|
|
 |
| |
2nd December 2001
I'm Not A Teddy on Life's Conveyor Belt
After being invited to Oxford to debate the topic: "This house believes homosexuality is a choice", I was rather annoyed to have to sit through the bickering of house members and the current chairman. Apparently the last debate, which included Peter Stringfellow, became rather misogynist and some girl in a taffeta number wrote to the house rag and so on... They spent at least half an hour in conflict and not much was resolved but it was like being in a mini House Of Lords and you half expected Cecil B DeMille to pop up and shout "Cut".
Well, the men at Oxford are so handsome, even if the lighting in the main debate hall is a bit dole office. When I finally took to the floor to give my opinion on being "homo" - I prefer queer - I was following the lovely Paul Gambaccini and some young students who spoke with great eloquence. And a doctor-cum-religious zealot, whose name I don't care to remember, who clearly had issues with his own sexuality. Actually I missed his speech because I wanted more champagne and a fag but I've heard the religious argument before: "Love the sinner, not the sin." Not much was achieved in terms of deciding why people choose or become gay. I think the next debate should be about why some folk prefer hard to soft cheese.
For moi, the human being is a multitude of sexual possibilities and one chooses whether to act on an impulse which is dormant in all of us. I think I confused poor Mr Gambaccini because I was supposed to say that one doesn't choose to be queer but I always thought I had. There's something to be said for owning one's queerness and wearing the pink crucifix with knowing pride. I refuse to think of myself as some dodgy one-eyed teddy bear on life's conveyor belt.
There was a poor show when I asked the house for a show of hands as to who was actually gay, which either relates to embarrassment or the fear of facing one's fellow students the next day. I did ask the doctor-cum-religious chap, who seemed like such a nice bloke, whether he'd heard the expression about madame protesting too much. This was perhaps a little bitchy but I blame the champagne.
I am deeply sad to hear about the death of ex-Beatle George Harrison because, although we never met, I always had a strong affection for him. George, like myself, was a huge Lord Krishna fan and gave the devotees their mansion in Letchmore Heath in the Sixties. I've spent many a happy day there, stuffing my face with veggie grub, chanting and jumping around with the saffron clan. I even recorded his spiritual anthem My Sweet Lord - one of my favourite songs.
After the Beatles disbanded he sort of disappeared from public life but who can forget the recent knife attack on him & his wife in their home? Apparently, George & Olivia jumped out of bed & started chanting Hare Krishna, which I'm sure helped to save their live. But he was not so lucky after starting smoking again and contracting throat cancer. As I sit puffing and typing I am seriously questioning my destructive habit. The argument over the years about who had the true writing gift in the Beatles has always centred around Sir Paul McCartney and John Lennon but get out your George Harrison albums and you will see that he was a man of immense talent and true soul.
I hope George is being serenaded by Krishna on his flute because he sang : "I really want to see you Lord but it takes so long." Well, his dream finally came true.
9th December 2001
A Princess with the common touch
I once wrote a lyric about her that went "looking like a goddess till she opens her mouth", but I promise you, it was written with great affection. Princess Julia, one time pretend girlfriend (much better than a handbag) of Eighties New Romantic diva Steve Strange. These days, rather like moi, she has reinvented herself as a supercool DJ and shows up at the oddest places.
Like the other night, at a party for Kylie Minogue's stylist, William Baker, who was recently pictured in the press as Kylie's mystery date. Trust me, they were just shopping for frocks, and William has the eye (nudge, wink).
It was one of those fashion glitterati bashes, brimming with designers, milliners and a model here or there. I turned up late and sadly missed Kylie's entrance, but I'm told she was instantly surrounded by cloying poofters, then was ushered to a private room and left after 10 mintues. It's what one calls sweeping the room with one glance. I stayed till the bitter end and found myself dancing blissfully to Princess's loopy soundtrack that included Marilyn's Calling Your Name, The Sex Pistols and lashings of Old Bowie. What more can a girl ask for?
The shocking thing is that many of these youngsters don't even know songs from even 10 years ago, so Bowie was right when he said: "Rock 'n' roll history is dead." Anyway, it was a fun bash, until William got all top stylist and chucked us out.
Panic over, we ended up at The End nightclub for the weekly Atelier night and managed to catch the final 10 minutes, a quick drink and dance, then off to bed. Princess Julia's parting comment was precious. "Ere, I think Kat from EastEnders should be playing me in Taboo." I told her she wasn't being portrayed in my new musical but certainly name-checked... it was one of those nights.
Another good night is Thursday at Mondo in Greek Street, Soho, where aspiring silent but sexy DJ J-Love drops a selection of funky tunes to a mixed crowd of bedraggled types who can't stay in during the week. I keep saying bar culture, as opposed to superclubs, are the future. Clubbing is shrinking and getting back to those earlier, more intimate days. Jeremy Healy's Watford club, The Area, is the most exciting place I've DJed in years. Calling them an "up for it" crowd barely describes the vibe. Let's have more of it!
On Wednesday, I will be spinning spooky old trash pop at Selfridges for its annual AIDS charity event, where various stars work the tills and attempt to raise money. As it was International Aids Day last week, it's important to continue to raise awareness and remind people that the disease isn't going away. Please come along and bring your fattest purse and you might even see Kylie in the knicker department.
From January, Selfridges will be devoting a section to my vintage costumes to promote Taboo and it will give me a chance to clear out my closet, which is in a room that has been cluttered for far too long. My Feng Shui expert tells me that that particular room is where my personal treasure is contained, so I will be busy scrubbing that space because a girl like me can't survive without a bit of pleasure.
I've decided that anything you've managed to live without for at least a year must be removed. I can't manage to chuck out shoes - must be the Imelda Marcos in me. My friend's dad reckons that shoes and beds are the most important things in life: when you're not in one, you're in the other.
16th December 2001
King needs Therapy - Not a Jail Sentence
Who'd have thought that the barrage of abusive mail I received after my now legendary appearance on Frank Skinner's TV show would have mostly come from fellow gay men? Internalised homophobia, it's the new black. One letter I received via this glorious organ actually said my regular rantings about my sexuality were "sad". You can read my reply to those and other letters on boygeorgedj.com because my response was rather hardcore.
Debate is never sad but I am reminded of the time when my twisted sister Philip Sallon and a bunch of others bounded into the Hare Krishna temple in Letchmore Heath. After watching a play we were taken to a room to meet a guru (I think he later got his head chopped off), where dozens of devotees hung on his every word. After about 20 minutes of spiritual chat, Philip asked: "Why is no one questioning what you're saying?" The guru's response was: "They know all they need to know." A row ensued but I thought it was brave of Philip to speak his mind.
And so I shall be brave and say I don't think Jonathan King should be in prison because, while we must all live within the constraints of the society we choose to be part of, it is a very hypocritical society. Let's take, for example, the first Britney Spears video - the one where she's dressed up as a schoolgirl that had grown men openly salivating. Or the fact that Bill Wyman had sex with Mandy Smith when she was under age. There are countless examples on the heterosexual side which proves my point that this "liberal" society is very selective when it comes to gay sex. To my mind, Gary Glitter's handling of child pornography is a more hideous crime and he got four months.
When I first came out in the Seventies I dated much older men but I was never lured or seduced. I was willing and didn't fancy boys my own age. Most young girls will tell you the same thing. I'm not suggesting that some of Mr King's victims (is that the right word?) are not traumatised but they waited a very long time to come forward and seven years is a very long sentence.
I'm not condoning Jonathan's behavior but I always liked him and don't believe him to be an evil man. At worst, he is a product of an age where being ashamed of one's sexuality was commonplace and drove men of his type to hunt out naive youngsters who might keep his desires secret. And he might be a randy old sod. But he should be in therapy, not prison.
After saying all that, it seems trivial to mention that I attended shoe guru Patrick Cox's Christmas bash Ð but life must go on. My good friends Bel Brown and Dave Davis, top DJs, were responsible for the evening's eclectic soundtrack and they asked me along. The party, at the trendy Sanderson Hotel, was well-stocked with champagne and handsome male models who are, well, very uptight. I snapped a picture of some tasty number I had seen in a fashion mag and he asked: "Who are you going to sell it to?" I replied: "Actually, I have no idea who you are, I just thought you had a nice nose."
Then it was off to breasty Jordan's Christmas do. But after paying through the nose for a bottle of bubbly, we minced off. Funnily enough, I was spinning tunes at a club for Jordan's ex-beau, Dane Bowers, which was something to do with the Rolling Stones, who were not there (I've never quite got that stars who don't show at their own parties thing. I think it was started by Madonna or Greta Garbo). But this week has been a bit Sue-real which, I've decided, is my new drag name.
23rd December 2001
The Alternative Queen's Message
Remember when Her Majesty announced her annus horribilis? Well, for this queen, 2001 has been an annus hideous. I lost my friend Tranny Paul. Then I lost another friend, Joe Victor, who died in a car crash on a trip to buy his daughter a Christmas present.
Add to that the events of September 11, the ensuing war, and the fact that I fell in love for the first time in seven years and had my heart broken without a word of explanation.
Then there was the unpleasant call from a certain tabloid which claimed they had been sold a story that I had been rushed to hospital after a heroin overdose. Can't a girl lose four stone in peace these days?
The upside, though, has been a creative outburst: songs have been pouring out of me for the past month and I am preparing to release the most brittle, acoustic album of my career, called Useful Things To Do With Your Pain.
There's nothing quite like a broken heart for writing songs. My astrologer warned me that this year would be bumpy because, within the 9Ki astrology I follow religiously, I am in a Nine year and it is a year of confrontation. But to quote John Lennon, no one told me there'd be days like these. My therapist said through my tears: "You're still standing still." Then I realised why I have been immersing myself in work. Obviously it's a great way to avoid the terror of being alone with your thoughts.
Next year, which in the Japanese calendar starts in February, I enter a One year - a year of introspection and reflection, a time to do things for your personal wellbeing. And I intend to put it to good use. But don't cry for me, Argentina, because some good things have happened.
After a year of pushing to get my musical Taboo on, we open for preview on January 11 at the Notre Dame Hall in London. The Freddie Mercury Trust has bought out a night for a huge charity gala and ticket sales are healthy, so fingers and legs crossed. We recently held a press preview to point out that it's not some Eighties retro shindig but a brand new musical with 20 fresh songs and a couple of old hits. Steve Strange showed up and that really made the night for me. Then Selfridges offered an in-store exhibition to promote the show, with a through-the-years look at my wardrobe.
Other good things this year... I started a new interview series for UK Play called One On One.
My favourite album of the year has to be David Gray's Lost Songs, especially the track Flame Turns Blue, which sums up how I've felt these past months. It inspired me to search through the vast collection of my own unreleased (?!?! - CyCh says) tunes. I found one called Fat Cat, with a chorus that goes: "You're the dirt on my collar, you're the hole in my favourite shoes, you're the last dying breath of love, you're the weight that I need to lose." Strange how you write stuff and it turns up and slaps you in the face.
Losing George Harrison was deeply sad but I think his dying words were poignant: "Love one another." I've learned to value my friends, and the few real ones have been there for me in this most thunderous year of my life.
So what about next year? Stop smoking, stop thinking I have to fall in love with the first man who smiles at me and offers me champagne. Remember the good advice I give to friends and try to apply it. Some hope. Knowing and doing are worlds apart, but knowing is a start.
This has been my queen's speech. You can watch the other one on Christmas Day.
30th December 2001
A Family Christmas with all the trimmings
A belated Merry Christmas to you all and a peaceful time to all of you who find the whole thing just a tad tiresome. It's been a little difficult for me to get into the spirit of Christmas after such a traumatic year. I find it hard to think of smiling faces opening presents when the hideous images of September 11 remind me that there are thousands of families with little more to look forward to than a memorial service. My heart is with them all. We should feel humbled by their dignity in this, their terrible time of loss.
My doorbell rang on Christmas Eve and I peered through the video entryphone to see this poor postman almost buckling under the weight of two of the hugest parcels that I have ever seen. I buzzed him in - cute - buts lets talk parcels. Donatella Versace never does anything by halves and there in the hallway were her festive gifts to moi. If she wrapped them herself (which I doubt) it would have taken a mile of ribbon and at least a week to enclose the presents, which turned out to be the most beautiful leather luggage.
Thank you darling. I'm packed and ready to go.
Must tip that postman next time he passes.
My whole family arrived laden with gifts on Christmas Day, all tentatively anticipating a macrobiotic lunch at Chez George. Their visions of Mung Bean soup and Bancha tea were dashed by lashings of vegetables and roast potatoes (all organic of course) followed by fresh fruit and a clever fondue of soya milk with my secret ingredients.
God bless Dragana Brown, my macro guru. Her recipes taste delicious and although she was not on hand to direct operations, I got the distinct impression that a good time was had by all - judging by the lifeless bodies (all 15 of them) languishing around the TV in a state of bloated heaven.
Mum and my sister Siobhan make life a joy with their almost effortless ability to make my home look like the dream team has just popped in. We were also graced by the presence of Phillip Salon, who stayed and entertained us like the true soldier he is. For those of you who need a taste of how entertaining he can be, just come to Taboo, my new show, which opens in the West End on January 11. There's only one Phillip Salon. Thank Goodness.
When the washing was done and everyone who was leaving had left, I dressed up and headed out to Trade, which I assumed would be bereft of anyone who had been laden with turkey, but no - it was heaving with punters who, like myself, clearly had a need to dance off some of the heavy Christmas fare. The champagne flowed and it was daytime when I finally climbed into bed, with my mind firmly set on giving up Boxing Day to a very well deserved sleep.
New Year has the beautiful Anthea Turner coming on to my Gothic pile as a guest on my new TV show, on which I have so far chatted to Jordan, Jonathon Ross, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Rowland Rivron and Samantha Mumba. It has been fun chatting to all these celebs in the cosy environs of my living room. It makes for the chance to have a real heart to heart although in truth we are surrounded by the cutest camera crew, directed and produced by Robert Chandler, who ability to make us relax is a gift indeed.
Finally, New Years Eve promises to be a huge event. I have turned down offers from all over the world to DJ at events ranging from the massive to the downright tasteless. But this girl is staying home - in the UK that is. With Fergie and Ann Savage as partners in crime, I feel we will all be just a little flush.
Peace, Love and a decent man for you all in 2002.
| Back to the Express Main page |
| Back to the Main page |