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7th July 2002
Robbie's humour is in the pink
IT WAS the great Oscar Wilde who said: "There's only one thing worse than being talked about and that's not being talked about." And so we move swiftly on to the press comments pinched from my appearance on Liquid News, allegedly casting asperations on Robbie Williams' sexuality.
C'est moi? I could, like Eminem, pretend I was talking through my alter ego, the late Leigh Bowery, because I was dressed as him but that would be a cop-out, although Leigh said much worse about Eartha Kitt on the Jonathan Ross chat show in the Eighties and Eartha was most vile to Elton John when they met. Then there was Bette Davis's legendary remark about Joan Crawford: "Just 'cause someone's dead, it doesn't make them nice."
Oh dear, I can see myself standing, face contorted, wire coat-hanger in hand and screaming: "Why can't we all just get along?" I know why - because human beings are hideous creatures, especially when they have Latex dripping from their head and are trussed up in a chequerboard bustle dress.
Frankly, Robbie already knows I have suggested he might swing but then I think all men are slightly gay. Robbie himself plays on confusing the issue and, knowing him as I do (we ain't mates but we are always polite to each other when we meet), I think he has a sense of humour and thank heavens for that. Let's face it, if I, as a well-known public figure, were cavorting on a beach with a busty female, wouldn't the press and the public wonder what I was trying to say?
Photographers have ways of getting pictures of stars during intimate moments, even of royals having their toes sucked. My advice to Robbie is to not get your pants in a twist like Jason Donovan because no sense of humour is far worse than a question mark over one's sexuality. Think of it as a public service, a mercy mission.
It worked for David Bowie and Mick Jagger in the Seventies and they became more interesting, not less popular. Keep that pink cloud of doubt hovering over your head. Admit nothing unless it's true and, if it is true, only in the presence of your lawyer. Case dismissed.
MOVING swiftly on to the annual Dancestar Awards, which I hosted with the gorgeous Tess Daly. It was surprisingly professional, aside from the black rappers who heckled me and shouted "Booyaka", which, amusingly, I was later told meant "kill all whites.". As if that were some kind of comfort or consolation. I cussed them back and carried on with celebrating what I consider to be the pondlife of dance music.
Most of the acts were dismal. It was gay disco for white boys who can't dance. My highlight was meeting Ms Dynamite, who is the UK's great urban hope. Her lyrics are fresh, un-cliched, and she isn't full of attitude yet. A few big hits and she might change.
All the best things in the world, like punk, New Romanticism and, sadly, dance music become the very thing they set out never to be.
A bit of advice to the table of thugs at Dancestar - if you can't take it, don't give it. Get a life and one to go with it. Stick your Gucci up your Louis Vuitton and Patrick Cox shoe in your gob. Lets remove the term racist and replace it with prejudice because we are all guilty of prejudice.
I leave you with a quote: "It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. I want to know if you will risk looking a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive." The book's called Oriah Mountain Dreamer. The author, Richard Carlson, has a way with words.
14th July 2002
Unsound system rocks the bash
HE's a funny bird, that Richard Branson. Last week he threw a bash at the ("Don't sit on that, it's not a chair, it's an art piece") trendy hotel, The Sanderson. I don't know if the function was for his favourite 100 people or just a staff do, but there was no sign of him.
Has Richard become something of an American? Was he following that Yankee tradition, started by the likes of Madonna, which demands that no person of any social standing goes to their own party?
Whether he was going to attend or not, you'd think - having had his finger in the musical pie for many years - that he would hire a sound system that, well, works!
As soon as I, as DJ for the event, put on the first record, there was an explosion of noise and those brave enough to dance must have thought I was playing one of those early post-punk, electro records that would have my mother whacking the ceiling with a broom.
The technician was kind enough to announce that it was a technical faults and not mine. It all went smoothly from there on. Only the previous weekend, I was spinning in a huge marquee for the Bamford dynasty (they are big in building accessories, drills and the like). It was their son's 21st birthday and the theme was James Bond.
It was a lavish affair and we were holed up in the private riding school along with Heather Small, sans M People and beehive and working a straight hairstyle that was quite fetching. I was surprised that neither Sir Anthony or Lady Bamford, nor the sprog, bothered to pop over to say "hello" or "thank you" and one was left feeling like a hired hand.
When I spun tunes for the Chanel shop opening, I had the head of Chanel crawling around the floor to see which fuse had gone and rustling through her handbag for something sharp to prise open the plugs. Even David Beckham crossed a rather large tent to welcome me, proving that there are those with manners and those to the manor born.
Next (oh, I do lead a varied existence), I found myself checking into a hotel in Newquay, only to be confronted by glamour model Jordan who said oddly: "I've seen you without your make-up now." Adding: "I better keep the door shut because I've got no knickers on."
A bit late for modesty, dear.
AFTER my gig, I arrived back at the hotel to find two girls standing outside my room. I assume they were glamour model wannabes because as soon as I got close, they asked in unison: "Which room is Jordan in?"
You'd think that Jordan groupies would be male but then I myself get more attention from straight men or women and David Beckham has started wearing nailpolish - it's all very confusing.
Mind you, Becks's nod to camp could be a good thing since - for the first time in years - I am being called queer and fag on a regular basis. We can thank Eminem for putting those words back on the map. That's not to suggest that people haven't always thought it but they have now been given the go-ahead to shout it out.
As I have been a fab for many years, you'd think the public, or boys of a certain age, would realise that I already know what I am and don't need to be reminded. Trust me, it ain't news. So come on Mr Beckham - false eyelashes next.
21st July 2002
Portraits of an exotic eccentric
Oops, I did it again - to quote Britney Spears. Only days after I dissed Lady Bamford after DJing for her son George's birthday I received a thank-you from the good lady to express her gratitude.
That doesn't excuse a thank-you in person but nonetheless I jumped the gun a bit. So I apologise. It has been a week of dramas and fraught phone calls. This week, the Institute of Contemporary Art opened an exhibition of photos of Leigh Bowery which runs until September 8 and is a must for anyone studying fashion or photography.
No one could go wrong with a model like Leigh and some of the looks captured are out of this world. However, a huge drama ensured because my good friend Philip was trying to get the ICA to allow a sculpture made by his sister of myself as Leigh into the exhibition but both snapper and those who reign supreme at the ICA said no. I couldn't help thinking that their collective attitude was rather disingenuous, especially as I got out of bed at some hateful hour to be painted and trussed into costume to promote Fergus Greer's book. I later discovered that it wasn't the ICA but the photographer who was against it.
The important thing is that we are all working to the same end. That is immortalising the most exotic and self-parodying creature ever to grace London's nightclub scene. I haven't seen the sculpture but it will add to my ever blooming collection of Bowery artefacts.
Anyway, the ICA was full of all the old freaks. It was like a New Romantic renaissance. The highlight of the night was top stylist Judy Blame booing the band. "Oh," he said, "I wish more people were misbehaving." The exhibition is fabulous and proves that true art moves. When I saw Leigh's life-size portraits I was overcome with sadness. The question is what happened to London? Maybe Leigh was the final gasp of eccentricity. Hope not!
All is not lost. Johnny Slut, as he loves to be known, has started a kind of retro, new age, electro night called Nag, Nag, Nag and is attracting a whole new batch of young weirdos. It takes place in a small venue behind London's Astoria Theatre every Wednesday and it's a blast. Even more bizarre is the website, us.geocities.com/theblitzkids
Every last freak is accounted for and it was shocking to see old pictures of moi, DJing in full drag in the late Seventies.
Maybe there is a yearning among the young for something avant garde. Those behind this site must be congratulated for their research. I only wish I could have got one of the pictures posted of myself and Kirk Brandon, who took me to court for telling the world we were lovers. If I had got hold of this photo - which is very intimate and provocative - I might have saved a fortune in court bills.
Even more bizarre was the troupe of anarchists with a sense of humour who blocked off my road with a huge float and a posse of characters out of your worst nightmares. They called it Plotto - the People's Lotto - and the prize included a gold Mini, all the beer you can carry and tickets for next year's Wimbledon final. Talk about thinking ahead. I only wish my neighbour was in because he would he would have blown a fuse. I left them lying in the gutter, drunk as skunks, for the safety of my Gothic pile.
The guy who is the brains behind this loopy venture had been filming in my house the day before. We were shooting a video for one of Taboo's songs and he was as straight as a die, proving that all of us have an alter ego. Talking of alter egos, I return to the chaos that is Taboo on August 5. See ya there.
28th July 2002
Busy avoiding the personal
Work is a perfect way to avoid life. Staying busy is how most of us avoid being alone with our thoughts. Sir Anthony Hopkins apparently feels the same way and maintains that if he isn't working, he will do his damnedest to find some, adding that too much thinking is a killer.
Our high-tech world provides so many tools of distraction. Computers, e-mails and mobiles are things we can't live without but they are really just modern ways of avoiding the intimacy of, shock horror, talking to people.
Most mobile phone conversations are inane. "Hi, yeah, the train just stopped between London Bridge and Charing Cross..." These gadgets rule our lives. The question is a cliche, I know, but which came first, the chicken or the egg? Were these things invented because we simply can't bear to not be dragged away from our nearest thought?
I rarely indulge in much TV ogling, except late at night, and so find myself watching programmes like Big Brother. Well, it was that moody Spencer who got me hooked. Lying around topless or with his lovely tummy out. In the end I decided to root for Jade because, let's face it, Alex - as whingey and stunning as he is - will never love anyone as much as he loves himself.
It seems Spencer feels the same way, with his comment that: "Alex has the body of a very attractive female." Oh no, not another starvation diet!
The cruelty inflicted on Jade says an awful lot about the state of our culture. Have human beings always been this cruel? Or have I been spending too much time on my mobile phone, texting confused straight boys?
Then I find myself watching a programme with veteran journalist Paul Callan, who was told that he should be taxed for being overweight. That came from some Scottish chap in his early 30s, no oil painting, who tore into chubby people, saying they should be banned from central London. What next? A separate island for the elderly and disabled?
ON THE subject of cruelty, a journalist who probably got a free ticket to see Culture Club at the Royal Albert Hall started his review with the statement: "You know it's all over when the fat lady sings."
No, he wasn't referring to me but to buxom backing singer Zee Asha. He added that the concert left him feeling sick for days. Did he have some dodgy sushi on the way to the gig?
The worst part is that he claimed that back in the Eighties, I showed him new ways of being a man. Well, I feel riddled with horror if I had any influence on such a person who could write anything so mundane and school playgroundish about one of earth's mothers.
I remember a scene in the movie Dancehall Queen when a big black diva swishes past a gang of men who dare to pass comment on her size. She quips: "This body would blind you. You couldn't handle it." Right on, sista.
I sent the journalist a bunch of yellow roses for sympathy, with a card that read: "Your kindness was overwhelming, love Boy George and the fat lady. PS - You're just jealous cos we're prettier than you are."
Yes, I know, it's not the done thing to react to the press - but then who wants to be professional in such a cod culture? Revenge is a dish best served cold, so kill them with kindness. Or at least remind them it exists.
I CAN'T help thinking George Michael has reached his 'war song' period with his latest single, Shoot The Dog. Stay out of toilets and politics - and as for open relationships, they don't work. Or is it a case of if you live in my palace, you abide by my rules?
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