October 2001

7th October 2001

Let's get it straight, I think we're all gay

When I read headlines like "Elton: I Fancy Girls", I grimace as much as the next queen. Not because I don't believe him, but because with Elton, why he's saying something is often more important than what he actually says. I also question why this obviously flippant "I'd rather have a cup of tea than sex" comment is news. The main reason is that deep down, the heterosexual masses would love to think all gay men can be cured by the love of the right woman.

Of course, it never applies in reverse. I've been saying for years that we're all gay, some of us are just more gay than others. Recently a straight guy that I was flitting attentively around said: "We're all straight, some of us are just more straight than others."

When it comes to sexuality, you are what you believe you are and, as the saying goes, belief is a poor substitute for thinking. Elton, like moi, likes to stir up the hornet's nest occasionally, and that's no bad thing. The gay fraternity always shudder when a homo jumps ship with comments that suggest we can all be normal, but normality is a spooky old thing.

Personally, I agree with Elton and Eddie Izzard, who once told me that sexuality is like a ruler. You have gay and straight as the extremes at either end and bisexuality in the middle. Eddie reckons that all of us fall somewhere between those margins.

I really go with the concept of pansexuality, which is apparently the new phrase du jour. There is even a TV series dedicated to pansexuality. Bob & Rose is as cute as pie and my mum, bless her, thinks it's great, which caused a heated phone debate the other morning. Of course, Mum wasn't focusing on the confused sexual aspect of the show, she just likes to see people in love.

More and more folk are refusing to label their sexuality because of the social baggage that goes with taking sides.

Look at singer Tom Robinson, one-time gay musical activist who wrote one of my best gay anthems, Sing If You're Glad To Be Gay. Tom now lives with a woman and is perfectly happy with it.

I have fallen in love with many girls and they usually become my closest confidantes. There are millions of boys and men around the country who are smitten with David Beckham, myself included. When I suggest that there are obvious homoerotic undertones to that, I get laughed at. Well laugh. It's usually the prettiest footballers, or the ones who ooze testosterone and have firm thighs, that end up on boys' bedroom walls.

I'd like to see a TV show that deals with the fact that straight men fall in love with men because, trust me, they do. I have plenty of experience. I don't find Bob & Rose offensive, but I would love some kind of redress, just to keep things in perspective. I have been approached by a fine writer, Mark Davis Markham, to work on a TV series, and I think we will make that our first priority.

Any kind of debate about sexuality is a good thing because it is without question a gay area for us all. Bob & Rose was written by Russel T. Davies, the chap who gave us Queer As Folk, which, in my opinion, only showed the very basics of the queer reality. The trouble with Bob & Rose is that it is sugary and safe and doesn't really deal with the harsh reality. A man who is essentially turned on by men is as reliable as a straight man who crosses the border. Take my ex, Jon Moss. He recently announced: "I was Boy George's lover but I'm now happily married with kids." Elton should have said: "Sexuality is just a candle in the wind." Now that would make sense.

14th October 2001

Glazed and Confused? Not me, cheeky

Oh, how modern myths are created. Apparently, I was puffing and passing joints around at LWT's recent Audience With Kylie Minogue. Well, if I were to smoke a joint, I certainly wouldn't do it in public or with high-speed cameras in my face. Anyone who watched the show may have assumed I was bored ­ but trust me, I justhave a problem with anything too premeditated.

But how cheeky of LWT to intercut a shot of me looking glazed with one of the Big Brother girls wearing a T-shirt with "Stoned" written across it. Think I didn't notice?

Fast-forward a week, and I have every homosexual in London approaching me to ask: "why don't you worship Kylie? She's a gay icon." Well, she's gorgeous, she can hold a tune and she wears nice frocks - but I don't understand why she's a gay icon. She ain't a tragic diva like Judy Garland or Marilyn Monroe, and you simply cannot imagine her ever being carried out of a gig clutching a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

Kylie is pure showbiz. She exudes professionalism and her bottom is so pert that you can see she spends hours in the gym or in a perfect crab at the yoga class. Can you imagine Judy doing yoga? But maybe the diva du jour is someone the buffed-up homosexuals can relate to. Or is it that Kylie has the determination of a true Gemini? I get that.

This year's Muzik Magazine Dance Awards were probably the most professional (that word again) I've attended, hosted by a very funny Russell Brand, who tripped over a plant on stage and dared to deliberately mispronounce the name of respected DJ Danny Tenaglia (I laughed).

The best performance was by the punky dance combo Part-to-one, with their brilliant single I'm So Crazy and the funniest speech has to go to Radio One's Annie Nightingale, who quipped: "I'd like to thank my dealer." What did she mean?

The venue was done up entirely Arabic, from the table lamps to the food, which gave the night a spooky edge. There seems to be a real Arabic slant to lots of dance records, too, such as Theme From Belleville, which samples an Algerian wailing voice, and Aphrodite - my choice for record of the year.

Add to this the most groovy new club that night, Murkin, held at London's Café de Paris on Wednesdays. It was going to be called Ban The Bomb before the hideous events in New York. I guess some folk are sensitive to the mood of the moment but when they pick up on things before they happen, it is decidedly eerie.

The other twist is that dance bands are either adopting a confrontational stance, like Par-to-one or they're going very camp like The Ones, with their latest single Flawless, which is accompanied by a fey, fierce drag-queen video that wouldn't have been out of place in the Eighties. In times of aggression, I assume you either comply or confront.

The other big party last week was for the reopening of the Indian restaurant The Red Fort in London's Soho, which burnt down but has risen from the ashes. Of course, you can take this mood of the times thing too far. My chum Philip Sallon kept saying: "See, Asian music." Well, hardly a surprise in an Asian eaterie. Prior to that, I was at the Savoy Theatre watching a play about an expedition to the Antarctic which made me wish I'd concentrated in my history classes. I felt a bit out of place in my paint-splashed hat in a sea of Middle England theatregoers who were equally surprised to see me. Enough contrasting moments like that, though, and you have life.

21st October 2001

Farewell to a True Eighties Superstar

Usually, when someone colourful and gay passes on to the great disco in the sky, the funeral service can be horribly apologetic and wrong. Not so for my dear chum Paul Dawson, better known in the Eighties as Tranny Paul. It seems odd to refer to a funeral as a pleasurable event but Paul's send-off was perfect. Father Mark, from St. Paul's Church, Highgate, north London, told the congregation: "I'm sure Paul is in heaven fixing up a mirror ball and redecorating right now."

It was Joni Mitchell who said "laughing and crying, you know it's the same release", and laughter was in abundance when Paul's brother told stories of his irrepressible sibling who had better legs than any woman and was happily strip-searched after a flight home from Ibiza because he decided to drag up during the flight and become his alter ego, Gemma. The purser told him he was upsetting the other passengers, to which his response was: "Well, chuck me off."

I'll never forget the media frenzy after a night out at the Albert Hall to see Frank Sinatra. I took Gemma as my date, but how anyone could think he was a real woman, at six foot three in slingbacks, beggars belief. Were the press that naive or just playing along?

It was lovely to see Jonathan Ross's buxom wife Jane at the funeral and her shock of red hair and leopardskin coat would have made Paul beam. Quite a number of older (and toned down) Eighties clubbing freaks turned up to say goodbye and swap stories of Paul's antics with relish. Paul seemed to enjoy causing trouble mid-air. After being caught smoking on another flight, he was threatened by the stewardess with a £2,000 fine. "Oh dear," he sniped, "it's gonna take £4,000 to sort out your face." Not the kindest response but then drag has a habit of releasing demons.

Under the mask and the corset, Paul was the sweetest and often the most insecure being you could ever meet but he had a loving family who supported him throughout his short life and proudly hung up a picture of him in drag as he lay in state. As the coffin was carried away, they played Running Wild by Marilyn Monroe. Its line "feeling gay, restless too" couldn't have been more appropriate. Rest your slingbacks in peace.

Top Of The Pops has been given a much-needed facelift and I was invited along to a big bash last week to celebrate it. Producer Chris Cowey had been trying to jazz up The Pops for years and I'm told it will be more like The Tube, which brightened up music television in the Eighties and made a star of the late Paula Yates.

A new bar, called embarrassingly The Star Bar, modeled on London's trendy Met Bar, has been built adjacent to the studio and it will be filled weekly with celebs and supermodels and newer acts will perform intimate acoustic sets. You could hardly call Craig David a new act but to launch the bar, he performed a stripped-down version of one of his hits and he was in fine voice and gesticulating like Shirley Bassey.

Three of the original Pan's People dancers were propping up the bar and "Pam" was thrilling me with stories about Oliver reed and his tattoos. Don't ask! The style award of the night has to go to Jimmy Savile, whose jacket was an explosion of pink paisley with matching shirt, tie and flared pants. For once, I felt underdressed.

A longer version of TOTP will be aired on Saturdays and we are promised more than chart fodder. Let's hope it lives up to my expectations.

28th October 2001

Ooh, there's nowt as spooky as suburbia

Tuesday night, I found myself in Romford, Essex, at one of those huge suburban nightclubs surrounded by 4,000 strutting, grinding teenagers who had amassed to watch the final of the Young UK DJ Of The Year. As I minced into the venue, in full slap and hat, it was obvious that most of these kids had never been in close proximity to a real live (and comfortable with it) homosexual. I got the usual taunts from some of the more insecure male runts - "Faggot", "batty boy". It's always nice to be reminded but frankly there's little need.

I was joined on the judging panel by a host of top DJs: the hugely respected Carl Cox; Norris "da boss" Windross and, surprisingly, I got a huge cheer which eased the terror.The mob was mostly white but the music was pure black urban UK garage and I'm told that this is the essential sound of suburbia.

I was impressed with the technical skills of these fledgling DJs, some as young as 15, and their bravery in facing such a huge audience. The star and outright winner of the night was Joe Brunning, a cocky shaven-headed lad from Chelmsford who grabbed the mic and shouted "Slight technical hitch" when one of his mixes went askew.

As I left the venue, I was greeted by more predictable taunts but I spun round on my invisible slingbacks and shouted: "Batty boy, proud and true" in my best mock Jamaican twang and that seemed to shut them up. Secretly, I had a blast because I really had no idea what I would encounter in Romford and it's good to know what grooves are sending the kids wild. This was not my first trip to Romford either. My Hare Krishna chums have a temple there and I have visited it on numerous occasions. I marvel at their bravery, swanning around in saffron frocks and banging drums in the midst of all that pent-up teenage angst. Ooh, there's nowt as spooky as suburbia.

As royals go, Lord Patrick Lichfield is one cool geezer. As part of a Channel 4 documentary on moi, I had the pleasure of being shot by him and we had a ball. We started the day with a Jackson Pollock-style picture, which involved my throwing cans of coloured paint all over his studio walls. This was after splattering a sofa, a Marks & Spencer suit and a pair of old shoes. The effect was rather striking. Then we did a kind of quasi-temple look and my mum was roped in for a portrait. Apart from being a patient a talented snapper, he has stories galore and, as mum commented: "He ain't stuck up at all." What we in Woolwich call an all-round nice Faberge egg.

Then it was off to DJ at the opening of the new Teatro bar in London, which started off well until an annoying drunk PR chappie starting trying to dictate the sounds. "Play something happy," he moaned. What could be happier than White Riot by The Clash? Oh, perhaps something by Kylie?

Well, sorry, I rarely take instructions in the DJ box and especially not from someone whose main skill is greasing social ladders. The crowd dictates where you should go and they were whooping contentedly. Lady Victoria Hervey seemed very happy and so was I, until the petulant nagging started. I rarely walk out of gigs but it seemed the appropriate action and off I sauntered with my record box to the Mondo Bar for a relaxing flute of champagne with my DJ chum, J Love. My late friend Trojan used to say: "Those below us know nothing." And he had a point.

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