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3rd August 2003
Sad contribution from the Pope
ONE could laugh at "the Pope" calling homosexuals "evil", were it not such an incredibly sad and damaging comment. A friend suggested that at such a ripe old age the Pope could not be held responsible for his misguided opinions but unfortunately his words will be carried forth by his followers who will impart that wisdom on to the next generation, and so the hatred survives. Perhaps it's time to rethink the actions of Sinead O'Connor, who had her career destroyed by the media when she ripped up a picture of John Paul, branding him evil.
If I were to play Devil's Avocado, I might point out that "evil" is just "live" round the wrong way, and "devil" is "lived" in reverse, and maybe that is all homosexuals are guilty of. It is clear that Christianity is no more liberal than many of the religions that we in the civilised West brand as draconian. Those who shuffle beads through their fingers are no more dangerous than those who bang tambourines. The phrase: "You teach best that which you need to learn" seems wholly appropriate. If there were ever a reason for gay men and women to lose all hope in the Church, this surely must be it. Any homosexual who attempts to write this catastrophic statement off is clearly riddled with self-loathing and is living beyond reasonable logic.
How can the Church ever hope to contribute to a peaceful, loving world when it condones such hatred, ignorance and fear? During these times of random terrorism and war, why has the Pope never said "war is evil"? Or for that matter, paedophilia, marital abuse, or child abuse? Has the Church not got better things to say or do?
MAYBE God was sending us a message by having the clouds burst over Hyde Park for last Saturday's gay pride event. Who knows? Still, I'd like to think that, if there is a heavenly entity watching over us, he or she has Saturdays off and may have even been toe-tapping with the swaying throng. It was a fine day despite the weather and the rain didn't stop the muscled gay boys from parading around topless or stop the 40,000 crowd from dancing on the slippery grass. I accidentally broadcast some lewd language on Radio 1 when I played the debut single from New York's finest, Ave. D. Their electro-funk ditty, Do I Look Like A Slut?, contains some brash lyrics and I was a little slow in mixing into the next record. The producer grimaced and I shrugged, hoping the blooper would go unnoticed but secretly I was rejoicing deep down in my dark, evil, gay heart. I did not do it deliberately but Radio 1 cares little for me so it's just as well. I hear that this week saw the biggest drop in listeners to the station, which might suggest a drastic change in policy. Will it ever listen?
The music industry is going through a recession but it's been brought on by a lack of faith in true artistry and home-grown talent. Now we are about to suffer Pop Idol Two but the scandal is that these unknowns have been provided by publishing houses and are not raw talent at all. Some are working with record labels and the public are being hoodwinked.
The skulduggery behind these "reality" shows is about to be revealed and things could get very "real". Are we about to discover that the wannabe stars selected for this new series were picked long before the public got to vote? And please, how much money was wasted on the adverts featuring Simon Cowell? This man gave Robson and Jerome a fortune for destroying a bunch of old classics and we are expected to believe he has an ear for music. As the saying goes: "This fish is four days old and I'm not buying."
10th August 2003
Who takes pride in violating privacy?
One of the joys of not being right in the spotlight is that I can move around with a degree of freedom. The days of having photographers constantly flashing my every move are a distant memory and it is very rare that any one bothers me in my leafy neighbourhood.
So I was rather bemused when a photographer jumped out on me in Hampstead and started following me home. "Why do you want to take my picture?" I asked. "No one cares." I couldn't imagine why any paper would want to print a photo of me in my civvies and thought that perhaps some impending scandal was about to explode. I wondered if I had accidentally seduced an MP or something.
I was with some quests from New York - Daphne and Debbie from the urban sleaze combo, Avenue D - and they thought that it was a common occurrence. I tried to explain that I rarely get such attention these days, but to them it was an every day pop star experience. The next day, about 4 papers carried the pictures, under headings like, "Big Boy George" and "Dinner, Dinner, Dinner", referring to my batman T-shirt and my weight. One paper claimed that I had given up my outrageous clothing and was settling down to some mundane existence.
Clearly, the photographer, whom I know only as McCormack, had pocketed a nice sum for the pictures and certain papers felt that the size of my hips and lack of makeup on a blazing Saturday afternoon was newsworthy. The biggest coverage was in the Daily Mail, that goose-stepping rag that is to liberalism what I am to procreation. One can expect no more from it but I wonder if McCormack actually looked at his work and felt a sense of pride. Did he sit down with his wife or partner and discuss his technique and brilliant use of light or did he actually realise that all had done was inflict hurt on someone he doesn't know?
How would he feel if I were to hire a photographer to fellow his wife to work and print a photo of her in a newspaper looking less than her best? I take some comfort in seeing a recent picture of David Beckham looking like a scarecrow because it proves that it is possible to make s silk purse look like a sow but I didn't cut the picture out and stick it on my fridge because I would rather see Becks looking gorgeous.
Why is it a surprise that I dare to walk the streets in casual clothing and no eyebrows? Is it not obvious to anyone with a brain cell why I don't shop for shampoo in full war paint and a hat?
I am thankful that I don't have to earn a living by hanging around in the street in the hope that I may spot someone famous and commit that can only be described as social rape of their privacy. Whatever the unguided perceptions of my social standing, I am perfectly happy with my life as it is. The notion that I am some "washed-up, ex junkie pop star, who does a bit of DJ work", is laughable but from my perspective obscurity is grossly underrated.
The girls from Avenue D who were snapped with me have been in London for a week setting the underground clubs alight. Watching them on stage, wearing as little as possible and shaking their buxom bottoms with relish, has been inspiring. God help Texas - which is where they are heading next - and thank God for irreverent, self-depreciating beauty and jugular pop. As Daphne quipped when she saw the nasty photos, "They could have airbrushed them." Exactly. There's no excuse for no taste.
17th August 2003
Pop heroes who are giving it a go
THERE are few places in London more self contained and trendy than Hoxton, a Mecca for artistic and media types. The place teems with people trying really hard to look as if they've made no effort at all. I always joke that a drag queen can get ready in 15 minutes, while some men might take an hour to decide which t-shirt to wear. Hoxton is full of such men and girls, who have odd expressions, asymmetrical hairdos and look as if they are from a German art-house film.
I bravely visited the area the other night to see Plastic Heroes, who were strutting their stuff at the Catch Twenty Two bar. While the band tuned up I watched a poet called Sheena, who claimed to be a punk but looked more like a spunky barmaid. Her poetry, including Trisha is a Minger and I Wish I Was A Hippie, about therapy and the mugs (like me) who indulge in it, was amusing and went for the jugular. Despite being a therapy fan, I enjoyed her take on it, which was very cynical and British. In this country, we don't involve strangers in our problems, which we solve by pretending they don't exist.
Plastic Heroes, an explosion of Bowie-esque guitars and punk posturing, were fronted by a tall French chap who hid behind dark glasses and sang in a broken French accent. Some of the guitar riffs were cheekily familiar and poppy backing vocals punctured the raw thrashing melodies that were part Iggy Pop and part Blondie fronted by Serge Gainsbourg.
There are some nifty bands playing in small dives all over London and, despite the trend towards American rock, we are well up to speed. It seems British groups are making more of an effort and this is very much the case with Pink Grease, who are gaining quite a reputation, but I couldn't help thinking their lead singer is obsessed with Iggy Pop (the low ceiling at Nag, Nag, Nag let him recreate all Iggy's poses). But there were worse references: the bass player looked like Leo Sayer crossed with reggae legend Yellowman and moved around like a wind-up toy. Their performance made me chuckle and blush but they really made an effort and that alone was refreshing.
IF I WERE producing Top Of The Pops I would be playing bands such as Pink Grease, Black Wire or the Plastic Heroes to spice up the show, not dragging on the judges from Fame Academy. Somebody needs to save pop culture from the grip of self-aggrandising fools like Pop Idol's Simon Cowell, who seems to be everywhere you turn. If the recent documentary Being Simon Cowell was meant to give us an insight into his popularity it failed and proved that he is nothing but a triumph of self-production and good timing.
Equally annoying is Christian singer David Grant, who has joined the judges on Fame Academy. His attempts to appear edgy and harsh are deliberately false and about as terrifying as being hit with a soggy rice cake. I hope things improve while I'm in New York because I leave in two weeks for eight months on Broadway. As usual, I have left everything to the last minute and am trying to organise myself for what will be a huge upheaval. The big question is, are the Americans ready for Leigh Bowery? Our producer for Taboo on Broadway, Rosie O'Donnell, has caused controversy by chucking a 30ft billboard of Leigh up in Times Square. It shows him posing in front of a urinal and critics have accused Rosie of "alienating her audience". When I saw pictures of the ad I couldn't help smiling and wondering what the late Mr Bowery would have made of it all. That he is still making waves long after his untimely death is quite fantastic and I hope to take his legend into every American living room.
24th August 2003
Winning lines in a bible of babble
NOTHING makes me a smile like a great one-liner. The ability to say it all without wasting too much energy simply has to be applauded. Andrew Boyd does just that with his new book, Daily Afflictions, a kind of spiritual wisdom for spiritual cynics. My favourite sayings from it have to be, "I'm at one with the universe and it hurts", and "The attainment of enlightenment is the ultimate and final disappointment".
The book pulls together words of wisdom from the likes of Jung and Marx with Boyd's asides thrown in. Fascinated and repelled by the spiritual world in equal measure, I find this humorous and insightful take on it very refreshing. Spiritual types don't really like to throw spanners into their belief systems but even Buddha said, "Question everything".
I once did something mildly bad and said to a Buddhist chum: "Oh dear, that wasn't very Buddhist of me." She replied: "Everything is Buddhist. Do it all but be prepared to suffer the consequences." Even adultery is Buddhist, although not recommended: you might have to accept a black eye as karma.
Reading Boyd's brilliant bible of babble, I couldn't help thinking of several people. I called my brother to say: "Nothing affects the child more than the unlived life of the parent." Then I was on the phone to my mate Christine, who felt she embodied the phrase, "Selfishly I give of myself". Actually, it's not far off the mark where I'm concerned.
WE ALL experience that thing that's known as synchronicity more than we realise but sometimes it sends chills down my laddered tights. As more wine was consumed during dinner with a friend the other evening, the subject of relationships was raised. There's more to life than love, wine, bitterness and food - but not much. Talking of my last great love, I was saying that I was (kind of) over it but still had some feelings.
I remember an old T-Rex song that went, "Everyone I ever loved, I'll love till I die", and that really is how I am. Some might see this as a bit "bunny boiler" but I see no shame in being true to one's feelings. I went to a club and standing outside was my ex, looking stockier but no less pretty.
My reflexes are always quick and I didn't flinch. I ended up getting him in for free and off he went after a brief exchange. A year ago, I might have reacted with less dignity but you reach a stage when you realise that, no matter what you feel, it is pointless trying to reason with someone who doesn't get it.
Strangely, I knew I'd see him and maybe it's why I didn't react. You know how the phone rings and you know who's calling before you answer? I suspect that we are all energetically connected but more strongly to those with whom we have exchanged embraces and kisses. I'm sure everything happens for a reason and that everyone who passes through our lives does so to impart some knowledge. Sometimes it can take years before we work out why and that's the reason patience is a virtue.
IT SEEMS horribly cynical to say but my faith in humanity is eroded daily. I asked a friend last week: "Don't you hate people?" and he agreed. Even if you focus on nature, great architecture or art, at some other point other humans will appear and get in the way. I'm sick of people who say, "I'm only being honest", as if it is some great quality.
Honesty is not always the best policy. Sometimes it can be quite destructive. It's no good saying you don't like someone's haircut as they leave the barber's chair or telling them their outfit is unflattering when they are already at the discotheque. Listening and not giving an opinion is often best.
31st August 2003
Enough to make you blow a fuse
IT IS easy to forget how much we take simple things like electricity for granted. A week last Wednesday at around 2pm my electricity blew - before I even had a chance to be affected by Thursday's huge power cut. I sat waiting for the London Electricity Board until midnight. The house looked rather grand with candles flickering everywhere but after several hours the romance was fading fast. The engineers could not find the fault and promised to return in the morning.
To cut a long story short, I had no power for three days and the engineers were threatening to pull up my living room floor. I told them that this would be fine as long as they would repair any damage but they could not do that. Apparently, the LEB have right of way into any home and they said they could get a court order.
This was on top of being told by customer services tha I had not reported the problem. I stayed surprisingly calm and, after much pointless arguing, it was discovered that I had called several times and that I wasn't imagining that three engineers had been in my home. If I was saying I had seen Elvis, I could understand them questioning my judgment - but please!
To stop myself going insane I hired a generator, which powered part of the house and allowed me to find a suitcase and listen to some music. For three days I had engineers traipsing in and out, scratching their heads and running huge cables through my kitchen. Eventually they parked a monster generator outside my house which brought things back to normal - but I think this was only after my lawyer neighbour threw a major fit. The engineers were pleasant enough and I understand they were simply doing their job but I am appalled by the attitude of the LEB.
The call centre might just as well be manned by robots because the people answering the phones seem to have had frontal lobotomies. It's a rotton job dealing with irate customers but I wasn't irate until I was repeatedly told that it was my neighbour who had reported the blackout. If I were less honest I could have pretended that I'd lost a fridge full of Beluga caviar and quail's eggs but I had already cleared the fridge for my departure to the US. I'll be interested to hear what the LEB has to say about my gripes. Watch this space.
ALTHOUGH I was dreading going away for so long, now I can't wait. The work schedule is going to be hellish with nine shows a week and endless promotion but I am looking forward to getting stuck in. It will be interesting to see what kind of audiences we attract Stateside and how critics perceive the show. Next week we start rehearsing and working on script changes and trying on freshly made costumes.
This time around I get my own dressing room and it seems that the unions are very protective of actors because each dressing room has to have a bed for actors to rest their shuffling heels. Plus there is all the excitement of an entirely new cast and getting to know their devils and deeds.
Despite going for six months, I have decided to take virtually nothing with me. There are so many great thrift stores in New York and I intend to construct a completely new wardrobe out of the barest threads. I promise to keep you up to date with all the goings on - and I am quite sure there will be plenty going on and off. All together in your best Ethel Merman voice: "I've no business in show business".
See ya, I am off to scare New York in lime-green tutu!
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