Happy New Yawn

Now I'm not one to turn down the opportunity to get pissed and have a bit of a party but, really, what the fuck is New Year all about?

Woo - it's midnight! Woo - it's a new day! You could do that on any night of the week and people would accuse you of being a tad insane.

That said, I've no problem with the celebrations per se, it's all that kissing business that really gets my goat. If God had meant us to kiss people we barely know he would have made us all European. (Yes, I know that, technically, we are, but I refuse to acknowledge the fact. The British are British and everyone else is foreign, OK?)

It's not just that, either. I'm already dreading going pretty much anywhere for at least the next two weeks to face the meaningless "happy new year" chants from people I neither know nor care about. There's always some annoying twat at work who will insist on repeating it to *each and every person* like a vacuous verbal talisman. They do it to prove how "nice" they are, but God forbid you don't recite it back to them, they'll be dissing your arse till next Christmas!

As usual I shall be slurring my words and spilling my drink at Retro when Big Ben bangs the midnight gong. Some of the fashionable people are off to Duckie, but I consider 15 quid to get into South Central to see Yr Mum Ya Dad a bit excessive. I don't mean to bang on about these boys again, but I think I've finally figured out the problem - it's a generation thing as I suspected...

The point of Yr Mum Ya Dad is that there is no point. When you're young you don't mind that - "oh wow, it was really funny. These two guys came out wearing make up and, like, weird clothes and stuff, and they, like, poured milk over each other and everything, it was soo classic!" Once you get older it's just *hand on hip and adopt a distainful snear* ... "what's this rubbish?"

At Retro we have a balloon drop - far more civilised! See you next year!

Help the Aged

I've decided I want to be like the Golden Girls when I grow up.

Wouldn't it be great to spend your autumn years swanning round a big house making acerbic remarks all day with nobody getting uptight about it? Not only that, they have their own housekeeper and ice cream magically appears in the freezer without anyone having to go out and shop for it.

It is law that if you're a lesbian you have to like Dorothy best, if you're a straight woman you like Blanche, and if you are a bummer you like Rose. While I generally despise gender stereotypes, I'm prepared to go along with this one. Though I think I'd like to be Sophia when I get really old.

For the past couple of weeks I've been reading a book called Early Bird by Rodney Rothman. It's about a man who decides to pack his job in and go and live in a retirement village in Florida at the age of 28. That sounds quite nice too - there are lots of activities that people can join in to keep their minds and bodies active. Those that don't take part are largely regarded with suspicion. The writer's flatmate is the local odd woman who refuses to join in any of the events, rarely speaks to anyone and just stays at home with her pets. I recognise myself immediately.

Short of a miraculous change of fortune, I worry that I will end up in council operated Sheltered Housing. Living in a tiny flat with no cat allowed would be bad enough, but I'll also be surrounded by straight people endlessly banging on about their grand kids. What a hideous thought. So isn't is about time somebody started thinking about retirement facilities for gay people? Where do the gayers go to die? I think Brighton would be the best place. I can see us all on the prom with glitter zimmers.

There must be someone out there with the money and enterprise to make it happen. I hope they don't wait too long ...

For Kirsty

Yesterday was the 5th anniversary of Kirsty MacColl's death. I don't get teary eyed about it like I used to, but I never forget. In the evening I put on Titanic Days and toasted her memory with a nice glass of red. I think it's a tribute she would have appreciated.

I have fond memories of Kirsty coming into the HMV shop I worked at in Ealing. She was always sweet, polite and not at all "starry".

She then had the honour of being the first person I ever interviewed when I worked for the HMV website a few years later. Again, she was adorable and almost as nervous as me. God knows, I was bricking it! We had a lame chat about the weather before the interview started, it was all so normal and gave me fresh confidence.

But her influence on my life has been greater than that. After the devastation of her death, something she once said on TV came back to me. I was at the tail end of relationship that had been dragging on for years. I knew it was time to leave but was scared of making the break. For some reason Kirsty's words came to me really clearly, she was talking about her divorce from Steve Lillywhite, how she'd held out for years thinking "it was good once before, maybe it'll be good again." In the end she had realised that would never happen and so had left. "We're both much happier now", she said. And she was right.

Moving away from that situation opened up a whole new world of opportunities for me, I wouldn't have the life or any of the friends I have now if I had stayed.

A group of us paid to have a memorial installed in Soho Square - an empty bench, like the lyrics of one of her songs.

This sentiment has been used before, but it's still the most beautiful: Kirsty MacColl - thank you for the days.

Ho Ho NO!

I seem to keep thinking of ideas for feature articles just a bit too late to try and sell them. Rats!

My latest cunning plan is to devise a compendium for Christmas haters.

I think I'll make it a misanthropist's guide as we are vastly over looked in popular culture. It will list ways of coping with the oppressive saturation of festive nastiness, how to entertain yourself when you're denied the pub, shops, gym etc.

As the day draws closer it seems there are greater barriers drawn between me and the things I enjoy:

• Don't go out in the car, you'll be stuck in traffic.
• Don't go to the shops, you'll be stuck in queues.
• Don't go to the pub, you'll be surrounded by idiots.
• Don't get public transport cos the idiots will be chucking up everywhere.

Still, there's sport to be devised from the misery - I always enjoy sniggering at couples in the supermarket, totally losing it with their kids and having stand up rows over which stuffing to buy.

Though I might have to start handing out awards for outstanding contributions to monotony if I have to listen to one more person discussing what they're having for lunch.

As tradition dictates, I will be spending the holidays with the door locked and a big stack of DVDs to watch. In fact, a quick straw poll at The Retro last night confirmed that the populist activity for the gays this year is to sit in and watch Golden Girls.

Of course, even that costs money so that leads me to my practical tip for the season - why buy DVDs when you can them rent online them for nowt? Sign up for a free trial at a rental store and you can have 3 films to watch for nothing. Sign up for two and you can have 6.

Hours of Christmas entertainment for an outlay of absolutely no pee! Hurrah! Just don't forget to cancel before the new year.

Baby who? Baby Jesus!

Well, I'm pleased to say Kiki and Herb's 'Jesus Wept' at the Queen Elizabeth Hall succeeded in putting a smile back on my miserable face. Of course, I always knew it would.

There's enough jolly stuff to please the Christmas likers, but enough bitterness and bile to satisfy the haters too.

I had been listening to their 'Do You Hear What We Hear?' CD over the weekend to get in the mood, it was nice to see parts of it coming to life on the great stage. I always love the "make yourselves comfortable" intro piece and the festive "baby who? Baby Jesus!" line is my favourite thing EVAH!

It was reassuring to hear that Kiki and Herb are now immortal after drinking the milk of their longtime cow-friend, Daisy. She herself was present at the birth of our lord and accidentally ate some of the after birth, she has therefore been granted ever lasting life.

Along with the good news, it wouldn't be Kiki without associated tales of pain and suffering. In this case it was her harrowing brush with cancer - "imagine being immortal but with a fatal disease."

I loved Herb's solo spot, I just wish I could remember it with a little more clarity. I know it started with The Little Drummer Boy and then turned into a tale of woe. When it mutated into The Cure's 'Boys Don't Cry', I just about wet 'em.

I won't say it was my favourite Kiki and Herb show ever, that honour still goes to the "boat" - all 7 nights that I attended. And the Kings College thing too. I missed the intimacy of the smaller venues, I also prefer the non- Christmas shows that get deeper into the character's persona and the malcontent that drives them. That's when it all gets more emotional and hangs onto reality by an even slimmer thread.

Afterwards I did Cinderella Schmoozerella and went to the after show. Hung out with Joan Dairy Queen, DJ Farah, Crazy Sean, Our Steve and, er, some others. I remember there was a troll-like man sat on top of the water cooler who seemed alarmed that I was drinking so much water. I think he thought I was an ecstasy casualty. Good lord, the druggies didn't invent thirst, you know. We've had it for centuries!

Oh, I also got to meet the aforementioned Daisy who was sprawled enticing across the couch in Justin's room. I petted her ear and she moo-ed contentedly. I hope she hasn't given me immortality, I don't think I could cope.

Chin up

For some reason I have been in the blackest mood since Sunday morning - consumed with wretchedness and paranoia.

Tonight, however, I have decided to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow I see Kiki and Herb. Hooray!

I'm slightly alarmed at my mature approach of only going to one of their two shows as I have college on Wednesday. I'm not quite sure when I got so grown up. Still, I'm glad I'm sticking to my course cos I have a bit of a bad rep for ducking out of things.

I have been extra cheered by the fact that Rainbow Network may be interested in using my first feature article. Yay! They can't afford to pay, but it will be good exposure and will earn me extra "swot" points in class.

I've also been sending my demo disc out to try and get some DJ work. 2006 will be the year of Right Nasty ... or something.

Firebomb Shepherds Bush Empire

I'm putting you all in charge of reminding me - if I ever think it's a good idea to go to Shepherds Bush Empire again, STOP ME!

I arrived for Antony and the Johnsons on Tuesday full of joy and expectation. As soon as I got there I was hit by a wall of heat and people. Even getting through the door was a bleedin struggle. Then, of course, there's that dreadful flat floor meaning there's virtually NOWHERE you can stand to get a good view.

After much effort I managed to squeeze myself into a position 1 centimetre wider than my body circumference. Next to me was a prissy queen with smelly hair, and in front was something with an arse like Barbapapa. To add to my ever darkening mood, someone else nearby kept farting.

Antony's set was fabulous, in usual circumstances I would have loved it. He did Cripple and the Starfish and Fell In Love With A Dead Boy. Then he was joined on stage by Boy George for You Are My Sister. Having positioned myself so I could see half of Antony's head, the most I could see of George was his hat. He sounded good though.

The encore was a track called The Mother Song, we were asked to picture our mothers. He nearly lost me at that point until he reassured, "It's OK, it doesn't have to be your real mother if you don't like her." Hee hee.

I was hoping for River of Sorrow thinking that might wash the pain away, but alas...

He's still my hero and I still love him but, for God's sake, make him play somewhere better next time.

No Sex Please, I Love You

Something that's bothered me for a long time is why we live in a society that has no problem understanding sex without love, but can't quite get its head around love without sex.

With many people it's inevitable that if you mention any kind of affection for someone, then the eyebrows will raise and the nudge-nudge, wink-wink will begin.

Last night I met the boyfriend of my platonic object of affection. Somebody commented the meeting must have been "difficult" for me, assuming I would be in some way jealous. On the contrary, I had wanted to meet his partner for a long time and was glad to see him so happy.

The presence of his boyfriend in no way compromised my relationship with him as they are two completely different things. I have actively gone out of my way, on at least two occasions, to avoid seeing parts of his naked body. In fact, the thought of doing so makes me nauseous because I don't see him as a sexual object, I just love him.

Of course, not everyone is baffled. Toby shares my enjoyment of platonic crushes and was trying to explain one of his to a lesbian colleague at work. She looked on slack jawed and couldn't understand why, as a gay man, he would enjoy looking at a woman. She said she's never considered a man to be attractive. I find that kind of scary.

Platonic romance is so much fun, much less complicated than the sexual kind where those horrible hormones kick in and make you feel foul. Yet you still get the same happy rushes when you see your pet person or they send you a cute little message. Aside from the odd "missing you" pang, they are pain free, reliable and you don't have to fret about your personal hygiene.

I recommend you look for one today.

Smack My Bitch Up

Went to see The Prodigy at Brixton tonight. They were fan-pippin-tastic!! It was kind of like being at a rave (at my age!), the liveliest gig EVER, by far.

I was easily one of the oldest there. At first that seemed a bit weird, but when I realised that meant I could eyeball people and intimidate them to get out the way, it was all plain sailing!!

They played lots of fantastic hits - Voodoo People was cool, so was Out of Space, but my favourite would have to be Poison. I was glad to see Smack My Bitch Up was still in the set after all that ridiculous furore about domestic violence a few years ago. Good lord, some people are just crying out for a slap!

I'm not sure what was going on with Keith Flint, he's dyed his hair black and kind of resembles Hitler. Still, it's a look I suppose.

I was kind of hoping the Ping Pong Bitches would make a special appearance and do Girls, sadly it was not to be. In fact they didn't do much from the new album, I only remember Spitfire and perhaps another one. They did Charley, though. Yay! You can't beat a good tribute to a cartoon cat.

I Love the Nightlife

I was feeling a little stir crazy and sorry for myself yesterday, so I decided upon some gentle retail therapy and then a quiet drink at Retro with Toby.

I wasn't going to go to Horse Meat Disco where I was until midnight. And I certainly wasn't going to go to Marvellous where I was until 3am. Oh dear! Seems I tested my resolve and found that I have none.

I'm not sure I liked Horse Meat too much. I had been wanting to go for a while and since Sammy Jo was DJing it seemed like a good excuse, especially as he got me in free. The place was very packed and one of the bar staff was a misogynist cunt who wouldn't serve women. Aside from that it was OK, had a nice chat with Justin and then Christof's mum showed me her clit piercings in the toilet. Well actually, she was showing them to anyone who would look - I've never seen queens with such fear on their faces!

I was happier in the familiar surrounds of Marvellous. It was the last Sunday of the month and so Yr Mum, Ya Dad had their club night going on in the room next door. Now, I've nothing against the chaps themselves, they both seem like perfectly nice fellows, but the audience they attract is the most laughable collection of fashion disasters ever. It makes me realise that one of the most enjoyable aspects of getting older is being able to point your finger and laugh at the young.

Some dick walked past us with an album sleeve on her head. I couldn't get close enough to see what it was, but I bet it was something shit like Kate Bush. I'm slightly ashamed to say I goaded on a very drunken Paul from Gladstone Arms to try and set fire to it, sadly something in a pink and blue shell suit stopped him. Probably just as well.

I tasted Justin's lip gloss on numerous occasions, reprimanded Joan Dairy Queen for wearing real fur, bitched about Wayne Shires with Paul the poster guy and then trotted off home. Last thing I remember is part falling down the stairs on the night bus, whacking my knee and staggering out the door muttering "fuck". Well, if you're going to be a drunk, may as well do the job properly.

Blonde Blast from the Past

Long before I'd ever even heard of Justin Bond, I used to stalk a little known blonde songstress by the name of Deborah Harry.

I credit Blondie for releasing me from geekdom when I was a mere 13 or 14 years old. I was a shy, awkward teenager who was obsessed with Abba. Thankfully, one of the older kids at school took to playing Parallel Lines and Plastic Letters in the rec room and I was suddenly transported to the world of "hip".

It wasn't until 1989 that I finally got to see Debbie live, it was at the Town and Country Club. I remember that for the first couple of minutes I could hear her but couldn't see through the crowd. Then I finally elbowed my way to the front and YEOWW, she was absolutely blummin gorgeous!

That marked the start of a 12 year infatuation that took me all over the country and even to the USA to see gigs. I even have a dodgy tattoo on my shoulder that features her name. I plan to get rid of it soon - believe me, it really is dodgy!

Last night, dosed up on Advil and with a pleasing Jack Daniels anesthetic (supplied by the aforementioned Mr Bond), I trotted off to see Blondie at the Royal Albert Hall. I can't say I was especially excited, I was expecting a greatest hits package and I'm bored to death with all those songs. Thankfully, it seems, so are they!

Instead we got lots of stuff from Parallel Lines, a surprisingly fab version of Good Boys and just a few of the obvious hits. I always enjoy Rapture live, I don't care how naff it is!

Sadly they also threw in a cover of Roxy Music's More Than This. God knows who thought that was good idea, I haven't been so embarrassed since they covered Heroes!

Still, it was a nice trip down memory lane. Tall Paul is off to see them at Shepherds Bush next month too, but I've decided to give that one a miss. Time to move on ...

Deep Heat - Fragrance of the Year

This week has been a total pain in the arse. Literally!

I woke up Saturday to discover my spine had decided to take a wander round and trap one of the nerves at the back of my thigh. Gentle reader, you can imagine my delight.

By Sunday evening I thought I had done enough stretches and twists to free the bugger but, no, by Monday morning the incessant throb had returned.

Thus, as well as wearing an even bigger scowl than usual, I have had to replace my delicate aroma of Bulgari Blu with the overwhelming stench of Deep Heat rub. Just as well I'm not on the pull.

Still, at least it's given me an excuse to buy the darlingest fur fabric hot water bottle. My loss is Tesco's gain.

Dark Days

If, like me, you occasionally walk past homeless beggars sitting in the street and think, "get off your arse, you lazy bastard!" then you might like Dark Days, the DVD I watched last night.

It's a documentary about a group of homeless people who used to live in an underground railway tunnel in New York City.

They weren't just dossers who felt sorry for themselves, they would drag boards, pieces and furniture and equipment down there and had all managed to build themselves little houses, utilizing the electricity from the train tracks to fuel their cookers etc. They were fiercely house proud, one of the guys would even make people take their shoes off before they came into his hut.

There was a great camaraderie in the tunnel. People felt safer living down there instead of being on the streets where they didn't know who was going to walk by and what was going to happen next. Here they were all united against the same enemy - the many rats who also called the place home!

There was a strict code of conduct, nobody stole from each other or entered anybody else's space without being invited. The penalty for violation was harsh - one woman got into a fight with one of her neighbours and came home to find her hut being burned to the ground.

Eventually the group were evicted by Amtrak, the US rail company. They were all given proper homes and jobs by the local government. Most of the stories had happy endings and people made the most of the opportunity they were given. Though there was one guy who couldn't cope with the return to normality - he returned to the tunnel where he sat on the tracks and waited for a train ...

Scream!

Blimey crikey! I just accidentally set off my personal alarm as I was opening the front door. Scared me more than any ne'er-do-well on the street has ever done, I can tell you!

I can't actually believe I even carry the damn thing. They were giving them away free at work a while ago, after a number of instances of friends and aquaintances being mugged over the past year, I thought I might as well take one.

I should point out that, without exception, the victims I know have all been fully grown adult males. Somewhat contradictory to the popular view that it's only women who shouldn't be going out on their own at night. Looks like the patriarchal males should be paying a bit more attention to themselves and their own well being.

I was reading an interview with a woman who is 102 last week. She described the horrific things that happened during WW1 and 2, but then said she feels more scared living in London now than she did back then.

Then I was talking to somebody at college who has been researching ASBOs. It seems that, far from being a deterrent, they have become more like a status symbol in certain quarters. Somehow, that really doesn't surprise me at all.

Then she went on the talk about the school she works in and how the head teacher has been physically assaulted by parents when he has called them in to discuss their children's behaviour. If I think about it for too long it starts to really freak me out.

I know it's easy to look back with rose tinted glasses and think, "It wasn't like that in my day...", but it really was different as recently as 30-odd years ago. If a group of kids started playing up on the train, then an adult would step in and tell them to behave. Now they're too scared to in case they get a knife in the face. And at the same time there's talk of legal restrictions on the way that people discipline their kids. It's ridiculous!

As I jump back into old lady mode - I was given a few good slaps when I was a kid and it didn't do me any harm.

It seriously worries me to think what will happen in the next 30 years. I guess at some point it needs to go full circle and strict discipline will come back into fashion instead of woolly liberal shit. I can't see who's going to take it forward though. Maybe it's like Mark Wood used to say - we need a good war to humble people again.

Justin Escariot

Can you believe that in an online radio interview Justin Bond was asked if he had any stalkers and he replied, "NO"?! Oh, the betrayal!

To prove my mettle I have spend much of this weekend following him around like a bad smell.

On Friday I made my second visit to his shows at Too 2 Much. He had changed the set around a bit from last week, there were a couple of Bowie numbers and lots of new dialogue. Sadly Clean White Bed was dropped, I'm hoping it will appear again before the end of the run.

The evening was slightly marred by constant yapping from much of the crowd. What the hell is wrong with these people? It's not like there's a shortage of pubs in London if all you want to do is talk. If you pay to come along to see somebody's performance, then show some manners and shut the fuck up!

After ending Friday exceptionally drunk, I was planning a nice quiet night in on Saturday. That swiftly ended when I was reminded that Justin was appearing at Duckie. Well, as you can imagine, I was in the bath and into my glad rags before you could say, "get a life you sad obsessive freak"!

Turned out to be a nice evening, Justin played a fabulous short set with an amazing version of Kate Bush's King of the Mountain. I hope I never have to hear the original as it will just spoil it all. Then he came and joined us on the dancefloor for some dancing and gossip. Even by his standards he looked amazingly beautiful, with false eye lashes, blue and silver shadow and red lipstick. He's always endearingly tolerant of my fawning, thank god!

Elsewhere it was good to catch up with a few old faces - Jonny Slut and Tim 'n' Rob. Boogied my little booties off to my current fave - Madonna's Hung Up. Madonna + Abba = brilliant??? How the hell does that maths work?! I don't know - but it does!

Got the bus home with Tom where we had a lengthy conversation about our intense hatred of other people. No better or more fulfilling way to end an evening, in my opinion!

I Am A Swot

I got full marks for the two news stories I handed in at my course last week. It's official - I AM A GREAT BIG GIRLY SWOT!

You can read my great works of prose here:

Kiki and Herb Christmas Show
The Nativity was never like this...

New Channel 4 Interactive TV Show
Moral Guardian or Marketing Ploy? Vote Now...

On top of that, I've also been published again - in Heat magazine no less! Ha ha, there's nowhere to go but up from there!

They published my snippet about seeing Marco from Big Brother at the Retro, accidentally smacking himself in the face with his camera. I'm sure he'll be glad of the publicity!

Horny Rock Chicks A-Go-Go!

I had been told that Prey for Rock n Roll was one of the worst films ever made, but I don't really think it's too bad.

Of course, the cast consisting of lots of foxy tattooed rock chicks wearing tight fitting clothes may have had some bearing on this. Not to mention Gina Gershon making out with a Scary Spice lookalike to the soundtrack of Iggy Pop's Now I Wanna Be Your Dog - hello!!

I wasn't prepared for the gruelling aspects of the story line. There I was tum-tee-tumming along to a tale of a struggling rock band trying to get a break when, WHAM! there's a truly horrific rape scene. I *was* prepared for the revenge scene that followed - in fact I was itching for it. Gina Gershon and her gay-clone boyfriend gaffer tape the offender to a chair and tattoo "rapist" on his forehead. That's lesson he won't forget.

It all goes a bit Rock Follies after that when they decide to write a song about the experience. Oh dear.

Thankfully we're soon back to tum-tee-tumming again, but then ... WAIT! NO! DONT GO OUT INTO THE ROAD LORI PETTY FROM TANK GIRL, YOU'RE GOING TO GET RUN OVER!!

Oops! Pass the tissues again, someone.

There's no big schmaltzy happy ending, thank god. The band don't get their big break and no-one lives happily ever after. But you are left with the message that, no matter what life throws at you, at least you've still got your mates. Sigh!

Gay Shopping Revolution?

London had its first (I think) gay shopping night last Friday.

"Ooh, where was it?" you squeal. "Harrods ... Selfridges ... Liberty?" Erm well, sadly, no - it was Superdrug. They are also soon to launch their own range of "his n his" and "hers n hers" gift sets to celebrate the legislation of same sex civil ceremonies. Now, however misguided, I appreciate their attempt at being gay friendly. But really, who wants their Christmas present to come from Superdrug? Surely the mark of a gift that says, "I'm cheap."

Still, it's led me to wonder - will this lead to a gay revolution on the high street? Will companies be vying for the pink pound now that we are, like, legal and all that?

Will Clinton be stocking Happy Civil Ceremony cards? Will travel agents be actively be promoting same sex "honeymoons"? Will you be able to register your Civil Ceremony present list at John Lewis? I'm genuinely curious to find out what will happen.

Hmm, I feel the need to research. I think I feel a feature article coming on ...

I am my own Blogger

Yesterday I went to see I Am My Own Wife at the Duke of York.

I'm not usually a theatre-goer, but as a tranny chaser I knew this would be for me.

It's the story of an American journalist and his trips to interview German transvestite Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a woman who allegedly killed her own father and then managed to survive oppression by both the Nazis and the communists. Not only looking after herself, but also preserving a gay community so that people still had a place to go and meet.

Jefferson Mays performs the play as a one man show, taking on no less than 34 different characters. His performance is incredible. Well, OK, so a couple of his accents are a bit dodgy, but not enough to detract from the drama.

There is just enough camp humour to lighten the story of domestic violence, barbaric Nazi attacks and homophobia, but not so much as to feel disrespectful.

Sadly, during the second half of the show we learn it's likely that Charlotte shopped one of her best friends in order to save her own skin after persecution by the police. Tut tut to that.

I'd felt so much affection towards her during the first half that it was a bit of a disappointment to find out she's probably a lying cow throughout the second.

Oh well, c'est la vie, I suppose.

Justin Bond and the Freudian Slippers

If you haven't booked a ticket for Justin's fantastic new show at Too 2 Much yet, then what the hell are you waiting for? Book some now!!

Thursday's opening night was hilariously rambling and shambolic, exactly what I love best about his performances. He opened with a song I'd never heard before - turned out to be the new Kate Bush single, enjoyable without her screeching voice.

He apologised for not wearing stockings but said he was more comfortable with boxers on under his skirt. Then he sang us a song by Bambi Lake and I realised how much I'd been aching to hear this stuff again since the Soho Theatre shows earlier in the year. We also got to revisit his version of Benjamin's Clean White Bed and Joy Division's Heart and Soul.

He recently performed (I Don't Want to go to) Chelsea at an Elvis Costello tribute in NY. I was hoping that would be included but apparently he doesn't know the words. Instead we got a native African chant that was so fucking hilarious I couldn't actually breathe!

One of the bits that made me shiver was a short lullaby his mother used to sing him as a kid. I remember he once sang it right into my ear at the bar. I got all hot and trembly and hearing it again took me back to that moment of squirming with delight!

I would like to remember more from the dialogue but unfortunately was ever so slightly drunk. Just as well I'm going back 3 more times, by the end I'll at least have learned a bit.

Vive Le Revolution

Today was the last of my twelve days holiday from work. How very depressing. To cheer myself up, I went to see a nice film about the Nazis!

Sophie Scholl is the true story of the White Rose anti-Nazi group in Germany during Hitler's rule. In particular it's about a young brother and sister who gave out anti-Nazi leaflets at college and were subsequently sentenced to the death penalty.

Now, I'm all for a bit of zero tolerance, but even I think chopping off someone's head for distributing a few A4 sheets is a bit harsh.

The scripting, directorship and performance are superb. The only flaw is some slight sentimentality - Sophie's interrogator looking bashful and ashamed when she is sentenced for example - we will never know his true feelings, but it doesn't distract from the story.

It would appear the film had quite an effect on me. At my journalism course tonight we were asked to suggest topics for feature articles. I found words like "bring back the death penalty" and "public flogging" flying out of my mouths. Oops-a-daisy! The nervous, embarrassed laughter that followed made me think it didn't make me too many new friends. Oh well, I'm used to being mediocre on the popularity stakes.

Tomorrow I'm going to see my lovely Justin at his first night at Too 2 Much. I can't ruddy wait. Expect much gushing to follow ...

Party Pooped

Phew! It's been a non-stop hedonistic whirl for the past two days.

Firstly there was Marvellous on Sunday with the lovely Sammy Jo on decks. Was good to get down on the dancefloor with Janie and Christof, who I know from Scissor Sisters stalking, and a variety of other bods.

Sammy played Sylvester for me, as always, and acquiesced to my request for "that Mylo Motherfucker thing". Bless!

The spectacle of the evening was some dreadful goth girl. She started off dancing in a long skirt that she was hitching up to perform (ahem) "sexy" dance moves. The skirt was then removed to reveal a mini dress. Next thing, without so much as a "cover your eyes", she had whipped her dress off and was dancing about in nowt but her pants! Good grief! Why do straight girls have to get so over excited when they come to gay clubs?

Thankfully it didn't give me nightmares because after a lie in yesterday I had to get ready for Hallowe'en at the Retro Bar. Carved a lovey drag queen pumpkin that won first prize due to be being the sole entry in this years competition! Sadly I forgot to take its picture so you'll just have to imagine a pumpkin in a flashing tiara with false eye lashes and a big red smile. Made me laugh, anyway.

I was going to travel across London in my (s)Executioner costume but bottled it in the end. Turned out I turned more heads by looking normal but casually carrying an axe. Ha ha! Made the trip home in full costume and nobody batted and eyelid. It was quite nice actually, I think I might dress like that more often.

Here's a couple of my favourite pics - me with Joan Dairy Queen (sans drag!) and Ebony. You can see the rest in my fabulous
Retro Bar Hallowe'en 2005 Gallery

Cul-cha, innit?!

Blimey! I've been to all kinds of goings-on recently, and today was no exception - I went to the Diane Arbus photography exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum with Joan Dairy Queen.

What a fantastic spectacle! Every picture is a masterpiece and it was impossible to pick out a favourite.

As we were walking round, I heard two queens discussing how she has no empathy with her subjects. I think that's why I like her work so much. They are all just observations of weird and wonderful people and your emotions aren't drawn in any particular direction. You can just look at them and make up your own mind whether to be amused, impressed, horrified or moved.

Among the ones I liked best were the trannies, of course, but also the older, eccentric New Yorkers for their self composure and under-stated defiance.

Over tea and a bun, J and I were discussing our changing attitude to the younger generation as we get older. Personally I view them with complete contempt. Young people are just so unbearably DULL. Give me a grey-haired wrinkly anytime, they may not be so easy on the eye, but at least they have something to say for themselves.

After the Arbus we went for a walk around the rest of the museum. Amazingly enough, my favourite section was Ironwear! I never would have thought I'd have much interest in gates - but bugger me, how impressive?! These days people are investing thousands in electronic burglar alarms, but really all you need is a good "fuck off" bit of wrought iron with a spike on the top and bob's yer uncle. Burglars? I don't fink so!

After all that highbrow we headed off to Harrods. I bought some breath fresheners for the cat. They smell even worse than her gob does so I don't hold out much hope!

Keeping in the cultural vein, I also picked up a free ticket for I Am My Own Wife at the Duke of York, courtesy of Time Out. Way I'm going, I'll be a "lovey" in no time ...

Beside the Seaside

Today I have been on sunny excursion to Bournemouth. I booked the ticket when I was pissed a few weeks ago, as I'd paid for it I thought I might as well go!

It was nice to get away from the city for a while and smell the bracing sea air. Mind you, the sea doesn't smell like it used to when I was a kid. I remember childhood trips to Blackpool and Southport, you could smell the sea in the air and on your skin when you got back. I have a friend lives in Scarborough and she agrees, apparently you have to go abroad to get proper sea air these days. I'm sure they'll find a way to package it and sell it in Superdrug before long.

The only downside to my lovely trip was a chronic attack of the misanthropies. You see, I wanted to go there and see a jaded ghost town - a shabby, shutdown tourist attraction with no-one there to validate it's existence. No such bleedin' luck. My first mistake was accidentally booking during half term, to add insult to injury, it was also a freakishly hot day and so the place was crawling with twatting kids.

My favourite Bournemouth thing is their fantastic aquarium - not the biggest, but certainly the best I have visited. I went there about 2pm and couldn't enjoy it due to the sheer volume of the annoying brats. Why the fuck do they have to make so much noise?!

I went for a light snack at a gayers cafe and returned at 5pm - ahhhhh, that was much nicer! I had a peaceful sojourn amongst the fishies, then went for delightful stroll along the beach. Here, for your pictorial delights, are my photographic memories ... click on 'em for the big 'uns

Yay! It's Nearly Hallowe'en

Today's classic quote comes from the texting thumb of the lovely Sammy Jo - "Oh the gays, they'll guzzle cum but try and get them to put on a costume..."

We were discussing halloween and problem of getting the gayers to so much as keep a shirt on, never mind dress up for the occasion.

I just don't understand people who refuse to share in my childlike joy of this event. Personally I can't wait to get the white make up out and don ridiculous garb. This year I've decided to be Dracula one night and then Death the next. Well, if you've forked out good money for a long black cape, you want to make sure you get good wear from it ...

I've just been reading Time Out's Haunted London issue and it's got me all excited. I think I might like to get the purple camera out and take some pictures of graveyards. Once a goth, always a goth etc...

Last year I had fun frightening tourists on the Tube when I was dressed as a vampire. This year, if my nerve holds, I plan to travel from Anerley to Charing Cross in full Death garb with an axe. Alone.

I wonder if there's anywhere I can pick up a cheap severed head ...

In Reflective Mood

Went to Marvellous last night with Cheery Matt, first time I've been there in weeks.

I wasn't intending to stay all night, but when I got there I was hit with the news of Simon Hobart's death. A weird veil of secrecy was being kept around the story for reasons I don't understand. Inevitably this was leading to confusion and misunderstanding - then people who felt close to the guy were finding out what happened from websites instead of hearing from their friends.

I didn't know Simon at all, but my empathy with the London gay scene means that I still consider him "family" and it kind of feels like I've lost an uncle I never had the chance to meet.

I often think in these terms when I'm at the Retro and look around at the "regular" faces. Some of them mean more to me than others, same as in any family some of them get on my nerves, but I'm always glad to see them and know that pretty much any time I go there I will find somebody to chew the fat with over a drink. An important factor for me as I don't have a strong bond with my own family.

Hearing the news about Simon suddenly made me want to make the most of the evening and get drunk and enjoy being with friends. I had a conversation with W recently about Simon and how their once close friendship had become slightly estranged. With this in mind I instantly decided to bury the hatchet with Joanie, he got lots of hugs throughout the night. Hopefully a rebonding with Chelsea will happen in time.

On a wider scale there is a general feeling of unease. Trash Palace and Ghetto are closed, the change to the dynamic of our little section of gay London is going to be incredible.

Saturday Night at the Movies

Just wasted an hour and a half watching Palindromes - what a load of old crap. If you've never heard of it, it's about a young girl who is desperate to be a mother. She gets pregnant by some geek down the road, is forced by her parents to have an abortion, then leaves home and moves in with a bunch of nutters.

She is then involved in a murder, returned to her parents, and so sets about getting knocked up by the same fucktard as before again. To ease the monotony, the main character is played by about 5 different actresses and one boy. Whoopee! Thinking about it, I have no clue what made me rent it in the first place.

I think I should stay away from Todd Solondz films in future. The premise always sounds interesting enough, but I never enjoy the actual show.

His most famous film, Welcome to the Dollhouse, gives me tics. It's too much like my own childhood for comfort. Not only is the main character a geeky loner called Dawn, but she has a dreadful, girly, attention seeking sister who the parents clearly favour. She even goes to dance class like my own abhorrent sibling did. And there's the constant disappointment on her parents faces as they look at her and sigh, "oh Daaaawwwwnn". FOUL !

Anyway, that's one of my credits on Easy Cinema wasted. I still have one left and I'm hoping they'll send Prey for Rock n Roll next. I am reliably informed it's one of the worst films EVAH - and even the stills on the back of the box look shit - but it has Gina Gershon looking foxy as hell, so that's good enough for me!

Money, Tickets, Passport

We had technical problems at work yesterday so I decided to sneak off early and go to the Universal Experience at the Hayward Gallery - free entry thanks to a voucher in Time Out, yay!

It's a study of the effect that tourism is having on landscapes and the way that we live. It also contrasts the living conditions in certain countries with the way they're marketed to tourists.

The exhibition uses video, sound, sculpture and static image to present a miniature travelling expedition. There's no set route around the show, it’s easy to get lost or miss things unless you use your map.

One of the first things you see when you walk in is a huge photograph of the Hollywood sign shot from behind in its desert-like surrounds. What looks so glamorous from the streets looks completely ridiculous when shown in this different context.

Up on the roof is a cityscape produced from pots, pans and silverware. There were no wardens about so out popped the little purple camera - don't tell a policeman, will you?!

My favourite thing by far was a huge dark room hosting 11 video screens. At times the screens displayed the same image, but out of synch by a split second. At others they showed different images, or pictures of the same landmark but with different people walking by. The aim is to highlight the disorientation associated with travelling. The first time I went in I was on my own and had a good wander around. Later I went back and there were about 10 people in the room, that made the effect is even spookier.

Of the static images I loved the painting of a packed picture house with people watching fine art projected onto a giant screen (no doubt with surround sound), also a collection of tribal artefacts surrounding a picture of the pope, and hotel scenes from Las Vegas that present Parisean villages and man made deserts.

I was less interested is the Chalet Lost History – a cluttered and bamboozling collection of newspaper cuttings, archaeological exhibits, modern gadgetry and porn – it aims to comment on the conflicting cultures of the military, tourism and the sex trade. I got the point but it was all a bit earnest and naive, like a freshers college show from the 80s.

Anyway, it's a good place to go if you’ve an hour or two to kill, anyone who’s ever travelled can find something to relate to.

Out to Munch

Went to see the Edvard Munch exhibition at the Royal Academy with Stephen Arteast yesterday. To be honest, I can't really decide whether I liked it or not.

It was predictably crowded, of course, and being with a proper artist who knows about brush strokes and stuff, I felt like a bit of a sham. When I go to see art it's not to analyse it very deeply, a lot of the time it's just "like that one, don't like that one", and it's difficult to do that when a load of posh gits keep getting in your way, praising each other's astonishing cleverness in their annoying nasal accents.

There were a few paintings I definitely did "get" though - Self Portrait in Hell (pictured) was a favourite, also Madonna and a huge bearded self portrait of when he was bonkers in the nut.

The realisation I came away with is that you don't have to, technically, be a great artist in order to be considered a great artist. Having a strong vision to portray is more important than how you form the shapes to make them look life-like and genuine. In other words, some of it was a bit shit.

On the way across London afterwards we stumbled upon an installation called Black Pussy - a pagan idol workshop by Jason Rhoades. I found out later it's based around the many slang terms for the word vagina, with no less than 427 of them represented. Whatever.

The large room is a sensory overload with metal shelves holding thousands of artifacts - fur pelts, hats, test tubes, jars, macrame, beads - topped off with inflatable toys and neon lights.

An absorbing tribal retreat and a welcome escape from reality.

Trannyshack

A while ago, Joan Dairy Queen and I had plans to launch the Rock n Roll Tranny Bar at Slingbacks, a club set to open in Borough.

We pictured ourselves as freedom fighters for gender terrorism, breaking down barriers of social conform, armed with Nars lipstick and a nasty black wig.

Alas, Slingbacks was aborted due to licensing issues, and the Tranny Bar fantasy was ripped from our wombs and flushed down the waste pipe of shattered dreams.

So now Dusty O and Tasty Tim get to do it instead *sob*. Every Wednesday, at Too 2 Much, they will be hosting Trannyshack - a club night with a drag queen open mic session.

It's all so unfair! I could hate them, but I can't wait to go!

Clunk Click

I have finally given in to tempation and purchased the sweetest, cutest little purple camera in the whole wide world.

You can look forward to this blog being populated with photographic delights.

In the meantime, here's a few snaps from last night. From left to right:

• Self portrait with hand on head
• Stephen Arteast
• Rock n Roll Malcolm
• Wendy Retroid

Technological Dependancy

My greatest realisation since embarking on my journalism course is that I am utterly useless without a computer.

When I signed up for the course, I pictured myself in a plush classroom with computers and swivel chairs. Instead, we have a tiny room with plastic seats and are forced to communicate thorough the quaint, old fashioned medium of exercise book and biro.

I'm not complaining, but I've found my handwriting skills have deserted me and I have lost the ability to think unless I'm staring into a screen. Even the purchase of a spiral bound Sex Pistols notebook hasn't been enough to entice my latent calligraphic talents back into the fore.

I should have realised it a while ago when I was writing a letter to a friend. The only way I could manage was to produce a web page and then hit print.

It's not just there for the serious things in life, either. How on earth people used to get through the working day without emails from friends in the real world is quite beyond me.

So I now have a paranoia about power cuts. It's not just a case of being without heat and light anymore, it's about a complete detachment from the world. No gossip, no news, no bitching, no shopping ... brrrr, it doesn't bear thinking about. I think I need to purchase a generator.

Good Grief!

I love living in Crystal Palace, I really do. We uphold old-fashioned values here - we only have trains that travel over ground, not through new-fangled tunnels - and some of the shops close on a Wednesday afternoon.

I'm not sure quite what's happening on the tiny high street I call home, though. We currently have an off licence with no drink and a garage with no petrol!

If that wasn't bad enough, I couple of gangly teenagers have taken to billing and cooing on the front step of my building. They've been there for an hour and a half! I might turn the hose on them later.

Excavating Taylor Mead

A documentary that opens with an 80 year old man on stage, excitedly reminiscing about being raped 30 years ago, may not be everybody's idea of a fun afternoon, but it sure as hell does it for me!

Excavating Taylor Mead is the engaging lifestory of one of New York's great eccentrics. Best known for his work with Andy Warhol, he is keen to point out that he has made over 100 films, and only 10 of them with Andy.

There are numerous celebrities willing to come forward and sing the praises of Mr Mead - Jim Jarmusch and Penny Arcade among them - but no-one can quite do him the credit he does himself.

Carrying a camp egotism that only works with age, he waves pedestrians out of his way with, "celebrity coming through, be careful", then, nosing through the doorway of a downtown bar, announces, "I could make that place high society if I started going in there."

In contrast to his iconic status, Taylor's home life - living in cockroach infested squalor on the corner of Ludlow Street - draws the attention of the health and safety department who issue an eviction notice. A clean-up operation follows that ends with Taylor obviously distressed that, not only has he lost many of his personal works and treasures, but the upheaval has frightened his cats.

The producer, Erik Laibe, and director, William Kirkley, were in London for the show. I felt bad for them that only about 20 people had shown up. It was sadder still when I looked at their website and realised how excited they'd been about the appearance.

Despite a review in Boyz, the gay community were conspicuous by their absence. But then I always expect too much, imagining that gay people will have any interest in celebrating their own culture.

I had a similar conversation earlier in the year about Jayne County - expect the gays to come out and celebrate some old poof? Hell no, they'd rather be watching Kylie.

Obsession

It was the first night at my journo course last night. Of course, we had to do the usual go-round-the-room-and-introduce-yourself thing. We also had to say one memorable things about ourselves.

I decided on "My name is Dawn, and I am obsessed with drag queens".

This inevitably led to "so where did this obsession come from" type questions during the break. For a while I couldn't figure it out, then I realised it must have evolved from my misspent youth in the gay bars and goth clubs of Liverpool.

The club I used to frequent most often was called Jodys. It was a haven for me - goth downstairs and gay upstairs - and you were free to wander between the two. I don't remember any drag queens from back then, it was all handle bar moustaches, check shirts and leather chaps. I miss those good ole gay stereotype days!

It was the goths who supplied the glamour quotient. Biological male and female alike would be powdered, coiffured and dressed to the nines. I remember it would take me about two and a half hours to get ready on a Saturday night. The hair was the big thing, you had to crimp, backcomb, spray - then wait for it to settle and backcomb and spray a second time. The clubs used to stink of that cheap Boots-own hairspray, but if you thought you were posh you'd buy a handbag size can of Elnett to take out with you!

Then the glamour went out of goth and the stereotype went out of gay, I was hungry for stimulation. I turned to drag because it's larger than life and bright and colourful. I also adore the gender fluidity, of course.

I think this picture of Rupaul sums it up perfectly - no matter what you start with, what gender type you aspire towards - IT'S ALL DRAG !!


And I love them all, from the heartbreakingly beautiful boys who look better than the girls, to the rough old gits who don't give a shit.

Drag queens with beards - now that's what I call class!

Punk: Attitude

Punk: Attitude was preceded at yesterday's Raindance festival by Fuck the Police, a short film about The Libertines. Gerald is quite a fan and, to annoy him, I have been known to comment that Pete Doherty's other band, Babyshambles, would be more aptly entitled Fucking Shambles. The film did nothing to dispel this belief.

What happens is, The Libertines decide to hold a gig for their mates at a flat in east London. Halfway though, the neighbours complain and the boo-hiss nasty policemen come along and spoil all their fun. Given Doherty's "bad boy" image I was expecting at a right old kerfuffle. S'yeah, right.

In reality, it's 18 minutes of badly shot footage of two blokes singing dreary pop songs. A neighbour comes and has a shout, they all stand and giggle like school kids. Then the police turn up. Doherty stands grinning and leaves his friend to take the rap, some fat bloke shouts "clever" remarks at the camera, then they all pick up their coats and bugger off.

Not so much punk rock as a bunch of posh kids showing off and being badly behaved. They should have been packed off home for their parents to deal with...

By stark contrast, Don Letts Punk: Attitude is a fantastic compilation, probably the best punk documentary I've seen.

The film opens with brief clips of Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry - they were demonstrating punk sensibilities long before they'd even been invented.

Then we move quickly to the Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith and the birth of the CBGB and Max's Kansas City generation in New York city.

There are superb clips of New York Dolls - and vox pops with David Johansen, Sylvain Sylvain and Arthur Killer Kane - alongside powerful contributions from The Ramones.

The undisputed star of the show is Henry Rollins, a documentary makers dream - always smart, funny, concise and very much to the point. "All you need is one guy or girl to stand up and say "fuck this" and everybody goes: Voice of a Generation".

Opening with the Sex Pistols and clips from Vivienne Westwood's Kings Road store, the UK is represented by Siouxsie (unfortunate camera angle!), Mick Jones, Howard Devoto and Poly Styrene. Soundtrack highlights include The Clash, Buzzcocks, X Ray Spex and The Slits.

If you didn't go yesterday, you can't see it at the pictures now - you're too late. You can buy the DVD, though. It has loads of extra features totalling about 4 hours of footage. Yay!

Before I forget, on the way out I saw a bit of a crowd had formed ... I looked closer and realised they were gathered around Howard Devoto! Eek! I didn't have anything to say to him, but I enjoyed gawping and grinning like a loon as I headed off to the escalator!

I am Twice Published!

Well knock me down with a feather! I trotted off to Retro last night to pick up my copy of BOYZ magazine, and I found out that lezza magazine G3 are running one of my missives as their lead letter too!!

A while ago I sent them an excited ode to Bananarama:

Hey! Have you heard? Bananarama are BACK!

As a tribute, do you think we could have a bumper issue G3 that's just about Sara and Keren and nothing else? I guess you'd have to make it an X-rated, top shelf edition too - those pictures they keep doing where they're draped all over each other are just TOO HOT FOR WORDS!

I mean, there's really no need for it is there? It's not doing my blood pressure any good, and I'm not as young as I was!

Anyway, if you could fix this for me I would be very happy indeed. In fact, just thinking about it has brought on an attack of the vapours. I think I need to go for a nice lie down.

Apparently I have won a copy of Book of Cool, which doesn't look very cool at all. Might make me a few bob on Ebay, though ...

Hold the Front Page!!

The other day I thought it might be a good idea to send a slightly edited version of my Gay Weddings post to BOYZ magazine.

Just had a text from Wendy to tell me they've used it as this week's lead letter!!

Ha ha! I wonder if there'll be a backlash. I do hope so!!

Raindance Film Festival

Anyone going to see anything at the Raindance Film Festival this year?

Last year I went to see Ramones Raw with my boss, Julie, and her husband, Cathal - he used to be a pop star, you know. Anyway, this year I've booked to see Punk: Attitude and Excavating Taylor Mead.

Punk: Attitude is a Don Letts produced film focusing on the early days of punk in New York, the UK explosion in 1977 and then through to the current day.

I have mixed feelings about Don Letts. I have huge admiration for his talent, but all that is clouded by encounters I had with him in the past when he was always so goddamn rude. I would see him at Prince concerts in the 80s, he would barge around and deliberately knock people out of his way. He was so up himself it wasn't true. Some people would turn around sharply to see who had banged into them, but then get all star struck and giggly when they saw it was him. I never bought into that. A rude bastard is a rude bastard in my book, and I told him so on a number of occassions. Not that it made a blind bit of difference.

I have no real idea about the other film, I don't really know who Taylor Mead is. He was part of the Warhol set, is very much a loner and spends his time feeding feral cats near his home. I can't imagine why I feel such a bond with this person! Apparently he turned his back on his rich family and lives in a filthy apartment in New York with cockroaches and dirt everywhere. I don't think I'd like that bit.

Elsewhere, at the London Film Festival, they are going to be showing a documentary about Arthur "Killer" Kane from the New York Dolls, so I'm hoping to see that too.

Turning out to be a busy month ...

Who am I?

I'm not quite sure what happened this weekend. I turned down no less than three social invitations in favour of hanging around the flat like a saddo. Most curiously of all, one of them included seeing Justin Bond on stage. I've never turned that down before, I'm starting to wonder who I am. Do you think it's the onset of middle age?

I should have made the effort last night, staying in on a Sunday does weird things to me. About 10.30pm I was listening to The Prodigy thinking, "shit, I really want to go out clubbing RIGHT NOW." Needless to say, I didn't.

There's something incredibly depressing about staying in on Sunday and basically waiting for Monday morning and the working week to begin. Actually, that's the theme of the first chapter of a book I've just started called Fish Sunday Thinking. It was recommended to me on Amazon, their suggested purchase feature is impressively accurate these days.

The synopsis of the book opens, "You are in a job you do not enjoy. You feel you can do better. Your life feels directionless. You feel trapped. You drink to take your mind off it all. You dread Mondays." Err, HELLO, get out of my mind, please!!

It purports to be like a modern day Keep the Aspidistra Flying, the hero is going to try and break free and escape his dull and listless existence. Well, good luck, fella!

I never know whether to laugh or cry when I read about people who I think have a cool lifestyle, only to find out that they, too, have mind-numbing 9- to- 5s and are only cool for a few hours a week. The only people I know who have managed to avoid the mainstream are those who possess a unique talent and / or are able to live with no money without getting stressed about it. Two qualities I am sadly lacking.

Oh well, roll on next weekend. I promise not to waste it this time.

Save us from Pikey Hell

Went for a brief trip to Bromley today. Was depressed as hell to find the huge building that used to be Allders is soon to become a Primark Superstore. Oh good! Now the pikeys will have four whole floors to push their buggies around, drop things on the floor and generally make the place look like a jumble sale.

Aren't you sick of the high streets being taken over by trashy stores that sell nothing but tat? Of course, I know that people don't have a lot of money and for some these stores are a necessity not an option, but surely some moderation is called for.

Anyway, I bought the new(ish) White Stripes album which is very good indeed. I also had a nice wander around Past Times - or, as Gareth Zman famously calls is, "Wasn't it nice before they got here" - where I purchased some overpriced chocolate and a bottle of good old fashioned Dandelion and Burdock. I haven't had that since the "pop man" used to come round when I was a kid.

Back on the road again

Hooray! For those of you who had sleepless nights, I am pleased to announce the trusty Corsa is now back on the road and purring like a big, fat, car shaped cat!

It was the battery, as I suspected. Diagnostics my arse, INTUITION, that's what you need to fix a car!

Of course, I am now feeling smug and butch and glad that I tackled the job myself. Just like Rosie the Riveter (pictured) must have done back in the days of the war!

An afternoon of phaffing about on buses to Halfords in Brixton and back has convinced me that, although I don't really need a car, I definitely want to keep on having one. What a load of fucking time you waste waiting around for public transport.

I'm still tempted with a bike though ...

Transport Dilemma

Bugger. My car has broken down.

For years it has been problem free, now I try to start it and it wheezes hopefully but then … nowt.

I think it’s the battery and have been trying to get a man out to fix it. Of course, that’s never as simple as it sounds. Straight men being straight men, they are obliged to make a drama out of a crisis. There’s lots of sucking in of air and talk of diagnostics and computer checks. All this at £40 call out and £40 per half hour, thank you very much indeed.

I have been called a girly spazz by Toby for not wanting to change the damn thing myself. He has a point, of course. In the past I have done, when I had a nice garage to hide in and could do the job in secret. You see, straight men being straight men, they can’t bear to walk past a woman doing something they consider to be “their turf.” “You shouldn’t be doing that”, they yell. Why? Because I have tits?! They tell you you’re doing it all wrong, gawp for a minute then walk away shaking their heads. Tossers.

At the same time I have been thinking of buying a bike. A push bike, you understand, not a motorised one. I can picture myself charging through Crystal Palace with thighs of steel and a crap helmet on my head. But where do you put your weekly shop on a bike? To say nothing of a 6 kilo bag of kitty litter.

So I’ve been out to buy a spanner. Better make sure I can get the old battery out before I buy a new one. The dyke community will be proud of me. Unless I fuck it up, of course.

Bummers and Buggies everywhere

Well, what else do you expect from Gay Day at London Zoo?!

Yes, yesterday Toby and I trotted off to see the animals. It’s a trip I’ve been meaning to make for ages, but the fact that the zoo held a discount entry day for the gayers made it an extra special treat.

Due to my allergy of queuing, we got there at 11.30am. This meant the rest of gay London was still recovering from its post-Saturday hangover, so it was just us and a load of pesky kids for a while.

We went to see the giraffes and entered the twilight world of the small mammal. Somewhere along the way we encountered my favourite, the adorable Sand Cat. I wanted to pick it up and hug it.

I also loved the tiger we saw later that was slumbering so luxuriously you just wanted to lie down next to it and snuggle up.

Being the sad bastards we are, we also hot footed to the petting zoo where we stood in line to stroke a rabbit (some 6 year old pushed in front of us, kids are so bloody rude these days!) Then we went into the goat pen to play with the sheep and goats. Toby proceeded to cack himself when a sheep ran towards us, but largely they were completely uninterested by our presence, as you can tell from the evidence below!

A Gay Sunday VIP bar was laid on, we were met at the door by some very poor drag queens. Well, one of them was quite sweet but the other looked like she’d been supplied by the Council. We enjoyed a cocktail and then went to the aquarium. I love a good aquarium, but by this point I was getting tired and was irritated by the scores of people clicking away with their camera phones at every damn tank. You look with your eyes, not with your phone!!

We went to the second VIP area to hear the string quartet. I can honestly say I never thought I’d live to witness “I Am What I Am” on violin and cello, to say nothing of "Bohemian Rhapsody".

Soon they were clanging the claxton to get everyone out, so we waved goodbye to the penguins then waddled off to Retro for a well deserved sit down. All this enjoying yourself can be very hard work.

Gay Weddings

OK, be honest. I know we all agree in principal with gay weddings (or civil ceremonys, whatever they're called), but after we've finished waving the banner of equality, doesn't the reality of it all make you feel just a little bit SICK?!

For years I have snubbed the heterosexual whirl of engagement parties and wedding dos. I've seen straight women friends turn into aliens as they shove present lists into your face and twitter endlessly about shoes and "buttonholes".

The other day I picked up a lesbian magazine in a bar. Where previously would have been an ad for a nice glass dildo, there was a wedding cake with two brides on top. The accompanying prattle was about planning for the "big day". I could have cried.

To quote Aunt Ida in Female Trouble - "The world of heterosexual is a sick and boring life." Brothers and sisters, we must save ourselves, before it's too late.

Life Mocks Me

Bugger! I knew this would happen. As soon as I sign up for a course rendering all my Wednesdays "booked" for the next 8 months, people start putting together exciting events on Wednesday nights with the sole purpose of pissing me off.

First offender is Jayne County who will be playing Camden Underworld on October 12. For years I've supported that damn tranny and this is how she repays me!!

If you haven't already, you should read Jayne's autobiography, "Man Enough to be a Woman". It's my favourite transgender book, written with humour, honesty and bravery.

Jayne grew up Wayne in a small rural suburb of Atlanta. She later moved to New York City where she formed a band, started hanging out with the Warhol crowd and began exploring her gender and transsexuality.

Originally believing she must have been "born into the wrong body", she signed up for hormone treatments and was planning a sex change operation. This changed after a doctor explained the different degrees of transsexuality and how, for many, a full sex change is not the solution. Instead she chose to cross dress full time and live her life as a woman, while retaining her male genitalia.

There's lots of name dropping in the book - Jackie Curtis, Candy Darling, New York Dolls, Patti Smith. I practically have to lick the pages with excitement.

Sadly Joan Dairy Queen doesn't get a mention. He lived next door to her for a while when she was in Camberwell. He used to see her pegging out her washing in the back garden. So unfair, why can't I have exciting neighbours?!

I can see it now, "just popping round Jayne County's to see if I can borrow a cup of sugar." Fantastic!!

You Don't Nomi

You can't beat a good documentary. They are the best form of escapism - allowing you to see inside someone else's life and mind - and somehow feel more "worthy" than watching films.

Last night I watched The Nomi Song for the third time. The subject is Klaus Nomi, a New York based German performance artist who sang new wave songs in a soprano operatic voice. He had a very stylised image, and a lot of his work focused on the idea that he came from outer space.

One of the sweetest moments of the film talks about a party that Klaus attended. His image was so extreme that the adults were too scared to approach him. A young girl of six went up and asked him if he came from outer space. He replied that he did, and the two of them sat and drank tea while the rest of the party carried on around them.

Most people of my age remember Klaus from an unforgettable appearance on The Old Grey Whistle Test when he appeared to sing Total Eclipse.

Rupert Smith perfectly describes the experience elsewhere on the web:

"... during an otherwise routine episode of BBC2's The Old Grey Whistle Test, a strange vision was beamed into British living rooms. A stark, angular figure - heavily made up, his hair teased into three points and wearing a high-fashion Blake's 7-style outfit - was dancing robotically in front of a nondescript band. Then he opened his mouth, singing in a heavy German accent about nuclear mutants. When the chorus came, he lifted his arms to heaven and soared into an ear-splitting operatic soprano. The song was called Total Eclipse, and the singer was Klaus Nomi."

Sadly the clip doesn't make it into the film, but the performance highlight is Klaus and, celebrated New York drag icon, Joey Arias appearing as backing singers with David Bowie on Saturday Night Live. The performance, amongst other things, involves Klaus pulling a toy pink poodle across the stage as Bowie is performing.

Sadly, Klaus contracted AIDS back in the early days of the disease when no treatment was available. The last clips of the film show him looking weak and frail on stage. He makes one of the last performances before his death accompanied by an enormous string orchestra.

The film closes, as it also opens, with a clip from an old science fiction b-movie. An alien is flying away in his space ship as his human friends sadly watch his exit ... "it wasn't the right time".

Meanderings on Gender Identity #1

For a past couple of months I have been struggling through the autobiography of Christine Jorgensen - the first person to have a sex change operation in the USA in 1952. I'm still only halfway through. It's not that it's badly written or weighty, it's just so damn long winded and I wish she'd just get to the interesting stuff.

Of course, it's good that the book goes right back to her childhood and the feelings of alienation she experienced even as a young child. But I don't need to know her entire ancestry and, even less, the ancestry of every person who is introduced to the tale.

I have been obsessed with androgyny and transgenderism since I was a teenager. The more I read and learn about it, the more I am able to make sense of myself and my own psychology.

Through learning about the difference between biological gender and brain gender, I have begun to view gender as a colour chart. On one end you have pink - for extreme female, on the other you have blue - for extreme male. In between you have a whole range of different shades of lilac which is where I, and most of my contemporaries, reside.

This has made sense of a lot of things - why I hate "women only" space but also despise "macho". I'm not comfortable with those that inhabit either end of the gender scale, I only feel at home with my fellow lilac residents.

This also reminds me of a situation when I was much younger. I was working with a black woman who told me that she would always feel she had more in common with a black man than a white woman. I was just a child and, worse still, going through my 80s "right on feminist" stage. I thought she was ridiculous and couldn't understand her point at all.

I talked about this recently in a conversation with Wendy. I was saying how I love gay only space and that I hate being the only gay person in the office I work in. I was also talking about how I identify primarily as being gay, and being a woman plays very little significance in how I view myself.

This also made sense of how I look on in bewilderment when people talk with excitement about going on a "girls night out" or a "lad's night out". I have tutted in disapproval until I realised that it's exactly the same as me looking forward to a "gays night out". It's mixing with those people you feel a part of, where you can be totally yourself and feel unjudged.

People talk of an integrated society where everyone is equal. If you're an intelligent human being then of course you see this is right. But I believe people will always want ghettos - people will still want to have Asian groups, Irish groups etc. It's not about prejudice, it's purely about identity - equal but different.

Yay for Antony!

I don't really give a toss about the Mercury Music Prize, but I'm so happy that Antony and the Johnsons have won it.

I first saw Antony singing backing vocals with Lou Reed at the Barbican about 4 or 5 years ago. He looked so fragile on stage and I remember wondering who he was. Then he started to sing and the tears flowed immediately.

"Voice of an angel" has become over used and kind of lazy, but I still can't think of a better way to describe him.

But it's not just the voice, he is also one of the greatest contemporary lyricists. His take on transgenderism and his ability to discuss love in a way that has never been captured before is incredible.

Who else has expressed the beautiful pain of obsession so elegantly? Or described the strength of abandoning yourself to someone else's cruelty with such deliciousness?

He deserves this award not only for his talents as a writer and performer, but also his intimacy and bravery in laying himself bare.

I just wonder how many of the trendy types who will now rush out and buy this album will actually "get it". Probably none.

Silence the Masses

It has long been my belief that you should never give the general public a forum in which to air their views.

Switch on any radio station and wait for the phone-in section. Sure, you might get one or two people who actually have something to say, but more than likely you'll just hear a load of badly thought out, reactionary, smallminded bollocks, the majority of which will have nothing whatsoever to do with the subject in question.

I love the internet, I really do. The fact that it gives everyone a space to express themselves is fine, because you can choose what you want to view and ignore what you don't. It's when the public forum and the internet get together that trouble starts.

I was quite excited to see that The Guardian have opened a music forum. As it's one of the more serious newspapers I was looking forward to some interesting view points and insight. What a bitter disappointment I had in store for me.

The first forum invites people to recommend a song on the subject of change. A whole host of people have listed the title and artist of their chosen song - no explanation, no depth, no passion, no nothing. The more adventurous ones have quoted their favourite verse too - well done! Then we get the usual "what's the point of this then" and "you are a dick" type remarks. Give me strength.

For my own part, I have submitted the following pretentious effort. Make of it what you will.

Bronski Beat's "Smalltown Boy" sums up all the terror and anticipation of knowing it is time to leave somewhere and go out in search of your soul.

I may be alone in this, but the imagery always puts me in mind of Edvard Munch's "The Scream". It carries the same the sense of horror, desperation and abandonment.

I can lose myself in both of these pieces and hope for a future of freedom, fulfilment and calm.

Pop Life

Yesterday I went to see Iggy and the Stooges with the lovely Justin Bond. Posh Paul was supposed to be coming but the bastard stood me up. Ha ha ha, I don't care cos going with Justin was much nicer!

I when round to his flat first and Kenny was there rehearsing. I got a private audience of a few songs they were running through, then later Justin gave me a tour of his flat and then we went out for pizza.

We got to Hammersmith just in time. I haven't seen such an excited bunch of old giffers since the Sex Pistols played Crystal Palace. A skinny, troll-like Iggy bounced on stage, all pumping arm moves and body jerks, and launched straight into Down on the Street.

People were questioning whether he would still "have it" at the age of 60. Fuck, yeah! The entire Fun House album was fired out like a machine gun assault with barely a break between tracks.

The main set closed with Skull Ring. There wasn't time to wring the sweat from your t-shirt before they were back to play most of the debut Stooges album. A stage invasion was invited during Real Cool Time and No Fun. Needless to say, it was only a gathering of nippers that made it up there. The over 40s may still like to rock, but most of us are too lardy for that kind of caper.

After a second encore, the end was almost as brutal as the entrance. All air-punching, hair tossing and cocky swagger, then the next minute ... gone.

Walk The Dinosaur

Today I have been communing with nature. No, don't worry, I didn't leave the city (as if!), I just went round the corner to Crystal Palace Park for an hour or so.

In the style of Toby's bike ride blogs, I now present a pictorial history of my visit. Ha ha! No-one accuses me of ever having an idea of my own! Prepare to be dazzled by my superior photography skills and extensive knowledge of dinosaurs ...

Firstly you need to know that the park is kind of spilt into two sections ... on one side you have the family friendly bit with the dinosaur park, wildlife area, cafe, play area etc. Then on the other side you have the historical bit with the ruins of the original palace and lots of sprawling green.

The dinosaurs have been renovated over the past few years. They were originally built in 1852. They have been criticised for not being to scale and for being painted the wrong colours. Some people do nothing but complain. What the hell do they want for free? Nobody ever claimed it was the Natural History Museum!

This is the Megalosaurus, meaning Great Lizard. It lived during the jurassic period and its fossil bones have only been found in Europe. Its thigh bone was a similar shape to that of a giant human.

The Ichthyosaurus, meaning Fish Lizard, lived at sea. Unlike many dinosaurs it didn't lay eggs, but gave birth to its young "live" out in the water.

The Labyrinthodon is so called because of the maze-like structure of its teeth. Its body was similiar to a crocodile.

The Iguanodon, as the name suggests, was a bit like a giant iguana. Fossil tracks have shown they could walk on either two or four legs. Fossils have mostly been found in Europe and North America.

Sadly I couldn't get any good pictures of the birds that live in the park. They have been built their own section and seem to live mostly on a little island in the middle of the lake. You can't blame them really.

There used to be some hilarious signs that said "Beware of the geese" but most of the geese have gone now. Shame really, they were arsey little buggers. I liked them.

Here is a view of some of the remains of the palace that burned down in 1866. The incongruous structure in the background is the Crystal Palace television transmitter.