Can it
really be
TEN YEARS since the very first Polari? Although I wasn't actually at the earliest outings of "London's peerless gay literary salon", I first encountered the co-founders of the (now defunct)
House of Homosexual Culture Rupert Smith and Paul Burston at a linked event that they hosted called
Between the Covers (part of LGBT History Month) way back in
February 2008, so I am probably the longest-serving audience member of them all...
But most deserving of any such "long service medal" is, of course, hostess-with-the-mostest Mr Burston. And it was with well-earned pride that he opened proceedings for this very significant anniversary.
Least said soonest mended where opening act
Carey Wood is concerned, unfortunately. Suffice to say that one-line epigrams do not a "poet" make, in my book. Ahem.
Next up was the beamingly cheerful Mr
Bisi Alimi - described on his website as “Angelic Troublemaker Incarnate” - to save the day. The first Nigerian to openly declare his sexuality on national television in 2004, the subsequent threats to his life led him to move to the UK as a refugee; happily he was granted British citizenship in December 2014. He has managed to carve quite a name for himself out of the experiences: he has been much in demand as a speaker, has written for
The Guardian (among others), and remains a prominent gay rights activist and HIV/AIDS advocate.
The piece he read for us on Friday he admitted he only finished a week earlier. A marvellously pithy and often humorous exploration of "identity",
Who Am I? was sublime. Here is Mr Alimi speaking about his experiences at a recent event hosted by
The Daily Beast:
We might have wished for a little "light relief" after that, but, continuing with the "first-hand experiences" theme, our darling
"Sexy Lexi" Gregory read a heart-stopping one (which, together with two more, he hopes to bring to the stage as a full production next year) - about an archetypal "Smalltown Boy" and his venture to London, his part in the world of gay rights activism through the tumultuous 80s, the impact of AIDS, and the state of the "gay world" today in the wake of the loss of a whole generation and their collective lived experiences.
It was only towards the end of his impressively-performed monologue that the penny dropped. This was Paul Burston's story. The audience was stunned, and Mr B was visibly choked-up as he adjourned the evening for a much-needed break.
Suitably refreshed, it was the turn of the eminent American writer and "theatre-maker"
J Fergus Evans to take the stage, reading a currently unpublished piece that I believe might be called
The Bear. With its subtly erotic tone - a young boy's hero-worship of/desire for the eponymous "Bear" (an assumed fling of the boy-narrator's mother) - the lavish descriptions of the "Bear"'s body, muscles, beard hair and even his scent caused quite a few ripples of thrill through the audience... not least our John-John, who came over all unnecessary...
However, as always, it fell to the ever-brilliant Mr
Jonathan Harvey to steal the show! Revisiting his excellent debut novel
All She Wants, the piece he read (hilariously, I might add) was a familiar one - the aftermath in the family of the protagonist Jodie, after her brother "Our Joey" was arrested
in flagrante delicto in a park...
Mum didn't acknowledge my arrival, she just kept staring straight ahead, her eyes on the blank TV. "I suppose you knew." There was so much vitriol in her tone of voice. Like I'd made him gay just to spite them. Like I'd been laughing behind her back all this time.
"Mum?!" I was acting dumb. Something I was very convincing at as I'd had a lot of experience doing it for real.
"I suppose you knew Our Joey is a freak."
"He's not a freak."
Dad came bombasting in from the kitchen now.
"Oh, and I suppose you think it's normal to go shagging blokes in the great outdoors?"
Things must have been bad as Mum didn't tell him off for saying "shagging". Though she did shiver like someone had rubbed a piece of ice down her back.
"Well, no I don't," I agreed.
"Otterspool Prom!" cried Mum. "We used to take you there for picnics." He'd clearly sullied her memory of it forever.
"What was he actually arrested for?"
"Gross indecency in a public place," said Dad, and each syllable was punctuated with his disgust.
"He wasn't arrested; he was just cautioned. Coz of his age."
"I mean, Jeez, it's one thing being a gay; it's another thing doing it in a frigging park." Dad shook his head.
"Malcolm!" Oh, so she was getting her mojo back. "And it's not a park is it? It's a beauty spot!"
"A beauty spot?!" I laughed involuntarily and she gave me one of her looks. It brought me up short. Time to back-pedal. "Well, yes, it is a thing of beauty in... spot form." God, must do better!
Mum sighed.
"Oh well," I said, trying to lighten the load, "now we know why he's put his career ahead of girlfriends!"
Mum rolled her eyes. "Don't make this about you, Jodie."
Why shouldn't I? Just for one moment. Surely she could see that I was fighting Our Joey for the crown of Golden Child. Surely I'd be allowed some Brownie points now for being... well... normal!
"The shame of it, Jodie. We had to go to the police station to get him. And he's completely unapologetic."
"He did say sorry, Sandra."
"Well I didn't hear him."
"I mean, he did sound a bit snarky when he said it, like."
"Poor Joey," I said. Whoops, bad move. Mum jolted in her seat like she was in the electric chair.
"Poor Joey? Poor Joey? What about poor us, having to go to the cop shop to fetch him?!" Mum had been watching too many soaps and had picked up most of her phrases from them. She'd start calling me Treacle or Princess next, like Dirty Den. "The shame of it, Jodie. The utter shame. The way they were looking at us. Judging us." And she dissolved into tears, pulling a paper hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan and burying her face in it. Dad rubbed her shoulder. It was hardly the most affectionate of moves: he looked like he was rubbing something off a car-seat cover.
Just then we heard footsteps coming across the carpet, and suddenly Our Joey was stood in the doorway with a bag over his shoulder. Greg followed behind him.
"Don't be a knob, Joe," Greg was saying. Joe? He called him Joe? I'd not heard that before.
"Where d'you think you're going?" said Mum, sounding like all the things she hated: common, unbecoming and fishwife-esque.
"As far away from here as possible!" gasped Our Joey. He sounded like he was in an episode of Dynasty.
"You've got nowhere to go," I pointed out.
"Haven't I?" said Our Joey.
Utterly faboo - and even better if you can imagine it all being said in a camp Scouse accent. Tantalising half-truths were yet to emerge, however. Just why is Jodie's boyf Greg so protective of Our Joey... and why did he have
mud on his shoes? Where is Our Joey headed? And [in another passage Mr Harvey read] why is Jodie's best mate Hayls such a drama-queen, pretending to be disabled in order to "identify" with her wheelchair-using boyfriend?
As the applause (not least from our "gang" including John-John, Paul, Bryanne, Simon, Wayne and Roland, and a packed house that included Paul's hubbie Paolo and his cousin Elaine) threatened to take the roof off the Weston Pavilion (in which we had been uncomfortably located for the occasion), so Mr B called all the readers back to the stage, and... (more's the pity)
that was that for a rather splendid evening's entertainment.
The last outing of the year will be
A Very Polari Christmas on 11th December - with readings from Tony Peake, Susie Boyt, William Parker, Ian Elmslie and, of course, VG Lee.
Can't wait!
We love
Polari.
