Gender: Male
Age: 46
Sign: Gemini
City: Soho
Country: UK
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December 22, 2009 - Tuesday
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November 12, 2009 - Thursday
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Christopher Isherwood is my latest obsession. In the past few months I’ve read Christopher and His Kind, A Single Man, the Fryer biography, his diaries (Vol 1 1939 - 1960 and the Lost Years, 1945 -1951) and, of course, The Berlin Stories. I’m not a big fiction reader, but the thing I relate to with Isherwood is the way he draws on characters from real life. For, as he once said: ‘Why invent – when Life is so prodigious.’ He was also big on documenting his life, something I enjoy doing too. So travelling to Berlin last week I was looking forward to re-tracing his footsteps.
I stayed in a gay hotel, Toms, on Motzstrasse, Christopher Isherwood territory. So after unpacking, I immediately scoured the neighbourhood to find his house. I didn’t need to look far. It was on the street behind my hotel. Number 17 Nollendorfstrasse; the ‘deep solemn massive street’ he observes from his window on the opening page of Goodbye to Berlin. The bronze plaque outside read:
Here, between March 1929 and Jan/Feb 1933, lived the English author CHRISTOPHER ISHERWOOD 26.8.1904 + 5.1.1986. His novels "Farewell to Berlin" and "Mr. Norris Changes Trains" are based on his experiences during this period. Inspired by both these novels, the musical "Cabaret" was created.
I peered through the dark wooden doorway, into the gloomy hallway and its sweeping staircase; the same staircase that Isherwood himself once walked up. Is it possible for a presence to linger? I felt like it was and I felt so close to him there, to his past, to whatever it was he’d left behind that my next few days would be coloured by his view of the city.
From Isherwood’s house I caught a taxi to the Jewish Museum. Designed by Daniel Libeskind its zig-zag shape is reminiscent of a warped Star of David and although the building is unique the exhibits were badly organised. Although, looking back through my notebook, I did scribble down a couple of quotes. Some distant memory must have unlocked when I read the first and the second seemed like a chilling reminder of how, with the rise in homophobic assaults and right-wing agendas, a liberal situation can change very quickly.
‘In the youth of every German Jew, there is a painful moment that he is destined to remember all his life: the moment when he becomes fully aware that he was born into the world as a 2nd class citizen, and that no amount of virtue or public service can lift him out of that position.’ (Walther Rathenau 1890-91)
‘The repeal of equal rights hangs like a terrible nightmare over all of us, but particularly over the Jews who like me, had cherished dreams of assimilation. Though it pains me to say so, I have now been rudely awoken…from my dreams.’ (Max Liebermann 1847-1935)
The building itself is the reason for going however and for me, the most dramatic part, was the Holocaust Tower, a 79 foot (24 m) tall empty silo. The bare concrete Tower is neither heated nor cooled, and its only light comes from a small slit in its roof. Standing inside, on my own, was scary. You feel overwhelmed, imprisoned, and the echoing street noise from above, along with the chill factor and the darkness, makes for an unpleasant experience (which was probably the architect’s intention).
Thursday 5th November
I got up early, walked past Isherwood’s house again, and made my way to the U-Bahn. Just outside there are two gay memorials, one a plaque and the other ‘pencil shaped’, dedicated to the 50,000 gay men and women who are thought to have been convicted under the Nazis because of their sexual orientation (current research suggests 7,000 were killed in the concentration camps).
Once inside the station I noticed that there was no ticket desk and all the ticket machines were in German. It’s situations like this that make me feel ignorant although I was reluctant to ask for help because I didn’t want to come across as a dumb tourist. So I marched back out and flagged a taxi. The driver was a sexy skinhead with a goatee so it seemed like a good move.
‘Can you take me to the German Historical Museum?'
‘Sure man!’ he said with a grin. ‘My name’s Mario.’
‘Hi, I’m Clayton.’
‘Do you want to hear the blues?’ and he turned up his radio to an ear-splitting level. ‘It’s Albert Collins!’ he shouted. ‘I think he’s dead!'
‘Oh dear!’ I shouted back.
‘He’s good yes?’
Actually he wasn’t but I was too feeble to say so. A few minutes later…
‘Hey man, I once had 12 guitars! 12 guitars! Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Err-’
‘But now I’ve only got 8.’
I gave my shoulders an exaggerated shrug. ‘Oh well!’ I shouted back. He looked at me through the rear view mirror. Was he expecting me to add something else? I cleared my throat. ‘Well that makes one for each day of the week and two for Sunday.’ No response.
Then he said, ‘Did you know that Berlin first got its name in 1237?’
‘Err, no I-’
‘And that it’s got 10,230 streets?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
As we stopped at a set of lights on Unter den Linden, he pointed to a woman in a shawl crossing the street. She was carrying a baby wrapped in a grey blanket. ‘Don’t give money to them,’ Mario sneered. ‘They work for the Romanian mafia.’
Seconds later we were outside the museum. I handed him 10 Euros. ‘Keep the change.’
Mario winked. ‘Thanks man! Hey, do you have a girlfriend?’
‘Not…exactly.’
‘Ok. Well, have a nice time and remember to live for the moment!’
‘I’ll try.’
The German Historical Museum is really well organised. I was in there for three hours. It covers the period from 100 BC up the present day and after spending the first hour getting as far as the ‘Early Cultures and the Middle Ages,’ I realised that to do the place justice I’d have to focus on just a couple of periods - and the two that have always interested me are the Weimar Republic (1918-1933) and the National Socialist Regime and the Second World War (1933-1945). The exhibits are a mixture of art, artifacts and documents, with everything explained in detail. It was fascinating. Fascinating and upsetting. One photo in particular stood out. It was tucked away in the corner. It showed a gar bar called the Eldorado, the bar that Isherwood and Marlene Dietrich used to frequent. It was boarded up and closed by the Nazis in 1933, the same year Isherwood left Berlin (the build up to this is portrayed in Cabaret). It was the bar across the road from where I was staying. It was a chilling step back in time. It was, however, also a bit disappointing in that, given the size of the museum, the extermination of gay life was limited to a single photo.
On the way home I decided that, instead of trying to use the underground again, I’d walk down Unter den Linden to the Brandenburg Gate. The area was packed, a mass of bodies pushing and cheering, but the gate was fenced off from the non-paying public due to the MTV concert being held to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the collapse of the Wall. It was later noted that it was ironic that the celebration of the removal of one wall was being held behind another.
A few minutes later I found myself beside the Holocaust Memorial. Designed by architect Peter Eisenman it consists of a 19,000 square meter (4.7 acre) site covered with 2,711 concrete slabs or ‘stelae’, arranged in a grid pattern on a sloping field. Walking through the ‘maze like’ structure in the dark was another scary experience. It was very easy to get lost. Like a mugger was about to jump out at any moment. One minute the blocks were ‘knee height,’ the next, towering above my head. Eisenman has never really explained what the blocks represent but for me it represented a decent, from the 30’s to the 40’s, into chaos and imprisonment.
An hour later I found myself at Potsdamer Platz, and without planning it, stumbled across Berlin’s Film and Television Museum. It was such a good find. All the films I’d studied for my MA were featured; German Expressionist films such as The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, Nosferatu and Metropolis. There were also two rooms dedicated to Marlene Dietrich, full of letters, diaries, dresses, luggage and original photos. It was a queen’s paradise. There was, however, another reminder of the Nazis, as the museum detailed the actors, directors and screen writers that left Germany when Hitler came to power, Dietrich being one of them.
Walking back to the hotel, down Motzstrasse, I stopped at a gay bar for a drink. Unfortunately I couldn’t get in. It was ‘skinhead night’ and the door policy was strict. ‘No hair longer than 3mm.’ Mine was 4mm. I tried to explain to the doorman that it was 3mm when I got up this morning and that with all this crisp German air it was growing like no-one’s business. But he wasn’t having it. So, feeling knackered anyway, I headed back to the hotel and went to bed.
Friday 6th November
The next day I was up at 8am and, an hour later, was standing outside McDonalds by Zoo station ready for the Famous Walk tour. This was money well spent as it took in all the landmarks. Memorable parts for me were standing on the steps of the Altes Museum, the Schinkel designed Neo-Classical structure (where Hitler delivered his famous speeches), seeing the former SS & Gestapo Headquarters and visiting the site of Hitler’s bunker (as depicted in Hirschbiegel’s excellent film, Downfall). And the ghost of Isherwood popped up again when we were standing in Babelplatz plaza. This was the spot where on May 10th 1933 the Nazis burned up to 20,000 books by Jewish and so called ‘degenerate’ authors. As Isherwood watched the book burning he apparently muttered, ‘shame.’ Today there is an underground memorial on this spot. The memorial consists of a window on the surface of the plaza, under which vacant bookshelves are lit and visible. A bronze plaque bears a quote by Henrich Heine, which he made 99 years before Hitler came to power, which prophesized: ‘Where books are burned in the end people will burn.’ The walk then finished at the Brandenburg Gate.
I tried the U-Bhan but, again, was totally flummoxed, although I decided against catching a taxi as I seemed to be spending more on taxis than on hotel fees. So instead, I started the long walk back to the hotel, passing the Holocaust Memorial once more. This time, as it was still light, I visited the museum underneath – although, after an hour, I left, as by that stage I was an emotional wreck, completely ‘Holocausted out.’ There’re only so many gas chambers you can take in one trip.
By the time I got back to Nollendorfplatz I was starving. So I popped into the supermarket, picked up some sushi, juice, bananas and blueberries and then spent an awkward few minutes at the checkout attempting to ask the assistant if she took Maestro. Minutes later I was propped up on my hotel bed, scoffing away, clicking around Youtube, the romantic sound of someone's bum being slapped next door echoing around my room.
Saturday 7th November
The next day I started off at the Bauhaus museum. Fortunately this was walking distance from my hotel and although only a small museum it was worth a visit. The Bauhaus school was founded in 1919 and was one of the most influential art institutions of the 20th century. Although closed down by the Nazis its influence, especially in architecture, can still be seen in Berlin today. I found a huge book in the museum shop that I knew Jorge would love and I toyed with buying it. But thinking it’d be too heavy to lug around I decided to try and come back later.
The next stop was Marlene Dietrich’s grave. Now you can call me an old queen if you like, but after seeing her exhibition at the Film Museum it felt like a logical next step. She was/is such an icon and her image has been so prevalent throughout my life that I felt drawn to go. However, having now spent a ‘Lottery winnings worth’ on taxis, I decided to tackle the U-Bahn – and Hey! It worked! I got all the way to the south west side of Berlin and, after arriving at Bundesplatz, I wandered up and down the streets of Stubenrauchstrasse until I eventually plucked up courage to ask a local for directions to the cemetery. Then I found it. In the shadow of a motorway. It was calm and peaceful, with old women tending the graves of their lost loves. I checked the visitors map and found Marlene’s grave, at the back, not far from her mother’s and Helmet Newton’s. I stood at the foot of the grave. So here she was. Just feet away. One of the most famous women of the 20th century. All on her own. It was a sad moment. And a reminder that, whatever our status, this is what we finally become. Mouldy bones in a forgotten grave. But then I reminded myself that her image is still everywhere, frequently copied (hello Madonna) and she’s in our subconscious. Maybe that’s the real meaning of an ‘after life.’
As I was standing there a tall elegant lady walked toward me. She must have been in her eighties. She had white hair swept back in a ‘Diana Dors-ish’ style bouffant. She was dressed in black, with dark sunglasses and laced-up ‘Victorian style’ ankle boots. She stood next to me, in front of the grave. Then she removed her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a white embroidered handkerchief. It was a dramatic moment and this was heightened when she leant forward and placed a solitary red rose on Marlene’s grave. So, feeling like I was intruding on someone’s private grief I stepped back, watched from a distance, then walked slowly back through the cemetery gate.
As I was in the south west of the city I treated myself to a taxi to the next stop on the tour: the Brucke Museum. This is the German Expressionist museum and, after viewing stills in the Film Museum, I was keen to view a genuine collection. But what a disappointment! I stayed for about 10 minutes. The collection was devoted to one artist, Fritz Bleyl, who did nothing for me - so I left. Once outside I was hit by a wave of panic. Where the fuck was I? Without thinking I’d allowed the taxi driver to drop me off in the middle of nowhere! It was like waking up in Watford. So I started to walk. And walk. And walk. After an hour I was right back where I started. This bought flashbacks of my first visit to New York 25 years before. For some reason I’d found myself ‘off the beaten track’, in the middle of nowhere. Panic quickly led to tears. That was acceptable back then. But not now. Not at 46. But what was I going to do? Then my fairy Godmother sent me a vision. A queen strutting toward me, walking a white poodle. My saviour! I jumped in front of him, blocking his path.
‘Excuse me!’
‘Err, yes!’ he squeaked nervously, eye’s widening, about to sweep ‘poodle’ up into his arms.
I wanted to get down on bended knees, grab his legs and plead, ‘Please! Help me! I’ll do anything. I’ll sleep with you. Whatever you want. But please take me to my hotel!’ Although, fortunately, what came out was, ‘Can you direct me to the nearest train station please?’
An hour later I was back in Nollendorfplatz. It was only 3pm so I dashed back to the Bauhaus Museum and bought Jorge the book. Dropped it off at my hotel. Then it was back to the U-Bahn again to catch the train to Mehringdamm (I was becoming an expert now) and the Schwules, the world’s first, and only, ‘gay museum.’
When I arrived the main exhibition was closed for an hour and I was invited to view the special exhibition on the 2nd floor. Although I was the only visitor, the aging tranny behind the reception, who looked the spit of Yootha Joyce, insisted on taking my bag and handing me a ticket. Then, spouting off in a mad tongue, she ushered me into an area which turned out to be a reconstruction of the flat of an old queen by the name of Siegmar Piske who had died recently. Thus a whole gay world was recreated; pictures of naked people, both pornographic and non-pornographic, small sculptures, china plates, drawings, photographs. The collection revealed a lot about the collector, his humour, his preferences. The ‘gay objects’ were handed to the museum and the ‘non-gay’ objects are to be sold at an auction. But, the point of the piece seemed to be, who dares set the border line? Is the collection of dildos anymore ‘gay’ then the glass cabinet of mocca cups and KPM vases?
After clicking away with my camera for a while I asked Yootha for my bag (although she insisted I show her my ticket first – even though I was still the only one in there) and I then entered the main exhibition. This ‘spoke’ to me more than any of the other museums I’d visited. This was my history. My people. Clayton and His Kind. 200 years of German gay history; starting with evidence of an early sub-culture, the struggle to be heard, the thriving 20’s scene, photos of Isherwood in the 30’s. Then another struggle, this one to survive, to meet during dangerous times, to battle against oppression, to falter, to die, and then to come out the other end, in the 60’s and 70’s, rejuvenated, confident, recognised. It was all there. I went round the exhibition twice. Once just looking at the exhibits (the display cards were in German) and then once again when I realised there was an English handbook explaining everything. Not that it was needed. The exhibits revealed all.
I’d now, in the space of a few hours, been to the Bauhaus Museum (twice), Marlene’s grave, the Brucke Museum and the Schwules Museum. It was time to relax with a drink. So I stopped at Jaxx, just next to my hotel.
Jaxx was interesting. What I thought was a bar turned out to be a sex club (the clue was in the name). Rows of rooms with large glory holes and tv screens showing hard-core porn. I lingered by the doorway of on. Then I recognised one of the 'actors' on the screen as someone from my gym, someone whose been advertising himself as ‘31’ for about 5 years now (which was pushing things back then). In this particular scene he was lying on his back, in starfish position, in muddy football socks, while being pumped by a fellow ‘football player.’ The ‘socked’ foot was dangling at the wrong angle, obscuring his err, ‘bulls-eye’ (the sign of an amateur camera operator). Suddenly, pre-cum shot, it cut to another film (bad editing too) and this next film showed two guys boxing, encouraged by their coach. The boxing match was a strange affair as it involved ‘ballet like’ kicks. After a few minutes of light 'kicking' and feeble thumps, the coach ordered the two boxers to strip and they both got on their knees and began to service him. It was all meant to be very ‘straight’ but, as so often happens in these scenarios, the point was reached where the ‘straightness’ couldn't be continued and this was shown when the coach was bent over the boxing ring, getting rimmed while taking three fingers up his arse.
After 30 minutes of analysing the aesthetics of all this, I suddenly remembered - I was in a sex club! But, on noticing that the only visitors appeared to be a German chav and a couple of opera queens, I thanked the doorman and left.
Sunday 8th November
On my final morning I was up at 8, showered, packed, and out the door by 8:30. As I was leaving I noticed a guy with mournful eyes standing suggestively by his hotel door. It was the German chav - his trick obviously being to entice departing guests into his room for a 'last minute' romp. Feigning modesty, I lowered my maidenly eyes, opened the main door and bounced my suitcase down the staircase until I was on the street.
On the way to the U-Bahn I walked past Isherwood’s house and took one last photo. Then I whispered a goodbye to Christopher and then a final goodbye…to Berlin.
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October 24, 2009 - Saturday
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I’m in Earls Court gym, getting undressed. I open my locker, place my jeans, my sweatshirt, my shoes, carefully inside. I padlock the door. Turn. And stop. Standing in front of me is Marc. Marc Almond. What is he doing here?
When I was a kid Marc Almond was God. And whenever he released a single I’d rush into town to buy it. I’d start with the 7” vinyl from WH Smiths and then, as the weeks progressed, I’d trawl Weston-Super-Mare High Street looking for the extra formats. I’d go to Woolies and Boots and Pete’s Record Shack (where I was touched up by one of the assistants). I’d buy the ‘picture disc’ version, the limited edition ‘gate fold’ version, the 12”, the ‘picture disc’ 12” and, finally, just in case there was an extra track on it that I didn’t already have, the cassette tape. Only when I had all six versions of the same Marc song could I relax.
But buying the six different formats was just the start. With each new Soft Cell single there’d be interviews in the music press. So the NME and Melody Maker would have to be bought and any snippet of information that I could glean would have to be carefully cut out and added to my scrap book (one for each 'Marc year'). The tv listings would have to be gone through each morning in case Marc was making an appearance (there were no video recorders back then so I’d take a Polaroid snap of the tv screen). Then every Wednesday and Sunday night I’d sit nervously in my bedroom, my little tinny transistor radio by my side, waiting for the Top 40 run down, a blank cassette tape at the ready so that I could record his chart placing for prosperity, my finger hovering over the ‘pause’ button in case the DJ Mike Read talked over the intro. How I hated him for doing that. How dare he talk over Marc’s records! In fact, just last month, when I read that Mike Read had been made bankrupt, I thought, Ha! Serves you right for talking over Bedsitter in 1981!
In 1982 I moved to London. If that was where Marc lived that’s where I had to be and I found an attic flat in Pimlico, in one of the tall Victorian houses on Alderney Street. I was paying £12.50 a week rent and I decorated my small room with Marc Almond posters, crucifixes, Divine postcards and a framed, dead tarantula. My neighbours included an alcoholic air hostess who would stagger in each night (minus her stilettos) and a Greek waiter who would shag his girlfriend for hours on end, her orgasmic screams echoing up the stairway. But none of that mattered. I was in the same city as Marc. I was in Heaven.
Actually it was in Heaven that I first spotted Marc. It was a Wednesday night. The club night was called Asylum. It was known as the ‘alternative’ night and it was full of goths, punks and New Romantics. I, of course, was a goth. Punks didn’t wash their hair, New Romantics washed it too much, but goth’s got the balance just right. I’d crimp mine, back-comb it and then spray the whole sorry mess until it was so lacquered it repelled rain. Anyway, this particular night I was sitting in the upstairs bar at Heaven, sipping my lager top, trying to look demure, caked in Estee Lauder’s Long Wear: Stay In Place Foundation (which the air hostess had dropped in the hallway the night before), when in he walked. I almost passed out. Of course I was too shy to approach him and, so I thought, too cool to be caught staring. I was a Londoner now. The city was littered with stars. This wasn’t Weston-Super-Mare where you’d get Lena Zavaroni at The Playhouse for the Summer Season. I would have to act like a Londoner. I would have to pursue him carefully. So, for the next two hours, I followed him around the club. Casually noting what he was drinking, how he was dressed, how high his hair was. All the important details I would need to memorise if I was going to copy him. Because the great thing about Marc back then was that his look was so accessible. Not for him the pastel silk suits that Duran Duran pranced around in. No. Marc’s look could be bought at the Great Gear Market in Kings Road for under a tenner. And, luckily, as I was only taking home £45 a week, that was just as well.
What I also noticed though, and this was something I hadn’t prepared myself for, was that Marc had a following. Strangely, that hadn’t crossed my mind. I thought it was just me. I thought I was his only fan, that I was the only one who danced in their bedroom, copying every camp gesture, lip-synching to his songs in the mirror. But there were others and I’d have to share him. I was shocked. Not that I fancied Marc. Oh no. Not at all. I fancied men. And Marc wasn’t quite a man. Which is why he was so fascinating. He was occupying a strange space. A space that wasn’t manly, but, then again, wasn’t womanly either. I wasn’t quite sure what that space was but, whatever it was, Marc was in it and I wanted to be in it too. Besides, my love for Marc was too great to be spoiled by spotty teenage wanks. No, I didn’t fancy Marc. I wanted to be Marc. Or if I couldn’t be him, then at least be his best friend. And the only way I could get to be his friend was by hanging around the places I’d most likely bump into him. Soho.
At the time Marc was living in Brewer Street and so, every weekend, I’d stand outside his flat in the hope that I’d catch a glimpse of him. Sometimes I’d read in the press that he was on tour and my heart would sink. What would I do? Luckily video players had just come out so I bought my first VHS tape: Soft Cell’s Greatest Hits. It was incredible. Here I had 90 minutes of Marc that I could play over and over again. No more fuzzy 30 second snatches of Top of the Pops footage for me. No more trying to peep over shrieking fans at concerts. Here I could pour over him, rewind him, learn his lines, copy his nervous laugh, all in glorious detail.
It was around this time that I took to hanging round his recording studio in St Anne’s Court. This was the Trident recording studios in which Bowie and Bolan had recorded. Not that they meant anything to me. They were dinosaurs from the past. And it was outside this studio that I, tentatively, made friends with other Marc fans, the Gutterhearts as we were known; Tony ‘Rent Boy’ Diamond and Paul Hunwick. Paul was ‘someone to know,’ the envy of all Marc fans as he’d just been on one of the tours selling tee-shirts. And he and Tony introduced me to a new club scene; the Pink Panther on Wardour Street, the Bat Cave on Meard Street, The Bell in Kings Cross; and to the drug scene; speed, acid and grass.
But then something strange happened. I can’t quite put a date on it. I think it was sometime in 1985. Stories of Johnny had just come out and someone asked me if I’d bought the new picture disc. I hadn’t. I had the single and that was it. They looked at me, wide-eyed, and I could tell what they were thinking. Call yourself a fan? But, for the first time, six formats weren’t that important. Then a concert would go by and I didn’t buy a ticket. An appearance on tv that I hadn’t bothered to record. What was happening to me? It was worrying. But of course what was happening was that I was forming my own identity. I was in a band. I was in a relationship. I’d found my own space. My own Tainted Love.
And now, many clubs, drugs and high hair styles later, here I am, in the gym and Marc’s standing in front of me. But what is he doing here? This is no place for Marc Almond. This is Earls Court gym for God sake! Smelly changing rooms. Cheap hand weights. £50 a month on direct debit. It’s like spotting the Queen fingering ‘sell by’ goods in Aldi.
Anyway, we exchange a few pleasantries; my friend Martin is his pianist so Marc asks me about my play and if I'll be doing more dates. I mention the song Lavender he and Martin have just recorded and tell him how much I like it. Then we (Say Hello and) wave goodbye. I walk upstairs, pound away on the Stairmaster, Marc takes a bicycle nearby, chats with his personal trainer and, in this sweaty, grubby little room, just above a Big Mac on Earls Court Road, a little bit of my childhood fades quietly away.
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October 11, 2009 - Sunday
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I love Saturday mornings. I love that moment when you realise that you don’t have to get out of bed and you can just go back to sleep. It’s such a beautiful feeling – made even more so by the fact that it starts with uncertainty. What day is it? Is it Friday? Am I late for work? Then…Oh yes! It’s Saturday.
Jorge’s the first to wake up and it’s always the same routine. He drapes his leg over mine and then he rolls over for a cuddle. I’m usually facing in the other direction when he does this. I do this for two reasons. Firstly because I sleep better facing the right and secondly because I don’t want him to be faced with my morning breath. You may think that’s a bit silly, especially after he’s seen me in a number of uncompromising positions over the years; on the loo, off my face, being sick, on all fours, that kind of stuff, but it’s one of the few mysteries left - what’s Clay’s breath like in the mornings? Early on in the relationship I’d sneak out of bed, tip-toe to the bathroom, brush my teeth and then slip back between the sheets, a waft of Aquafresh Complete Care (‘advanced triple protection for the whole family’) permeating the room. But who can keep up that malarkey? So by facing the right the problem’s solved. Strangely, farting in bed has become perfectly acceptable over the years, so much so that rip-roaring trump can usually pass without comment. In fact it can be quite comforting. Especially on cold winter nights.
This Saturday was no exception and the morning started with the leg drape thing, a cuddle, then a yawn and a stretch from Jorge. ‘I had a really lovely dream,’ he said, as he reached for his dressing gown. ‘I was dreaming of cocks and really nice vases.’ Then he staggered out of the room to make breakfast. This is another of our routines. Jorge cooks and I wash up. I can’t stand cooking. When I was living on my own I lived on ‘ready made’ meals and cereal. If a meal took more than 45 seconds to prepare I’d get fidgety. Strangely, I’m quite happy to spend 45 minutes washing dishes as I find it quite therapeutic. Dinner plates are my favourite. But I’m also partial to saucepans, especially if they’re covered in a batch of dried-on sticky rice.
So after a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, blueberries and pomegranate juice, I got ready. It usually takes me about 30 minutes to get ready but this particular morning it took longer. I’d had a few drinks the night before so the face staring back at me in the bathroom mirror was not the face I wanted the world to see. So I shaved it. Protect and Perfect’d it. And then, as it called for extreme measures, ROC Retin-Ox Illuminateur’d it. It was still the same face but now it was greased and golden. Not quite Dale Winton but no longer Andy Warhol. I was ready to face the day.
As it was a sunny October morning I walked to Holland Park station and made my way to the end of the platform in the hope of getting a seat. Fortunately, when the tube arrived, it was empty - so there were seats galore. Nevertheless I still parked myself firmly by the door. I’m not the only person who does this I’ve noticed. Whoever gets on the tube first, they always rush to get the 'door seat.' It’s a bit like getting in a lift and heading for the corners. It’s that thing Londoner’s have about not wanting their body space invaded and I’m typically ‘London’ in that respect. Don’t speak to me, don’t touch me and don’t look at me (unless you’re hot).
I’d brought a book with me for the journey but as there was a London Lite on the next seat I flicked through that instead until I got to the Altered Image quiz (‘spot five differences in these two pictures of singer Beyonce’). I felt it was going to be a good day as, by Queensway, I’d already spotted that Beyonce was missing a silver hoop earring, a green Swarovski bangle and part of her weave. One of her boobs also appeared to be a lot higher than the other (though this may well have been an ink smudge). However, by Lancaster Gate I still hadn’t found the fifth difference so, begrudgingly, I moved down to Shelley von Strunckel’s Horoscope and was further dismayed to read that - it’s ‘not just the mistakes you’re contending with, it’s the terrible self doubt.’ Fortunately Ms Von Strunckel doesn’t leave you hanging there. If you phone her 0845 Helpline (calls £1.50 a minute) one of her gifted astrologers is available to offer guidance and support. What a relief.
By now the tube was at Bond Street, so I decided, in the remaining minutes, to stop wasting my time on the trashier elements of the newspaper and to focus in on the news i.e that Katie Price’s cage-fighting boyfriend is now a cross-dresser called Roxanne and that Lily Allen has been seen out in a short hemline and suspenders. Feeling suitably up-to-date with world events I stepped off the tube at Tottenham Court Road and headed to Soho to meet my friend Dexter, The Celebrity Hairdresser
I’ve known Dexter for about a year now and I always look forward to meeting him. We first met at a book signing in Mayfair. There I was, sitting forlornly in front of a pile of unwanted books, when in he walked. I nearly fainted. Dexter, The Celebrity Hairdresser had taken a night off from teasing Lulu’s blonde bristle bob to come and buy my book! I was in celebrity hair heaven. As I made my way down Old Compton Street (head bowed as I passed number 50) I called Dexter to find out where we should meet. He was engaged. Then his number flashed up on my mobile.
‘Dex! I was just calling you and you were engaged.’
‘That’s because I was calling you.’
Dexter is clever.
‘Where shall we meet?’ I said.
‘Don’t you have to go to The French House?’
See what I mean.
‘You’re right. I’ll meet you in there in a minute.’
The manageress of The French House is a lady called Hilary Penn and she’d asked if I would pop in to donate a book for a fundraising event being held for Michael Wojas, the ex-manager of The Colony Club, who has ongoing healthcare issues. I was happy to do this as I’ve given away more books than I’ve sold anyway. But the other reason Hilary wanted me there was to accompany her to the Dean Street brothel to see if the madam would be prepared to donate a blow job for the raffle. Two minutes later, Dexter, Hilary and I were outside the brothel doorway.
‘Ok, I don’t mind asking – but you’ve got to come with me Hilary.’
‘I will!’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Dexter. ‘We don’t want them to think we want something kinky.’
So Hilary and I walked up the stairway. I’d been up there many times before due to the leaks in the shop and it was just as I remembered it; the Formica floor tiles, the peeling wallpaper, a label stuck to the door with ‘Models Inside. Ring Bell.’ scribbled across it in a green felt-tip. I rang the bell. A second later a tip-tap of feet made their way to the door and I was conscious of someone peeping through the spy hole. I waved and smiled broadly. The door opened and there stood a gorgeous Italian girl. She had long dark, lustrous auburn hair, was heavily made up, dressed in a silk dressing gown which she clutched tightly at the neck.
‘Can I help you?’ she smiled, with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Ummm… My name’s Clayton and I err…’
‘Weren’t you the guy who came to court for us?’
‘Yes that was me.’ I ushered Hilary forward. ‘And this is Hilary from The French House. She was there too.’ Hilary blushed. ‘Err…is Sue in?’
‘Nah. She don’t work ‘ere no more. She works in the Brewer Street brothel.'
‘Really? I didn’t realise she’d moved. Do you know what time she starts?’ I asked, trying to peep over her shoulder into the front room, at the huge painting of naked women on the wall. She leant against the doorway, blocking my view. ‘She won’t be there ‘til after 5. Do you want me to pass on a message?’
I explained about Hilary’s raffle. The Italian girl looked at me strangely. ‘I’m not sure. We’ve never been asked to donate a blow job before. Go and speak to Sue.’
Surely with the requests that they must’ve had it can’t have been that unusual. Anyway, we said our goodbyes, walked back downstairs and arranged to meet Hilary at 5 o’clock. Then Dexter and I went to Hamburger Union for lunch.
Hamburger Union is across the road from the Indian restaurant, The Red Fort. Unfortunately it’s now closed for major refurbishment as it was severely damaged on July 10th when the biggest blaze in Central London for a decade destroyed the historic building next door. Another slice of Soho gone forever. We sat by the window. Dexter ordered hamburger, fries and salad and I ordered the same. As we were waiting for our food I spotted my tv producer friend, James and his boyfriend Dean, so I rushed outside to greet them. James had just submitted a treatment for three one hour episodes, based on my book, to Channel 4 and they’d just informed him that they'd decided not to take it further as they felt it was too similar to Queer As Folk. It was bit disappointing. Especially as Dirty White Boy is nothing like Queer As Folk. However the powers that be feel that any drama with gay people in it must be put in a box. Silly really, it’s like saying Emmerdale is similar to Dynasty just because it’s got straight people in it. Oh well.
Back inside Dexter listened intently as I told him about the Channel 4 'knock-back' and after an hour of sobbing into a plate full of fries (they were too dry anyway) the conversation moved onto sex, drugs and Dexter’s up coming one-man show. Dexter is going through the same things I went through in July; fear, excitement and nervousness. However he has a sure-fire hit on his hands. Dexter is a fabulous character. His writing is sharp. Plus his acting is excellent and I told him that I’ve booked for two nights and can’t wait to see what he’s done with the material.
Our meal finished I excused myself and went to the loo. While I was standing there, willy in hand, my mobile rang. Hilary’s name flashed up. Now I don’t know if anyone’s experienced this but when someone calls you when you’re in the toilet it’s difficult to know what to do. Do you press ‘reject’ and call them back? But if you press ‘reject’ will they realise you've 'rejected' them because it hasn’t rang for long enough? Or do you answer and talk very quietly? But if you do that then you’re forced to explain why you’re talking quietly. Plus, if you finish peeing half way through the call, it's hard to get your willy back in your trousers with the one free hand and then there’s always the fear that you might drop your mobile down the urinal. I decided to just let it ring. Once I finished shaking I called her back.
'Hilary, where are you?'
‘In the Duke of Wellington.’
‘Ok. We’ll be there in a minute.’
When we arrived at the Duke Of Welly Hilary was having a pint with the barman of The French House so I left Dexter there with him and Hilary and I made our way down Brewer Street to the brothel above the bookshop.
The first floor landing to the Brewer Street brothel is long and at the far end, way in the distance, sat a madam. Walking toward her I felt like a PA tip-toeing down the corridor toward Anna Wintour’s office. Except this Ms Wintour didn’t have a pair of dark sunglasses as her armour, she had steely blonde highlights and a two foot bust.
‘What is it luv!’ she snarled.
‘Err…I err…’ I turned to make sure Hilary was still with me. ‘Err…is Sue here?’
‘Nah!’
‘Oh. Well I…I was just wondering if I could have a blow job. Err...not for me, exactly. I mean as a prize. For err, a raffle.’
The madam flicked back a stray highlight, the snarl about to turn into a bark.
‘I…I used to have the shop below the Dean Street brothel.’
The snarl evaporated. ‘Are you Clayton?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know you!’ she smiled. ‘You came to ‘elp us in court. You wuz there with the Vicar from St Anne’s weren’t yer?’
‘Yeah that was me.’
‘O’course we can ‘elp you darlin’. Wot is it you need my love?’
So we explained again about the fundraising event and the madam suggested we buy a Hallmark greeting card and then she’d sign it, promising the winner a 10 minute nosh with one of her best gobblers.
Having done my good deed for the day, I kissed Hilary goodbye and then Dexter and I perched ourselves in the little coffee bar on the corner of Old Compton Street and Frith Street, sipped Hot Chocolate, handing Pam The Fag Lady some change, watching shrieking hen nights and gossiping twinks, until the neon lights flickered on and dusk hit the busy Soho street.
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September 16, 2009 - Wednesday
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The last time I recall seeing a long black silk negligee with a feather-lined neck it was on Bet Lynch, or was it Joan Collins? Either way, seeing Sebastian Horsley leaning out of a first floor window nestled inside one, his face coated in a fine white powder, his eyes caked in last night’s mascara, it’s a reminder of all those campy days gone by.
‘Hello Romeo, Juliet here. Welcome to Horsley Towers,’ he purrs sleepily, clasping his negligee at the neck, just as my mum used to do when she bent down to collect the milk from the doorstep each morning.
‘I’m sorry I’m a bit early.’
‘Oh not at all, my darling. Not at all. Hold on, I shall buzz you in.’
Seconds later he’s greeting me at his door, ‘Come in my dear. Come in. Make yourself at home while I make some tea.’ And he sweeps out the room, yards of see-though negligee floating in the air behind. While he’s getting ready, it’s a perfect opportunity to have a good nose around his front room: the display case full of human skulls, the Victorian syringes on the mantelpiece, the sunflower paintings, the life-size posters of himself. I take a seat on the velvet-lined window seat. There’s a box on the floor containing a rubber vagina. I pick it up just as Sebastian walks back in with a tray of drinks.
‘The Daily Mail sent me that. They want me to try it out and write a review,’ he says nonchalantly as he places the tray on his writing desk. ‘The only problem I’ve found so far is that you have to keep washing the thing out, which, of course, you don’t have to do with a woman. At least not the ones I’ve been with lately. Milk and sugar?’
‘Err…Yes please. Both.’
‘Here you go, my darling.’
'Thank you.’ I take a seat by the window and take a sip. ‘So how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Oh, I have been miserable of late,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘More than usual. Sleep is good, death is better; but the best thing would be never to have been born at all.’
‘That bad?’
'Life is travelling downhill in a car with no lights at terrific speed and driven by a four year old child. Oh well, if you can’t repair your brakes make your horn louder I say.’
‘Well maybe this will cheer you up.’
'They do say that laughter is the best medicine.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Well if that’s the case, why is everyone dying of cancer?’
‘Err…I’ve been asked to write an article about you, for a private members’ club magazine.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Hospital Club in Covent Garden.’
‘Those bunch of cunts!’
‘You know the-’
‘Oh yes, I know The Hospital Club. They are the stench billowing out from a pile of shit, the worm from a gorilla’s anus. I detest them!’
‘Why?'
‘Look at this.’ He beckons me over to his laptop and the comments on his webpage. ‘Look what they wrote about my book.’
I’m sitting here in the book club at The Hospital where we have been discussing Dandy In The Underworld. Our verdict: Nobody has finished the book. All of us are leaving our copies here so we don't have to bother carrying them home. Except me - I left it at home because I couldn't be bothered bringing it in. It's also the only book that has prompted us to get online, seek out the author and sledge him.
He points at the comment below. ‘Here’s what I wrote back…’
Dear the Hospital Book Club Group.
I am delighted you got as much misery reading my book as I got pleasure spending the money you paid me for it.
Suck My Nazi Cock.
Sebastian Horsley
Then he shuts the laptop down and takes a seat on a red velvet upholstered throne. ‘Did they not realise? Most writers’ works are water. I know everybody drinks water. But ‘Dandy’ is not for reading. It is for injecting.’
‘It’s true. Your book was the most honest book I’ve ever read.’
He smiles. ‘Darling, if they ever let me in, we should move to America. We shall never be respected here. Success in England inspires only envy. In America, hope. It is because life for the Americans is always becoming, never being. It is because they are unafraid of being positive. Poor old England. Sometimes negativity don’t pull you through.’
‘But you’ve had some good press over here,’ I remind him.
‘Yes. Well. I’ll soon be tumbling back into that arctic abyss from whence I came. Tossed aside like a used condom. Oh well, it is better to live one day as a tiger than a hundred years as a sheep. Hmmm. What about one day as a sheep?’ He brushes his trousers with a camp flick of the wrist. ‘Actually my darling, I was thinking about committing suicide. Take a look at this. It’s my suicide note.’ He reaches towards his desk and hands me a piece of paper.
'I am committing suicide today on my 90th birthday. You see my darlings, I am rather worried about my future.'
I laugh and put the note back down. ‘Oh don’t go! I’ll miss you,’ and I return to the window seat, looking outside onto Meard Street, the little cobbled thoroughfare where the famous Soho clubs, The Mandrake and The Gargoyle once stood; where Jean-Paul Sartre got pissed, where Tallulah Bankhead danced, where Francis Bacon was entranced, where Daniel Farson took Josh Avery in the book Dogs Days of Soho. One of the most magical streets in the village. ‘I miss Soho,’ I add quietly.
‘But my darling,’ Sebastian says reassuringly, ‘Soho will always be a part of you. You would not have sought it unless you had already found it.’
I turn round. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your book, my dear. You looked into all of Soho’s mirrors and you saw yourself reflected there. You drew nothing from them that were not already within yourself. And it all helped explain you to Clayton.’
I look at him intently, concentrating on what he’s saying.
‘You see my dear the artist tries to make himself whole through his work. Beethoven was deaf, Byron lame, Keats consumptive and the Guns’n’Roses singer is mad. It is a fair exchange. New roses for neuroses.’ He stands up and reaches for a cigarette. ‘I always think of art as being for the few. And, the higher the art, the fewer the few. And the highest art of all is of course for one.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
He pauses to light the cigarette and takes a drag. ‘What I mean is that a real artist creates for no other purpose than to please himself. Those who create because they want to please others and have audiences in mind are not artists.’ He taps the ash onto a plate on the writing table. ‘There are many people who write but have no real need to. Cocteau says, ‘The muse ushers the artist into the empty room and points silently at the tightrope.’ Wilde says, ‘The way of paradox is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tightrope.’
My head’s swimming now, but delightfully so, Sebastian being one of the few people who has this effect on me. He sits down again gracefully and continues. 'There is a line in my book, ‘Perhaps friendship should be limited to a very few - the fountain plays higher by the aperture being diminished.’ And indeed, the same is true of art. There are only a few of us, are they not? But this is as it should be. We should not, I feel, feed back to the public its own ignorance and cheap tastes. If one has a heart, one cannot write or paint for the masses. The masses are asses.’ He takes another quick drag of his cigarette then stubs it out in a quick defiant gesture. ‘The Hospital Club indeed! Bunch of cunts!
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September 11, 2009 - Friday
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On my left sits a white haired businessman. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and he's flicking through The Metro, picking his nose quite nonchalantly as he reads. On my right sits a Chinese girl. She’s cleaning her glasses with the sleeve of her shirt while chatting on her 'hands free' mobile. Next to her sits a Spanish boy, chatting on his mobile. And next to him a skinhead queen is doing the same. Two benches along, a man with two backpacks by his side is twitching in his seat, muttering obscenities, miming a masturbatory hand gesture. And just by the gates, two policemen have a shirtless boy pinned to the ground while they radio for reinforcements. I’m in the cultural melting pot that is Soho Square, the sun is filtering through the trees, drunken bodies are sprawled across the grass and it’s a beautiful September afternoon.
I like Soho Square. Despite the fact that today it’s at its busiest, I feel relaxed here. It’s been a tough few months, but sitting here, in the shade, doodling in my little black notebook, letting my mind wander, the day-to-day anxieties that can swamp you are put into perspective. Plus, I feel more creative here. And any little niggles I have about not writing, or not knowing what to write, gradually disappear.
I scan my surroundings. A white terrier rummages in the bushes in front of me. He cocks his leg up and pisses against a tree, then trots out, chasing a pigeon, causing a flock of them to take flight. There’s a splatter of shit around my feet as they swoop above my head. A fleck hits my shoe. Is this good luck? Who was it who told me that? Oh yes. I brush the memory aside and reach down, cleaning my shoe with a tissue. A feather floats down in front of my face and a black girl struts by. She’s got a cigarette in one hand and a Café Nero cup in the other. Her hair’s pulled back severely and she’s scowling as she looks for a seat, a glimpse of zebra-print tights as she leaves.
My shoe clean, I sit up, cross my legs and start to pepper the page of my notebook with nonsensical detail on what people are wearing and saying.
The skinhead queen (chinos and a ‘business casual’ shirt): “I’m willing to pay £1500.”
The ‘masturbating man’ (red football shirt): “Fuck you. You fucking cunts.”
The police: “Where is it? What did you do with it?”
My mobile rings. A friend's name flashes up and I have a flash of annoyance because my ‘me’ time has been invaded. I switch my mobile to ‘silent.’ Then a wave of guilt. We haven’t seen each other for so long. She’s been through so much. I wasn’t there. All these thoughts. While I try to reconcile them my mobile vibrates. It’s the ansaphone. I listen to the message. She’s coming into Soho. Where am I? Do I want to meet? I debate again. I only have 45 minutes. But the fact that she’s so close is the deciding factor. I call her back and I direct her from Carnaby Street, to Broadwick Street, making my way out of the Square, past the ‘masturbating man,’ the topless boy (one side of his face flat against the tarmac, the police, like proud hunters astride a felled beast), connecting with her on Wardour Street, where we hug, make small talk, finding ourselves minutes later on Old Compton Street, where we take seats outside Boulevard, ordering a glass of wine and a cappuccino. And the time apart, departs.
30 minutes later we’re saying our goodbyes. I walk back through Soho Square, around the 'Tudor style' gardener’s hut, the Charles II statue, mingling through the bustling crowds of Oxford Street, turning into Cavendish Square, heading down Harley Street. I have a dental appointment in a fancy clinic and I arrive with 5 minutes to spare.
I take a seat in the waiting room, scan the Arabic crowd and pick up The Times. I'm barely through the first paragraph when the receptionist walks in, hands me a clipboard and asks me to fill out the attached form: name, age, address, who is my doctor, usual stuff. I hand it back and, seconds later, my name is called out and my assigned dentist greets me in the doorway with a fixed smile, leading me down a passageway to his office. I walk behind him, having a flashback of me as a little boy being led into the Headmaster’s office; the grinning and bearded Mr Howley who kept a cane by his desk and took great delight in letting you see it. This 'headmaster' is a squat, middle-aged man with a shaved head and, I notice as he beckons me into his room, wisps of hair protruding from each nostril.
Now we’re in his office. He shuts the door with a ‘click’, takes a seat behind his desk and invites me to take the seat opposite. I feel a bit nervous. Trapped. And, for no apparent reason, a vision suddenly materializes of him whipping his trousers down and forcing my head onto his equally squat cock. I shake the thought off quickly as he’s staring at me intently, discussing my cracked LL6 as if its safe removal is of national importance. I have three options apparently. One: An injection. Two: Sedation. Three: To be anaesthetised. I ask him the difference between Two and Three, thinking he'll want me to opt for ‘Three’ so that he can have a quick fiddle while I’m under. Silly really. In the end I opt for the 'out of it' approach (‘Two’) as I figure that way I'll be able to get high and remember it, all without the cost/comedown. Then he informs me that I will be assigned my own anaesthetist, which sounds a bit too Michael Jacksonish for my liking and I have to stop myself from falling to my knees, grabbing his leg and crying, ‘Please! I beg you! Not Demerol!’
While he’s scribbling my requirement down on a pad I have another strange thought; what if wake up and find out he’s removed the wrong tooth? I immediately start calculating how much I’d get if I sued him, where I’d take Jorge on holiday and if there’d be enough left over to buy a new tumble-dryer. Then he hands me a piece of paper and I snap back to reality, reminding him that I need an X-Ray and, worringly, he replies, ‘Oh yes! I’d almost forgotten!’ and he directs me to the X-Ray Department on the adjacent street.
After walking round the block twice I eventually find the right building, clocking a cute Security Guard with a goatee on the way in, before taking the lift to the basement where a Chinese girl hands me another clipboard, asking me to fill out another form, all without taking her eyes from her computer screen. I hand back the completed form and pick up The Times again, just settling back into the same paragraph when she squeaks, ‘They’re ready for you.’ ‘They’ turns out to be an attractive black girl with a smiley face, who points me to a stool, placing what tastes like a sherbet bomb in my mouth, while the X-Ray machine spins round my head. A few seconds later she hands me the X-Ray and I tell her, even more worringly, that it’s the dentist that needs it, not me. I'm now imagining that not only will I have the wrong tooth taken out but that I’ll wake up with Ugly Betty braces.
As I leave I thank Smiley Face for her time, I ask the Chinese girl if I can take The Times (she says ‘yes’ without looking up) and I make my way back down Harley Street, toward Bond Street, thinking about a conversation a dentist once had with Quentin Crisp when he said, ‘It’s not your teeth that are falling apart my dear Quentin, it’s you!’
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July 13, 2009 - Monday
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Sondheim said "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor" in his lyric from Into The Woods so last night I walked into the woods of Whitehall's Trafalgar Studios basement to gingerly await the first night of Clayton Littlewoods DIRTY WHITE BOY, a play of the book, from the blog which appeared on The Hospital Club website. Before The Hospital, snippets appeared in The London Paper in the Soho Stories column and prior to this the blog was birthed on Clayton's myspace page. This background forms the early ten minutes of the play before David Benson acts out the characters that bedeck the paragraphs of the original Dirty White Boy blog. It's at this point that I need to own my own entry in Clay's world of magical prose for we met on myspace, which is where Clayton informs the audience he also encountered his cast; David Benson and Maggie K de Monde. They had read his blog and became enamored.
A reviewer needs to stand back and observe objectively hence the ginger entrance to my seat, hoping I wasn't going to people please a "wonderful darling" to a friend when it really was quite obviously the opposite. Confronted with a space the size of a Hoxton crack den, the stage was almost in our laps as was the set, two chairs and a dozen cardboard boxes with Dirty White Boy stickers. This no expense spared setting looked like work in progress, then the magic happened. The simplicity of the set was so bloody clever as characters appeared and reappeared with voices over, under and beyond with Phil Willmott's direction. David Benson was in his element strutting, swanning and parading as old queen Leslie, composed and suppressed as Charlie the lost love, raucously bold as Angie the mystical, freshly titted, "in yer face" transexual and later, as the Dirty White Boy shop closes, he butched up like a snout on The Bill, as the Bailiff chatting to Clayton about his marital woes. Mr Benson was clearly having the time of his life, screeching polari, nostrils flaring with resentment as Leslie held heavy court. Mr Littlewood's writing shone so swiftly, fiercely and emotionally that one laughed out loud while clutching an imaginary tissue for the kickback. The place rocked one minute, then gulped as silence fell with vibrational blatent honesty. The connection between the writer and David Bensons characterisation was sharper than a junkies needle as they both acted out Soho flotsom, social history and sexual hospitality in unison.
Clayton Littlewood brought hearty pathos to his performance as he explained how the opportunity to create the shop in Soho came from his coupling with Jorge, his partner who had a mens fashion shop called Dirty White Boy in Provincetown USA. Lets move it to London. This opportunity became the endgame we could not imagine. Who would have guessed that the tsunami credit crunch would sweep the shop out of town only to create a blog, an award winning book and now a riveting play. Yes, opportunity is not a lengthy visitor, we grab chances and embrace being out of control as Clayton embraced the characters that breezed into the shop on the corner of Dean & Old Compton Street. Clayton shares with us, like a street mummer, his trials, his risks and losses. This is not acting, it is breathtaking authenticity that encourages all to grab, grasp and explore the chances that befall us. We hold our breath as he switches from the exhaustion of it all, to the joy of the gains, the wonderful friends he made on myspace and the personal lessons learnt about love, trust and release. Finally Clay & Jorge decide to give up the fight making DWB insolvent, letting go with love to save sanity. At this point striking soul singer Maggie K de Monde movingly crafts a smoky song written specially for the play about Soho, that interjects on release, relief and the chance to move forward without regret. She captured the DWB journey perfectly in harmony with the structure of the play with two other songs self-penned with Martin Watkins, (Marc Almond's co-writer & keyboard player).
All sexualities, genders and age groups made up last nights audience reflecting the spread of Clayton's readers and Soho devotees. After the standing ovation I had no reason to smirk " wonderful darling ", but in the modern fashion I rushed home to facebook Clay and write humbling words of praise. He has no idea I am writing this review either. This slick, fast production was granted rehearsal space at and by The Hospital Club, so big up to them, and the play resides for 2 more consecutive Fridays at Trafalgar Studios ( 17, 24 July 2009 ) but will be sold out. Next time you see the play advertised, book ahead with fervour and be part of this rising addition to the creative energy of London.
I suggest you also take time out to read Clayton Littlewood's blogs on The Hospital Club's website or buy his book DIRTY WHITE BOY: Tales of Soho.
Have you seen Sir Elton Johns review? "the best book I read last year. Touching, funny & poignant" or Stephen Fry's "Funny, perceptive, sexy, exquisitely observed". Well these quotes sum up the play just as well.
Go see, but be quick, opportunity is not a lengthy visitor.
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July 11, 2009 - Saturday
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A play by Clayton Littlewood, adapted from his book Performed by David Benson and Clayton Littlewood With original music by Martin Watkins and Maggie K de Monde Directed by Phil Willmott Stage managed by Richard Walker Produced by James Seabright Clayton Littlewood grew up in Weston-Super-Mare and moved to London in his teens to join a band called Spongefinger as the lead singer. After being rejected by every record company in the UK he turned to pirate radio, hosting a comedy show where he posed as a female West Country aromatherapist by the name of Doctor Bunty. This led to an MA in Film and Television and writing a TV comedy script which inspired one agent to say, 'This is the most disgusting piece of filth we've ever read. Do not contact us again.' Clayton's latest ventures have been running the shop Dirty White Boy with his partner Jorge Betancourt, writing the Soho Stories column for The London Paper and being a contributor to BBC Radio. Dirty White Boy: Tales of Soho is his first book. It only took him 46 years to write it. This is his first play. Click here for more info: Clayton Littlewood
David Benson is best known for his solo shows including Think No Evil of Us: My Life With Kenneth Williams, plus nine others including his new one on Samuel Johnson, to be premiered at this year's Edinburgh Fringe. He played Noel Coward in the BBC series GoodnightSweetheart. David recently appeared in Stephen Brown's play Future Me (Scott Davison Productions). In 2008 he adapted and directed the award-nominated My Grandfather's Great War (also produced by James Seabright). Click here for more info: David Benson
Phil Willmott won TMA Best Musical award for Once Upon a Time at the Adelphi, which he wrote, composed and directed, a Peter Brook award for his productions of classical plays and family shows at The Scoop outdoor amphitheatre on London’s South Bank. He was recently nominated for a What’s On Stage award for Best Regional Theatre Production. His premiere of Joe DiPietro’s controversial play F**cking Men has just transferred to the West End along with his reworking Naked Boys Singing. He is Resident Director at The Kings Heads Theatre and the Artistic Director of The Steam Industry including the annual Free Theatre Season at the Scoop. Elsewhere, he directed the 10th anniversary company of Fame in the West End (Aldwych Theatre), Adelphi, Much Ado About Nothing, Billy Liar,Around the World in 80 Days (Liverpool Playhouse and Tour), Master Harold…and the Boys (Liverpool Everyman), Rent (Dublin), Pal Joey (Nottingham Playhouse), A Winter's Tale (The Courtyard) and Kiss of The Spiderman and Angels in America (Sheffield Crucible). His work as a playwright and composer is regularly published and performed around the world including his musical adaptations of A Christmas Carol, Dick Barton – Special Agent and Around the World in Eighty Days. Click here for more info: Phil Willmott
Maggie K de Monde (Scarlet Fantastic, Swans Way, Mighty K) has teamed up with Martin Watkins (Marc Almond's co writer & keyboard player) to write a series of songs which Maggie sings live at tonight’s performance. This collaboration has lead to a creative gush of melodramatic pop songs. Maggie and Martin will be appearing at Act Art London on Nov 6th and the Halo Bar London Nov 20th for a night of song and drama (See Myspace for further details). Maggie is 6ft 7'' in her heels and on a good day Martin's hair is as high as 7 inches. Click here for more info: Maggie and Martin
James Seabright is an independent theatre producer and general manager, with a particular focus on staging new work on small and middle scale theatre tours in the UK and internationally, as well as bringing shows to London venues of all shapes and sizes. James has been touring David Benson’s solo shows since 2003 and is delighted to be collaborating with him on this new production. Recent London shows include Ordinary Dreams, Potted Potter, The Quiz, Lizzie Roper in Peccadillo Circus (all at Trafalgar Studios), Bill Hicks: Slight Return (three West End seasons), and Showstopper! The Improvised Musical (Kings Head and Leicester Square Theatres). James cofounded Festival Highlights in 2003 and has produced or promoted over 100 shows under this banner at the Edinburgh fringe since then. He has written a beginner’s guide to theatre production for Nick Hern Books, to be published in early 2010. Click here for more info: James Seabright
First performed at Trafalgar Studios on 10, 17 & 24 July 2009 Rehearsal Space: The Hospital Club – Flyer/artwork: Joe Pearson With thanks to Katy Griffiths, the company of Eight, and all at Trafalgar Studios
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July 5, 2009 - Sunday
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Thank you to Carey Parrish for the lovely interview. Clay x Spotlight
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June 23, 2009 - Tuesday
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My play is about to open and I am wetting my knickers!
Not literally of course. Because I don’t wear knickers - I wear pants. But knickers has a nice ring to it don’t you think? Saying, ‘I’m wetting my blue Punto Blanco Y-fronts’ just doesn’t sound right. So ‘wetting my knickers’ it is. Friends have said, ‘Oh you must be really excited!’ and they stare at me across the dinner table, grinning from ear-to-ear, waiting for me to come back with something like, ‘Yes. I am!’ But I don’t. Because I'm not. I throw them a pained look instead.
You see, I didn’t set out to write a play. Actually I didn’t set out to write the book on which it’s based. It was just as blog. And this play business really stemmed from a few book readings I did with David Benson (who some of you may remember from his one man show, My Life With Kenneth Williams). David provided the voices as I read and it’s just kind of developed from there. We even got as far as the BBC. But, on two unfortunate occasions, we said naughty words on air and we were immediately ejected from the building. Bodes well doesn’t it?
So we've been rehearsing for the past month (at The Hospital Club, to which I am eternally grateful) and we’ve been working with a director called Phil Willmott. Phil’s very in demand. I’ve never worked with a director before and was a bit unsure of what to expect. But he has been a dream. He nods in all the right places, re-jiggles scenes round, and has said nothing about my ‘School Panto’ style delivery. Yes…Phil and David are excellent. And we’ve also got two fabulous musicians. My friends, Martin Watkins (Marc Almond’s pianist) and Maggie K de Monde (ex Swansway/Scarlett Fantastic). Martin has the most gorgeous hair in pop and Maggie is seven foot tall in heels with the voice of an angel. They were a natural fit into the Dirty White Boy gang. The only real weak link in all this actually is me.
I’m a worrier you see. Always have been. I could be diagnosed with a tumour the size of Chile but I’d be worried about who’d feed the cat. I’m not worried about no one turning up. Oh no. That doesn’t bother me. In fact, if the producer said, ‘I’ve found a red telephone box for you to perform your show in,’ I’d be quite happy. No, what I’m worried about is forgetting my lines. Silly really cos’ I wrote ‘em! But I suppose it’s that fear of getting up on stage and going blank. In fact, I felt very much the same when I did my first book reading. Just before I was about to get on the stage I suddenly thought, ‘I've forgotten my name and I want to go to the loo!’ Not the most positive thought with which to start a reading. I wonder if J K Rowling ever has that problem...check how quickly she walks up to the podium next time she’s on tv. I kind of half-skipped, half minced. Maybe she does the same.
Clay x
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June 20, 2009 - Saturday
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'The best book I read last year. Touching, funny and poignant.' (Sir Elton John)
'Funny, perceptive, sexy, exquisitely observed.' (Stephen Fry)
July 10th, 17th and 24th at 9:30pm
Trafalgar Studios. Whitehall. London. SW1A 2DY
Box Office: 0870 060 6632
Tickets £10
Based on the award winning book (GT Readers Award. Book of the Year)
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June 6, 2009 - Saturday
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A lovely gentleman by the name of Justin Gowers recently reviewed my book and, having read it, sent me one which he thought I’d be interested in reading: John Rechy’s City of Night.More than any other writer in the 20th century, John Rechy has shaped the consciousness of generations of gay men. I remember discovering Rechy back in the 80’s after his book Numbers was name-checked in a song by Soft Cell. I also remember flicking excitedly (with one hand) through The Sexual Outlaw when I was a spotty nineteen year old living in a bedsit in Pimlico. It was quite an eye-opener to discover a writer dealing frankly and seriously with the search for love, and sex, among gay men in America’s cities. I wasn’t interested in reading ‘coming out’ stories after that. Why would I be? Here was a man whose writing went far beyond that realm. First published in 1963 City of Night revealed a subculture that had never been written about so brutally or honestly before (not even by Jean Genet) and it became an overnight sensation. Yet, while City of Night was becoming a bestseller Rechy continued with his regular job: that of a hustler.
“One of the few original American writers of the last century.” Gore Vidal
Set in New York’s Times Square, Los Angeles and New Orleans Rechy follows the journey of an unnamed narrator and the characters he meets: Lance O’Hara, once Hollywood’s greatest star and now in love with another hustler, the bedridden Professor who keeps a scrapbook of all the angelic young men he has slept with and Miss Destiny, the queen of all the hustlers, and her endless parade of faithless husbands.
“(A) groundbreaking book…observing a whole new array of characters… many of them for the first time in American literature.” Edmund White
City of Night led the way for gay literature and has been accepted as a classic the equal of Kerouac’s On the Road. This new edition makes it accessible for a new generation of readers.
John Rechy has been accepted as a major American writer, he was the first novelist to receive the prestigious PEN-USA-West’s Lifetime Achievement Award and now teaches at the University of Southern California. His work has been translated into 20 languages. If you stuck for a book to read, check Rechy’s book out. It’s just been re-released by Independent Voices.
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May 21, 2009 - Thursday
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Dirty White Boy: Tales of Soho has just won the Book Of The Year in the GT Reader Awards 2009!
Thankyou to everyone who voted,
Clay x
Dirty White Boy: Tales of Soho
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May 11, 2009 - Monday
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1:20pm.
I’m sitting in Mr Topper’s, staring into the mirror while the platinum blonde assistant clippers my hair.
'I gotta friend stayin’ with me next week,’ she says cheerfully. ‘E’s from Croydon.’
I smile and carry on staring at my reflection.
‘Not our Croydon. The one near Sydney.’
I smile again.
‘It’s a shithole though. Same as ours.’ She catches my eye in the mirror. ‘Hey me an' 'im are both from Croydon. Int that funny?’
‘Yes very.’
‘He’s comin’ over with ‘is parents. 8:30 on Wednesday they get ‘ere. An’ he wants me to take ‘im out to the clubs.’ She switches to a smaller blade. ‘I’m a bit worried though cos’ he’s only jus’ got outta rehab. He wuz addicted to Crystal Meth n’ GHB. He ‘ad that fing. Wot’s it called again?’ She stops clippering, resting the clippers on my head. ‘Drug psychosis! That’s wot ‘e ‘ad.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘So I’m a bit nervous ‘bout takin’ ‘im out. You nah whatta mean.’
I can’t think of anything to add so I carry on staring ahead.
‘I was finkin’ of takin’ ‘im to see a musical...Someone told me to go an’ see that Woman in Black. It’s ‘bout a woman who ‘as a miscarriage an’ it comes back to haunt ‘er. But I fort that might be a bit deep. So I’m gonna take ‘im to see Wicked.’
'That’s a good idea.’
‘Anyway...’ she sings, ready to move the conversation on to something more upbeat, ‘you bin out this weekend?’ Before I have chance to answer she continues. ‘I went to me mate’s house on Saturday. She wuz ‘aving a Hawaiian party. It was really great. All me Facebook friends wuz there. An’ they’d stuck all these sheets of blue paper on the walls with fish on ‘em – so it looked just like the sea.'
I carry on smiling into the mirror while she clippers around my ears.
‘An’ they ‘ad this inflatable palm tree that they put all the beers in.’
‘It sounds very-’
‘An’ everyone wuz dressed up. I wuz the only one who dint bother. But when I got there they said, ‘We gotta spare grass skirt if you wan’ it.’ So I put that on. The only problem wuz every time I went to the loo I kept pissing on it an’ it stuck to me legs. Do you want me to thin it out on top a bit?’
‘Err, yes please.’
‘An’ me mate Mark wuz there….That wuz weird.’
I think she’s expecting me to ask why so I do.
‘Well he’s a soldier in Afganistan an’ he said he’s bin getting’ blow jobs from the soldiers. He said they all do it.’ She stops clippering again. ‘Do you think he’s gay?’
‘Well it certainly sounds-’
‘That’s wot I said! I said, ‘You’re gay now Mark.’ An’ he said, ‘No I’m not! I jus’ let ‘em do it cos’ I’m bored.’ He gets posted to Cyprus next. Ayia Napa.’
‘Well I’m sure he’ll get his money’s worth there.’
‘There!’ she says, holding up a small mirror behind me, showing me the cut from all angles. ‘Ow’s that?’
‘Great. Thank you.’
‘Next!’
I pay the £7, give her a tip and step outside.
It’s a warm afternoon and the street’s gone through a metamorphosis. Fashion queens are struttin’, burly bears are bumpin’, Brazilian hookers, twinks n’ lookers, Ipods n’ sports bags, Celtic tattoos n’ fag hags, gayers n’ lezzas, bi’s n’ transers, everyone competin’ for that crownin’ achievement, Soho’s Next Top Model.
I stop at the little coffee shop on the corner of Frith Street. Order a cappuccino. Decide against a cake. Take my usual spot, tucked up in the corner by the window watching the madness we call life walk by. Two minutes later Pam shuffles in. I dig into my pocket.
‘Gotta gold one for me?’
‘Err…’
‘That’s all I need then I can go ‘ome.’
I hand her a pound coin. She squints at it through her thick NHS glasses. ‘It’s all I’ve got Pam.’
She wraps her arms round me, snuffling into my tee-shirt. ‘Thank you…Luv you!’ And out she waddles, like something from Beatrix Potter. Pam the Fag Lady, the hardest worker (and the most cheerful) on Old Compton Street.
I stir my coffee. Carry on gazing out of the window. A glam middle-aged woman glides by. Faye Dunaway like hair, tweed suit and a stare, haughty hauteur, dripping in couture, surgically enhanced, a flirtaceous sideways glance. And then, walking past Aware, an old gentleman with a stick, a beige Fedora which he tips. Faces from the past. 1950’s class.
I look below me, at the packed coffee tables, tourists chattering, single guys cruising, and at the end table, a star from my New Romantic past: Pete Burns, sipping coffee with a friend. Like geisha girls on a break. Ghostly white, inflated lips, black weave and painted brows. He’s spun ‘right round baby right round’ - all the way round to a new androgyny for a new Soho century.
I check my watch. 25 minutes left. So I knock back my coffee. Smile at the waitress and head down Frith Street for Soho Square. Kirsty’s bench. Stretching out and letting the sun wash over me; on ‘an empty bench in Soho Square. If you’d have come you’d have found me there.’
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February 21, 2009 - Saturday
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This result is far more exciting. And the winner is.....(drum roll, drum roll)YAYYYYYYYY! THE GIRLS WON! 61 DEAN STREET IS BACK IN BUSINESS! x
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