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3rd March 2002
My Lifetime Invite To Abigail's Party
Imagine Woody Allen crossed with Andy Warhol on lithium and you get a vague idea of how American art-house director Wes Anderson's latest movie, The Royal Tenenbaums, comes across. The story is hilariously dark and moving; I almost cried twice, because I was reminded of my own childhood. But we were never that MAD, or were we? The casting is genius, and what a thrill to see Gwyneth Paltrow act at long last. She was as cool as Chloe Sevigny and superbly understated.
The film stars such acting luminaries as Angelica Huston - proving that surgery is a waste of time when you have the kind of bone structure that could hold up a bank - and Gene Hackman, brilliant as the scheming father who tries to win back the family he rejected by pretending he is on his last legs.
Katherine Hamnett, who I bumped into at the after bash, walked out. "I was bored," she snipped. I also heard some older couple mumble that it went over their heads. Maybe I'm just perverse but I loved every second and was reminded of the time I made my parents watch Mike Leigh's equally loopy Abigail's Party. They could not see the funny side, I suspect, because it was like a normal day at home.
The last film I enjoyed as much was Happiness, which was far more twisted and dark and crossed lines which are rarely crossed. With so many awful "who cares?" films being made, it's no wonder that proper actors and actresses are prepared to work in others for the kind of financial crumbs that Tom Cruise would leave in his breakfast bowl.
It's the kind of film that will appeal to youngsters who are not glued to their bedroom PlayStations. Any director who uses two Nico songs (she of Velvet Underground and one of my all-time fave singers) in his flick has his priorities perfectly intact.
It was time to be off to the Met Bar for some munchies. Well, the canapes at the movie bash were very meaty - rather like the sax player in residence at the Met every Tuesday. Call me cheap but I'm a sucker for a shaved head and the DJ, Saul Dismont, almost helped me work off the very un-macro chips and Caesar salad.
MANY years ago, I bumped into Spike Milligan protesting about organic eggs outside a supermarket on the King's Road. We met again in the corridor of an Australian hotel, he in his pyjamas. Later, I interviewed him for a cable TV channel. Our set was all Indian and he made a racist jibe and almost got a camera shoved in his face by one of our feisty black camerawomen.
Aside from that embarrassing moment, Spike made a lot of sense and said that people should have to apply for licenses to procreate. Who could argue when so-called normality allows the likes of Fred and Rose West to raise kids? Everyone knows how Spike battles madness but he was such a character.
Stephen Fry rightly called him "the godfather of comedy" and I have a 45 record of his Goon ditty. The Ying Tong Song. I also have a signed book of his poetry and wonder what inspired some of the doggerel.
I recently suggested to a friend that Yoko Ono actually saved the Beatles because, had they stayed together, they would have ended up doing a musical or some other equally embarrassing project (I jest).
Who else but Yoko could come up with a song like Walking On Thin Ice? And who else but Spike could invent the rhyme: "There's a thousand hairy savages sitting down to lunch, gobble, gobble, glub, glub, munch, munch, munch"? The MAD shall inherit the mirth.
10th March 2002
I am so proud to be fashion unconscious
I should congratulate myself on being voted the 20th "worst dressed" man by GQ Magazine. Well, they rather kindly said: "At least he tries." I don't hire a sylist, pop off to the trendiest designer or have my clothes bought for me. For better, or worse, I dress myself. I think my mother taught me. It's quite easy. A bit like potty training.
GQ voted David Beckham best dressed. Quelle surprise. Well, my comment on Beckham was: "He'd look good in a potato sack." It's true it ain't hard to make someone beautiful look good but the bad news for those born pretty is that beauty fades.
No amount of cosmetic surgery or flash clobber can halt that process. Which is why being born average looking and making the best of what you have is a better option. When photographers ask to snap me and send books full of perfectly-formed models, I usually opt for someone who knows how to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. One of the tabloids picked up on the story and printed a very pretty picture of me and I've always maintained that as long as the shot is good, who cares about what's written.
Beckham is a beauty, no doubt about that. But the comment made by Elton's partner, David Furnish, about Beckham not being afraid to take fashion risks is a joke. Men have been donning sarongs, in India and on a million beaches, for years.
The tabloid reaction to a footballer in what they referred to as "a skirt" is just a reflection of the homophobia that is still rife in this country. The reason Becks shaved his head was to re-establish his masculinity, because too many folk were insisting that Posh not only wore the trousers but chose them too. That's the Shiatsu interpretation anyway.
As for the Mohican look, it's all very 1976. Remember punk? Some of us are just too ahead of ourselves but that's style for ya.
Poor Jonathon Ross was voted number one worst dressed but he will get great mileage out of it because he, unlike most celebrities, can laugh at himself. Fashion takes itself too seriously, and let me poke a big stick at Kate Moss for swanning around in fur.
Sadie Frost also sneered in disgust. Kate's respons was very Italian: "I don't care what Sadie thinks, I wear what I want." The quote "Fur is worn by ugly humans and beautiful animals" should be changed to "Beautiful animals and heartless, overpaid souls".
THE OTHER day, the lovely hypnotist Paul McKenna gave me a free session to stop me smoking. Firstly, I must say that he oozes charisma and is much more handsome in person.
Sadly, I lasted only five hours but it's a start and I am about to lie down for 20 minutes and listen to his CD, which hopefully will further register the point that smoking is for idiots. Especially idiots who sing for their supper.
I had to go off to Brick Lane to work in the recording studio with Adamski, now known as Adam Sky, who is as mad as a box of spanners and everything that could go wrong did. Out came the fags. I was supposed to meet up with my American chum Chi Chi La Rue who makes gay porn and just about made it before he/she popped off to Paris. We ended the night in some rather nice Indian restaurant and then I had to decide whether to go to a club but decided to slink off home. Wise move.
I intend to make use of Paul McKenna's advice about moving stuff in my home that is associated with smoking. Who knows, in a week or two, I might be smoke free.
The session with Adam Sky went well after much jiggery pokery and sounds like Bowie meets Al Green. How's that for a hybrid?
17th March 2002
Hat's off - and the snappers pounce
If we were living in Victorian times or an age of some sort of civilty, a gentleman would lay his coat across a puddle for a lady. Sadly, we are not and the paparazzi who loiter outside The Ivy restaurant hoping to snatch a celebrity leaving were very unhelpful when my black Philip Treacy fedora blew off my head in the pelting rain and floated along the gutter. Not only was it pouring but it was brass monkeys and I was rushing to a DJ stint at London's funkiest club, Fabric.
The snappers descended and chased myself and my hat down the road. Once I got my hat back on I hissed at them to shove off but one of them made some comment and I had a bit of a Sean Penn tantrum. It didn't get too ugly but one of them sized up to me and said: "I'll have you, come on." Of course, when given the opportunity to land a punch, he backed away, mumbling: "You're not that big." Did he mean bigger than Elizabeth Taylor? The Beatles? Or The Wombles? Or perhaps Tinky Winky out of the Tellytubbies?
While they were wasting their time chasing after me, they might have missed a proper start such as Madonna, or who knows? Half the photos taken of me are rarely seen and the type of photographers who wait outside random buildings or restaurants wouldn't know a good picture if it slapped them with a cold trout.
My departing comment was: "Well, you're the idiots standing in the rain. I'd much rather be me than you any day." Had I been dining at The Ivy, I wouldn't have given a fig but I rarely eat there. I had just left a meeting about my musical, Taboo, and the office is unfortunately in the same street. I recall a similar incident when, after leaving a play in my scruffiest clobber, a photographer asked if he could snap me. I said: "I'd prefer if you didn't." He kept following me to as if to provoke a reaction. He got the point when I punched him - very un-Buddhist, but sometimes the Irish builder in me gets the upper hand. I guess it's time to return to the Dolly Parton school of appearing in public. On second thoughts, I'll carry a brick in my handbag.
IT HAS been a while since I've written about the Beckhams, but I am currently in a dispute with Manchester United over a personally signed football shirt donated by David for an HIV and AIDS fundraising event. I bought the shirt for the cause. The charity organisers said they did not have it yet and I was happy to wait.
The shirt they sent, after two years, was a nasty, synthetic, mass-printed one you can pick up in any old sports shop, with a ready-printed signature. I understood I was receiving something special.
Phone calls have been made to Man U and the buck is being passed around like a pipe at a pow-wow. Don't worry, I shall be on the warpath until I get my shirt. If David is so proud of being a gay icon, he ought to respect the real thing! In fact, even better would be a pair of signed briefs and the T-shirt for being so patient.
NOW that Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake are separated does that mean I get a look in? (I jest). But I always worry when I hear couples pledging their undying love. It always comes across as if they are trying to convince themselves. There was that classic full-page ad Richard Gere took out, asking the media to let him and Cindy Crawford get on with loving each other in peace. In the blink of an eye, their marriage was over. I can't see Britney or Justin having a problem finding new adoring beaus. I'm available, Justin - but keep the head shaved.
24th March 2002
Surreal encounter with a living legend
My life can get surreal from time to time but bumping into Liza Minnelli at Ballans gay cafe with husband David Gest and Martine McCutcheon in tow, at some unearthly hour, tops most things. We have met before at the odd glitzy party in the US and I took a picture of her in New York, but sitting up close to the great legend tops the surrealometer.
She and her party ordered food, which they left and probably had no intention of eating. Well, I must confess to chowing down Liza'a very tasty and still warm omelette des herbes - which helped soak up the copious amounts of champagne I had downed last Thursday after playing at London's latest gay club, The Sweet Suite, which used to be the K-Bar in Wardour Street.
A friend who was thumbing through OK! happened to call Liza's wedding, which was attended by an array of odd characters, "the night of a thousand facelifts". I assume the reason I didn't get an invite was because I have not been near a surgeon's knife or had Botox injected into any part of my body.
I worry about this trend because I am constantly meeting younger and younger men and women who are having this rat poison - we're talking botulism, it is poison - pumped into their faces. What is wrong with growing old gracefully? Or disgracefully!
Apparently, Steve Strange, who released his autobiography this week, is allowing a downmarket tabloid to photograph him while undergoing this very trendy process. And Jordan, she of the huge breasts, is giving birth on the Internet soon and one wonders where it will all end!
Mind you, I've had an invite to Posh and Becks' pre-World Cup Party and the battle for who I take as my guest will be painful and complicated. They state very sternly on the invite, no cameras or autographs, so I guess I won't be getting my signed Man U shirt, or briefs, but one can live in hope.
TALKING of Liza's wedding guests, the great Liz Taylor was there with Michael Jackson, who is looking spookier and spookier. My close friend Paul Starr had the thrill of painting Liz's face for Elton John's latest video. Apparently Liz walked onto the set and sang out: "Morning Yellow Shit Road" and was as camp as you like.
In the video she palys Elton's wife and is donning a fuschia pink turban and a big diamante on her forehead. Nice to see that one of my favourite divas still has a sense of humour. Unfortunately, she had no memory of meeting me, albeit briefly in Paris some years back, but it was rather rushed. I know that Paul, who has done make up for just about every huge Hollywood star, was excited about painting Liz because he called me at 5am Los Angeles time and was in a sheer panic: "What do I bring?" The video is outrageously camp and I can't wait to eyeball it.
STAYING with the camp vibe, George Michael's latest video for Freeek! has him looking, well, rather over the top. The simple suits have been replaced by an all-in-one red leather catsuit, which is very Missy Elliot, or very American R&B. It seems that black American performers are bringing style back to pop but they manage to carry it off with slightly more panache.
I know I am late in mentioning Pop Idol Will's sexuality. I said he was gay the first time I laid eyes on him. I can't help wondering why he is singing You're The Girl For Me in his No.1 song? One gets the feeling that, like George Michael, he was forced out of the closet. And now I know for sure that he bats for my side, I can't help cringing every time I hear Evergreen.
31st March 2002
Strange but true, now Steve is a pal
OH, HOW sweet and typical for a fellow journalist - not from this paper - to suggest that I snubbed Steve Strange's launch for his autobiography, Blitzed. The truth is that with one's schedule being booked so far ahead, the bash clashed with a prior engagement. I don't like to let people down and I wish Steve every success with the book.
Only last week, we appeared in a "How we met" article and made no bones about our tempestuous relationship over the years. When Steve made it into the video for David Bowie's Ashes To Ashes, I was livid and even more livid when he hit the charts with Visage and the song Fade To Grey. I am actually quoted on the back of the book and in my new musical, Taboo, I refer to his first hit as "The soundtrack to my despair."
Of course we've all grown up a bit these days and I can see how petty the wars over image and column inches really were. What's that saying? "The Devil finds work for idle hands." I think Steve has made a sensible move in releasing Blitzed while the musical is in full flow and we are doing joint promotion with the publishers.
One thing I will say about Mr Strange is that he has always been a genius self-promoter and the timing of this book couldn't be better. A friend who made it to the launch said it was like a spooky time warp, full of Blitz- style lookalikes propping up the walls. I have not had the opportunity to finger through the book, though Steve did show me a copy at the "Murkin" Valentines ball, but refused to let me leave with it. I shall buy a copy as soon as I can, just to see how truthful it is, but as my old sidekick Marilyn said when I released my autobiography: "There's three truths - mine, George's and the real truth". Mind you, one should never let facts ruin a good story.
SO, THIS has been sugar-sweet Britney Spears's week and though I didn't make it to the premiere of her film, I did pop along to the party for a few flutes of champagne. Britney was holed up in a VIP room and I was beckoned in for a brief chat, while my chum Philip argued with her burly security guards.Apparently, Britney's fans were upset because she breezed into the premiere without so much as a smile or wave. It wouldn't go amiss to just give a quick curtsey or royal wave.
After doing the rounds, we got bored and swished off to the Met Bar sadly missing Liam Gallagher's brawl with the bouncers, who are mostly quite polite and rarely spoiling for a punch-up. Well, for a start, they all look like models subsidising their earnings and who wants a black eye if Calvin Klein might call you in?
Mind you, I've had a handful of brawls, mostly at Heaven nightclub with fellowpoofs pulling off my hat. When will they learn that this queer bashes?
I SEEM to have upset my American fans with a tongue-in-cheek message that explained why I was not attending this year's Miami DJ Conference. Last year, I got driven insane by people wanting their photos taken with me. In full hat and garb in that treacherous heat, I lost patience and had to start saying no. Well, there are only so many times one can pull that tired old face, heat is the enemy of fashion and you can't please everyone. Give me a not-too-breezy, cold London day rather than a steaming beach any day of the week. Lord only knows how those drag queens survive, but I know I couldn't hack it.
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