The artist makes things concrete and gives them individuality

"The artist makes things concrete and gives them individuality."
Paul Cezanne

We went along last night to the first Polari evening in its new home - the appropriately-named "Concrete Bar" adjoined to the Hayward Gallery in the South Bank complex.

A peculiar venue. I felt it was similar to trying to have a good night out in an NCP car park, but we ignored the nasty surroundings and John-John and I began planning how it would look with flock wallpaper and glitter-balls. It didn't exactly help that the advertised 2-for-1 cocktails are only those with vodka in them (a spirit I cannot drink - bleurgh!), so we tucked into 2-for-1 wine instead then discovered Bellinis - and that made the atmosphere soooo much more amenable! That, and the cute barmen...



As the theme of the evening was "Lucky Bitches" (after the French & Saunders piss-take of Jackie and Joan Collins) on John-John's suggestion I had T-shirts made with photos of the Minogue sisters brawling on them, which seemed to go down very well.

The smallish crowd (the venue is limited to 75 capacity) was made up of a healthy mix of stalwart Polari-ites such as Ben, Johnny and Mark, and a lot of new ones. We were joined at our table by a lovely lady called Jeannie who lives next door to the South Bank Centre with great river views, apparently, and got talking to a few newcomers who weren't sure of the format of the evening.

Paul Burston opened the show with a suitably bitchy passage from The Gay Divorcee which perfectly encapsulates the "pecking order" of tables in a gay bar (the best of which is always reserved for the cattiest regulars). In the interlude, I was amazed to find an Australian who didn't recognise Kylie on the T-shirt (and thought it was Sharon Stone), but I forgave him as he was "a bit of a nosh"...

Then came our star turn, the erstwhile Rupert James (the artist formerly known as Rupert Smith and James Lear), who read a thoroughly entertaining extract from his brand new novel Silk, focussing on the book's most wicked character Victoria, in his own inimitable way (always a great reader, is Rupert!).



In the question and answer session afterwards Rupert gave us a most fascinating insight into the world of genre publishing. Unable to get mass interest in his gay fiction books beyond the world of specialist markets, he transformed himself into James Lear and ventured into the world of gay porn (by its very nature a niche genre, but nonetheless a lucrative one). Recently having decided to turn his hand to the Jackie Collins/Harold Robbins world of trashy fiction, it was time for yet another nom-de-plume and Rupert James was born.

Asked why the new name, the man himself eloquently explained "It sells books, dear!". In the weird world of publishing, apparently it is widely assumed that a "gay author" cannot possibly write "straight" sex and so it becomes necessary to assume new identities in order to land a publishing contract for new styles of writing. Brilliant and thoughtful stuff...

After purchasing a copy of Silk - which is available from Foyles - we stayed around for a couple more cocktails, chatting to Paul and Paulo about the upheaval their apartment is in with the reconstruction of their new kitchen, then ventured on to the Piano Bar at the Players Theatre for late drinkies and tinkling ivories. Probably a mistake in hindsight, but in all a great night again...

Polari