July 2003

6th July 2003

It's a drag when fans are so dumb

WITH pop music in a cultural coma it's no surprise that strange hybrids are being cooked up. Dance grooves and rock attitude have always been at loggerheads but trust a bunch of young punks to put one finger up to the rules. The three anorexic boys in Black Wire manage a thunderous noise without the obligatory drummer. Over badly programmed but nastily cool beats they rock out and do that "Why am I here?" thing better than your average reluctant icon.

Last Wednesday I caught them at Nag, Nag, Nag, London's most vital sweatbox, and for 20 minutes they managed to keep all eyes on them. Propping up the bar were three 100 per cent rock girlfriends who, in their attempt to remain aloof and unnoticed, stood out like drag queens at a chess convention. After Black Wire had done their damage and walked from the stage with a look of disdain, host Johnny Slut asked: "Hands up who wants to sleep with Black Wire? I do."

The following day I went on to the Black Wire website to send them praise and found myself hissing at the dumb messages posted by their fans. Many were referring to Nag, Nag, Nag as a dive full of pretentious southerners. One even said: "It makes me glad to be a northerner." Is it any wonder, when even the weirdos are pedestrian in their outlook, that so many regional homosexuals flock to London as soon as they can? I'm sorry, but Black Wire are verging on drag. Think Posh Spice after a drinking binge with Ronnie Wood and you get close.

Their style is the kind that takes years to establish and looks as though it was just chucked on. You know my adage about how it takes cool types longer to put on a white T-shirt than it does for a drag queen to get ready for the Sydney Mardi Gras.
I realise it's hardly fair to blame a band for the stupidity of a handful of admirers. Were it not for the endeavours of Mr Slut, bands such as Black Wire would have fewer places to peddle their wares. How amusing that after rocking out to Black Wire we were immersed in dance grooves. How many promoters could pull off a night that moves so easily from one barking genre to the next?

STAYING in that field, I was booked for the opening night of Rock 'n' Roll Fag Bar in Brixton. This weekly glam get-together is on Thursdays at Brixton's Sub Station and is a chance to wallow in nostalgia. Before getting down to all things glam, goth and indifferent, punters were treated to a showing of Ziggy Stardust: The Movie. This, of course, attracted a throng of Bowie fans who only wanted to hear David's music but I managed to keep them happy with one or two classics.

Of course, even at a night advertised as "alternative" you always get one fool who wants to hear music they know. "Excuse me," simpered one queen, "are you playing for yourself or the crowd?" I didn't indulge him with a response but found the most obnoxious record, something by the Jesus And Mary Chain, and let it throttle the speakers. After extending my set because no one wanted to leave, I scrambled into a minicab home. How pleasant to find Nina Simone pumping out of the stereo and not the Cheeky Girls. There was a queen at the wheel and that usually spells musical doom. I must have found the one homosexual taxi driver in London with ears.

If you are wondering why I am no longer on LBC radio, so am I. After talks about hosting my show from New York when I go there for Taboo, it seems LBC cannot afford it. This is despite their ratings being at an all-time high. Oh well, it was more of a brief affair than a relationship - but that's showbiz.

13th July 2003

So it's OK to kill but not to be gay?

I WAS saddened to hear that Canon Jeffrey John, who was the victim of a Church of England witch-hunt because he was gay, has decided to turn down the post of bishop. After he was offered the position the multitude of homophobes in the religion set out to cause as much controversy as possible. I suspect that those who turned against him like modern Judases are feeling very proud. How tragic that they don't realise that attitudes like theirs have allowed so much horror to endure within the Church.

This refusal to discuss sex has allowed paedophiles and perverts to abuse children over many years because they knew the Church would bury its head. The likes of Canon John are to be commended. Those who admit to being gay withing that homophobic environment are both brave and honest, unlike those who repress their desires or prey on innocents because they are confident they will be too ashamed to speak up.

By refusing to accept gay clergy and open the debate about all types of sexuality the Church is sanctioning abuse. Christians are very selective when it comes to which parts of the scriptures they adhere to.

We all know that "man shall not lie with man" is in the Bible - but so is "thou shall not kill." Are we saying that killing is comparable to consensual homosexuality? Both George Bush are committed Christians but they, along with many others, have no qualms about mass killing in war.

Is the Church not brave or insightful enough to realise that homosexuals are not an aberration? To quote the great queer suffragette Quentin Crisp: "God made he, she, me."

THIS YEAR the Ibiza season is a much quieter affair than usual and there are whispers through the palm trees that prices have rocketed. I don't think, though, that this spells the end for the clubbing Mecca. Every few years there are rumours that Ibiza is over but it always gets back on its dancing feet!

There are more families than usual and the island is certainly more sedate - but I for one am enjoying it. My favourite gig so far was poolside in a huge hotel in San Antonio with the Tonic crew. I had a spectacular afternoon view of hordes of fit lads and ladies as they lounged and recovered from the previous night's antics. Also on the bill was the delightful Leeroy Thornhill - ex of The Prodigy - who played some wicked records and humoured me as I teased the boys.

Clubbing seems to be going through a transitional period and there are fewer big name DJs this year. Apparently, most clubbers are holding off until the last two months of the season, which always go off with a bang.

The funniest sight this year has to be a character called Spiderman. The skinny gentleman dressed in full Spiderman gear dances around like a complete idiot to the amusement of all. You would be forgiven for thinking he was just an escaped lunatic but he is actually a Portuguese college lecturer with a lot of brains!

There are worse things than soaking up the sun for two weeks and spinning a few records. However low the numbers, there are plenty of gorgeous boys to peruse and that always keeps me happy.

It is also nice to be able to play tunes that you love and not to be constantly hassled by idiots who wouldn't know a bassline if it slapped them over the head. I am off now to play the terrace at the legendary Space, lunchtime slot for a bunch of nutters who have been up for the past 24 hours. It is all so uncivilised.

20th July 2003

Turning up the heat in Ibiza

MY STINT in Ibiza has come to an end and I am ready to return to familiar things. News of the recent heatwave at home was depressing. I am not a sun worshipper and the reason I love Britain is because it is usually reliably cold. I can stand the sun if I am on holiday and not working too hard but that's why we have places like Spain. Heat only suits those who look good in linen and casual attire and that counts me out.

At a gig the other afternoon, a bunch of chaps got into a fracas over a girl. I couldn't believe they could summon the energy to lift a fist but perhaps the heat had maddended them. The girl in question just stood there looking dizzy and making no attempt to prevent the battle for her attention. I couldn't help thinking: "That's the price you pay for being straight."

Talking of being straight, one of my friends met two lovely boys on the flight over. She is not known for fraternising with strangers but she took a shine to them and gave out her mobile number. "Oh," she cooed, "you'd really fancy them." We met up with the two lovely boys and they partied with us for the night and crawled back to our villa for a glass of tequila. They crashed out on our sofas and woke up not knowing quite where they were.

The change in personality was remarkable and they pretty much dashed out the door. We received a text message to thank us for a great night but haven't heard a peep since. I guess they were a bit freaked out by the experience but I never touched them. One asked if they could carry my records. I couldn't oblige becuase I was about to offer the job to Ryan, a cute Irish boy I deejayed with at Ittica Bar.

I asked if he was a famous DJ and he said: "I wish." Well, I don't think he will have to wait too long. I am about to write to DJ magazine to enquire about his fan club.

ONE of our DJ mates, Lisa Loud, is out in Ibiza for a few gigs and called to say she was circling the island on a yacht. Lisa got her surname becuase she has a foghorn voice which is in complete contrast to her sophisticated appearance. She DJs in high heels and figure-hugging frocks but if she gets stranded out at sea she need never fear remaining there. One burst of "sort it out" and she will be safely rescued.

Many people travel to the island for a weekend and end up on the missing list, only to appear disbevelled and begging for Nurofen days later. One DJ chum was apparently kidnapped by three Brazilian women. They took his record box hostage until he promised to go out and bring back copious amounts of alcohol. He claimed they had pushed him around but I suspect he was a more-than-willing hostage.

When we arrived on the island, we spotted what looked like a madman chasing a leggy blonde across the street at 6.30am. As we yelled from our car the madman spun around and we saw it was none other than legendary party monster Brandon Block. Brandon became infamous after he stormed the stage at the Brit Awards and disturbed Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood. He has been a legend in the dance world for years. After his little love dance in the street, he will stay that way for some time in my eyes.

I do love Ibiza despite the blistering heat and the fact that I can't drag up to full effect. I always look forward to being here and then getting back to civilisation with equal passion. Next Saturday I will be reunited with some of the Ibiza nutters for the gay pride event in Hyde Park. I am hosting on the Radio 1 Stage with Judge Jules and it looks set to be one of the best Pride festivals ever.

27th July 2003

An appointment to join the queue

I REALLY don't know why I was required to get up at 8.30am to go to the American Embassy but apparently it was the only appointment they could offer me. Even more strange was the fact that they called it an appointment - because I had to queue.

I bet George W Bush doesn't have to drag himself off to the British Embassy to get into our fair land. Mind you, Bush's methods of entering countries can be rather gung ho and I wouldn't want to look pushy. I was in a right strop but there was no way around it. I pulled myself out of bed and grumped into my civvies.

As usual I checked my e-mails and one from milliner Stephen Jones had me howling. We have been trying to hook up but things keep getting in the way - such as Fashion Week. Stephen's e-mail was brief but oozing with repressed grandiosity - "Sorry, not around this week, off to Morocco for a surprise birthday bash." It conjured up a fabulous image of Stephen on the back of a camel, in a jazzed-up fez, knocking back a champagne cocktail.

This image contrasted wildy with my early morning dash to the embassy - but then the heat of Morocco would drive me insane (or more insane). And all that dust, well it doesn't bear thinking about. Mind you, the weather here is becoming very Mediterranean and if it continues my wardrobe will be a sea of linen and light cottons.

What about the BA strike? I thought the Spanish were winners in the contempt-of-passenger-stakes. However if this latest drama is anything to go by, we are catching up. I have always said that humanity ends as soon as you enter an airport. Add a strike to the mix and it's all over.

People just become hateful when they travel and many don't help themselves or others by taking too much hand luggage. I admire those types who can fit an entire week's wardrobe into a clutch bag because they always look unruffled. I don't carry as much luggage these days and beauty regimes go on hold when I travel. My friend Amanda has an entire suitcase for "products" and it weighs a ton. Travel is not for everyone. Some people don't even understand the concept of taking a holiday. As I see it, it is a chance to escape from everything and eat stuff that you would hold a crucifix to under normal circumstances.

THE OTHER evening I was dining at the new Zilli restaurant in Covent Garden - delicious - when one of my dinner companions made a comment about me that rattled my cage. I was explaining my feud with Radio One and they said: "Well, you're known for being a bit of a troublemaker."

It is amazing how other people interpret one's behaviour and make judgments. Until recently I had a niggling doubt that my feud with Radio One was imaginary and that the real problem was my lack of talent. However, a friend with whom I had a top three dance chart hit confirmed my original theory. The song, Psychology of the Dreamer, was getting played heavily in Ibiza and sailed up the dance chart with zero press or promotion. My collaborator gave copies to several Radio One producers at a party in Ibiza and one of them told him: "You haven't got a hope in hell of getting that played."

I'm sure that this unofficial ban is an abuse of my civil rights but if I fight it I will only appear desperate. In fact, such is my pluck that I am spinning on the Radio One stage at yesterday's Gay Pride shindig in Hyde Park, London.

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