Hornets, dry cleaning and darkrooms

Last night's Polari provided some interesting interpretations on the theme of South London. Paul Burston was suitably "Brixton-blinged up", with his baggies on and his Calvins showing (that man always struggles to keep his clothes on!), and, once the room (largely full of non-Polari-ites who left after the happy hour) was silenced, introduced our first reader William Eaves.



Will read a few pieces from his varied work, starting with an interesting piece from his as yet unpublished new book featuring a dysfunctional family encountering hornets in their holiday chateau in France. As he said, "Very very South London"(!)

He followed this with a very funny pastiche of an insipid magazine profile from his recent acclaimed work Nothing To Be Afraid Of, in which the lead characters are a pair of thespian sisters. The more pretentious of the two, Martha, is asked by a magazine for an insight into the busy life she has led since she took on the part of Miranda in The Tempest:

"It's a gruelling schedule, which means I have to get the eating right: orange juice, cereal, toast and honey in the morning, a sandwich at lunchtime and something else before the show. Miranda can easily come across as a milksop, but I'm trying to be more hardline about her, so it's lots of hearty food and fresh air. The riverside walk from the Design Museum to Hungerford Bridge is one of my favourites, and you can grab a crab salad and some Orvieto along the way."

Apparently Will was inspired by reading one of the "60 second interviews" in The Metro, and it is so true - how many times do you read this kind of drivel in a free paper or "lifestyle magazine"?



After the break, it was the turn of one of our Polari favourites, the lovely Stella Duffy. She opened with a hilarious poem, oddly titled I don't write poetry. All became clear as it turns out it is all about mistaken identity. For many people (and shamefully, The Guardian newspaper) our Stella is interchangeable with fellow lesbian, the Poet Laureate, with whom she shares a surname. (Hence the line "No, I don't write poetry. That's Carol-Ann.")

She informed us that she was tempted to read from her new book Theodora: Actress, Empress, Whore (set in Istanbul), but - like Will's earlier piece - considered that would be "too far South London". Instead she treated us to a couple of extracts from the Orange Prize-nominated Room of Lost Things, set in Loughborough Junction (between Camberwell and Brixton apparently).

A tangled web of relationships, the book centres around (of all things) a dry-cleaners. Why a dry-cleaners, you ask? But the penny soon drops when we discover the insights that Robert, who runs the business, gains about people - the little pieces of people's lives that arrive in the pockets of garments, the secrets they contain. The dry cleaners is the "room of lost things" of the title. The two passages she read were so beautifully observed and fascinating that both John-John and I just had to buy copies of the book, which Stella kindly signed.

Paul, concluding the evening's entertainment, asked the audience whether he should lower the tone, to which Stella responded, "shall I start? I can say "Cunt" at the top of my voice if you like...". We love her. Unfazed, he treated us to particularly sordid and smutty extract from Shameless, set in one of the sleazier clubs in Vauxhall. I, for one, will never leave my pint on the bar beneath a walkway full of cruising leather queens - talk about a creamy head...

Another fab evening, we chatted to friends including Rupert Smith and his pal (whose name I forget), author Alan Hollinghurst, and the lovely Frasier from Foyles bookshop, and were overjoyed to learn that January's Polari will be moving from the gorgeous Concrete Bar to a different venue within the South Bank complex - hooray! I look forward to it...

Polari

Others may have wine, but I have poetry

The smell of ink is intoxicating to me - others may have wine, but I have poetry.
Abbe Yeux-verdi

Last night's Polari Poetry Night was most certainly the busiest since the move to its new home at the beautiful (ahem) and atmospheric (ahem!) Concrete Bar on the South Bank. We arrived in a Byronic mood (I dressed the part anyhow!), and had a bit of a job at first getting seated as every table was full (either with avid Polari-ites, or with Haywood Gallery punters). But we managed to chuck a couple of tardy diners off their table eventually, and settled in for the evening's entertainment.

Paul Burston had told us that Radio 4 were going to be there and planned to include Polari in one of their programmes about language - and indeed we spotted poet and presenter Michael Rosen at the bar.

Our host (Paul) was in a "Stevie Nicks" mood, apparently (to which I responded: "What? A fat hippie?"). Something to do with her singing a song about poetry I believe, and he was wafting a scarf around a lot so I assume it was meant to be a literal interpretation. Once the preamble music was over, without further ado he introduced the ever-lovely Celine to open proceedings with her specially composed Polari song. Paul solemnly recited the lyrics to Abba's The Day Before You Came as an intro, and it was fairly obvious that half the audience had no clue that this was not a poem specially written for the occasion, which was quite funny...

Our first reader of the evening was Catherine Brogan who read some of her wonderful poems about life, love and lesbianism. A Belfast lass, she typically railed against her Catholic upbringing, and got several resounding rounds of applause. As we offered her congratulations on her way back to her seat she told us that she had avoided railing against the BBC, but was sorely tempted to do so as they had barred her from reading one of her gay poems on a recent radio appearance!

During the ciggie break, I got talking to Celine, Dave Ball from Soft Cell, Little Annie's promoter (whose name I forget), Christopher from the similarly-named Polari magazine, and none other than David Hoyle. Never having met him before I only had his (rather aggressive) stage persona upon which to judge the man, and I am not particularly keen on that. However in the flesh he is a gentle, charming man and I thoroughly enjoyed chatting to him. Quite a revelation, actually!



After the break it was the turn of the poet-cum-stripper (well not really, but he does like to do his readings shirtless) Trevor Medicine. I last saw him at the Polari Goes East "Stag Party" event last year, and he didn't disappoint last night either. Fast, furious and excellent poetry - this man deserves a publishing deal.

Last but by no means least was the effervescent Caroline Bird, who, despite looking about twelve is an excellent and accomplished poet and writer, and rounded the proceedings off nicely.



And what a surprise for John-John, when he and Celine were interviewed by Michael Rosen and recorded by the BBC crew, speaking a bit of the Polari lingo!

Despite having far too much wine (their other drinks are a bit pricey) and having a head like a boil waiting to pop this morning, it was altogether a great night as usual. And, so a little bird tells me, there may be another move afoot (within the South Bank complex), which can only be a good thing...

The next Polari is "London Night" on 9th December - and I look forward to it!

Divinely decadent daahling

We had another fab evening at Polari at the grotty Concrete Bar on the South Bank last night. John-John and I (as usual) took the theme of "High Society" as an excuse to dress in our best bib-and-tucker, and host Paul Burston looked relieved to see fellow dressing-up fans, as he changed his flat cap for a glorious top hat to compliment his luxurious (and borrowed) evening jacket and satin trousers combo.

Concrete Bar attracts a peculiar mix of people, from regulars at the Hayward Gallery to aesthetes, and of course fans of our evening's readers - the lovely poet Mark Walton and former Lesbian Avenger-turned-"straight" authoress Stephanie Theobald. We grabbed a front-row table in a packed house, and immersed ourselves in red wine and decadent culture of the highest order.



Mark read a few of his sublime poems from his anthology Frostbitten, taking the "high" theme to a new level, with poems about drugs, sex and even Jesus! Excellent stuff, and such a shame he is still looking for that elusive mainstream publisher for his work. I hope he gets signed up very soon, as what the world needs right now is more of this great man's ascerbic observations on life...

After a brief hiatus, Miss Theobald read a passage from her new novel A Partial Indulgence - a divinely decadent tale of the life and loves of aristocratic society. Described as "a contemporary gothic voyage through a decadent world of high society and low morals", this certainly sounds like a fantastic book, and one I will definitely get round to reading asap. Read an extract from the book on Stephanie's website.

Sated with literature, I was thrilled when Paul introduced me to his gorgeous special guest, the American actor and star of the film Big Gay Musical (I am dying to see this film if it ever gets a proper cinematic release in the UK!) Daniel Robinson.

Although I had my photo taken with the lovely Daniel, he declined the suggestion to replicate the poses he did for a rather gorgeous recent revue called Broadway Bares. Damn! Never mind, he had a hot date in (of all places) Croydon(!) so perhaps he was saving himself, lol...



Despite the enduring grimness of the venue this was a brilliant and well-attended evening, and I look forward to the next one!

Polari

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