor dictates which colour women of fashion will be wearing. The film also put Vreeland's favourite word permanently into the language, though because of a copytaker's error it became converted into "pizazz".
Gershe... co-scripted the film version of the Broadway musical Silk Stockings (1957) wrote the screenplay for That's Entertainment, and wrote the original story for a television movie starring Astaire, The Man in the Santa Claus Suit (1978).
In 1959 he wrote the libretto for a Broadway musical Destry Rides Again, starring Andy Griffith and Dolores Gray.
Gray, already worried that her part was less important than the hero's, had a feud with the director-choreographer Michael Kidd that resulted in his calling her a "slut" in front of the company. She slapped his face and he hit her back, making newspaper headlines.
When Merrick was asked to join the company and pacify his star, he replied, "I couldn't buy publicity like this for $5,000 a week. Let 'em fight it out."
Gershe enjoyed a good relationship with Merrick and gave the producer the first chance to stage his play Butterflies are Free. It told of a young blind man, dominated by an over-protective mother, who bravely takes an apartment on his own in New York and falls in love with the kooky would-be actress living next door. Gershe based the character of the actress on his own next-door neighbour in New York, Mia Farrow.
You can see the fad-quiz now, can't you? Which dead queen are you?
Laudatory and lachrymose, the recent stomach-turning tide of celebrity tributes may have discouraged you from reading the obituaries lately. Which would be a shame.
Because, as The Earl of Kingston demonstrates, there are still embittered role-models out there to be found (that's why your read Blogadoon, right?):
Young Barclay was educated not at Eton but at Winchester, where his pugilistic skills earned him appointment as the captain of boxing, after which he was known to his friends as "Thuggers".
He enjoyed his time at school, although there was a presentiment of things to come when, in the summer of 1960, he was sent home for hosting a wine party in the grounds.
On his 21st birthday he had inherited £100,000, with which he had bought a large house in Dorset and an Alfa Romeo and embarked on a life of hectic socialising.
Towards the end of his life he was living in a dilapidated four-bedroom flat in a 1930s mansion block in north London; he would often take his meals at a cafe in Willesden. Last year he was to be found judging a pole-dancing competition at a night club in Ealing.
He said recently that he had a £600,000 trust fund in Jersey, from which he derived an annual income of 2.2 per cent - "not enough if you drink". He freely admitted: "I'm a chain-smoking alcoholic."
Immediately after their wedding the fourth Countess of Kingston set off on a three-month cruise on the QE II accompanied only by her mother.
According to Kingston it was "a marriage of financial convenience, so my son and daughter will not inherit my money when I die." His children knew nothing of the marriage until they read about it in a newspaper.
So to which of the recently dear-departed does this refer?
The story goes that he was willing to bet any of his male friends that he was better endowed than they were, and regularly won. When asked "just how big is it?" he is said to have replied: "I'll never tell, I just take out enough to win."
I'll give you a clue: much as she liked a bet, it wasn't the Queen Mother.
Tuesday 2nd April 2002
And so the first big holiday weekend of the year comes and goes: not quite the mardi gras frenzy as advertised, but pleasurable, pleasurable. And, in retrospect, fully trimmed with customary easter traditions:
Outings Right on schedule, the sun rises from the dead on the first day of the festival and, all across the nation, people realise they have nothing planned for the day and start planning something. And so it was that Marcus, David and I found ourselves quaffing Oxford Landing on the greensward at Kew.
Daffodils Plenty of those at Kew Gardens, obviously. My heart sinks when I behold a host of fluffy yellow nonsense - such a British flower. Me, I much preferred the Dredd-gothic insect-eating orchids in the steam-heated conservatory. Orchids rock.
Riverside pubs Having despatched Marcus ahead to work on Marie's birthday celebration, David and I sat and watched the sun go down on Kew Bridge whilst putting the world to rights over a couple of pints. David says he finds straight pubs a refreshing change now and again. I'm not convinced.
Chocolate The closest I came to chocolate all weekend was the astonishing cake that Janne and Tomas had created for Marie. You thought a Swedish easter involved ethereal back-lit blondes in white robes and lots of candles? Wrong. Apparently it requires dancing on kitchen tables to a medley of ancient Eurovision winners. And alcohol - lots of alcohol. (Candles may have been involved after midnight but by then I'd made my discreet withdrawal.)
Lambkins Bushy-tailed innocent young creatures, best enjoyed slammed into an oven on a very low heat for at least four hours. Yum.
Failed plans A plan wouldn't be a plan unless it all fell apart at the last minute. So, on Saturday night, having organised the blogger's guest-list at Queer Nation and texted details to all and sundry, I stayed at home. A good time was had by all, apparently. Even me.
Major decease Some much-loved public figure always dies over the Easter weekend. Some kind of cosmic sacrifice equation, presumably. Either that, or a prank predicated on unpredictable newspaper publication. This year the gods of comedy bigged it up and reaped not only Dudley Moore, Milton Berle, Barry Took and Billy Wilder, but also, top trump, the nation's best-loved comedy grandmother.
Bad television The regular syrupy flow of 1950s devotional movies (The Robe, anyone?), old sit-com and obscure sporting fixtures eased itself slightly aside to accomodate a number of black-tie tributes, seamlessly composed of eye-witness anecdotage from milliners, shoe-makers and racing trainers. I still caught 24 and West Wing, so I'm down with that.
Crowds If bank holidays are all about liberating office-drones from captivity, how come the streets are always so empty? On the other hand, the Vauxhall this Sunday was, once again, Far Too Crowded. We sloped off to Dukes, also very busy. I remember very little, but I expect there was a stripper. (Ah! Flashback! Yes, a stripper who came to our table and grabbed Marcus's left hand and David's right hand and...hmmm.)
Bunnies After Dukes, I'd promised Patrick I'd put my head in at Base, a new night he's helping to promote round the corner on Nine Elms Lane. Frankly, I wasn't expecting much - almost everyone else I'd spoken to was crossing London to the LA3. But, my god: here at last was what I'd been publicly wishing for these last few weeks: a new venue with a whole new crowd of unfamiliar faces most of them with no tops on. To be fair, this was a one-off holiday special involving Crash, Queer Nation and Salvation (the latter explaining the high proportion of gym-bunnies). Definitely worth keeping an eye on if it lasts through the summer though.
Eggs Try as I might, I can recall nothing remotely egg-related over the four days. Not an entirely traditional Easter then. Eggsellent.
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