Gang wars, psychics in Torquay, rubbish lesbians, the Hollywood closet and a mini Joanna Lumley

Paul Burston, our host at "London's leading gay literary salon" wasn't happy when - opening the evening's proceedings dressed as a gangster - he appeared to be "shooting blanks" (his toy gun failed to go pop when it was supposed to - oo-er). However, it didn't dampen the enthusiastic welcome that I, Paul, Little Tony, Emma, Toby, Bryanne, Simon, Sexy Lexi, Val, Jane and a huge crowd of the great and the good of the glitterati gave to the latest outing of our favourite cultural evening - Polari.



First to the lectern was the rather delicious Kevin Franke, runner up in the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook short story competition 2014.



His tale A Visitor was a most bizarre fantasy indeed, involving an unexpected house guest, in the (remarkably miniaturised) form of one of our national treasures:

And that’s that: Joanna Lumley is living at the bottom of my bed. She’s made her home in the red wicker basket the cat used to sleep in. She says it’s ever so comfortable but I struggle to understand why she would want to live at the bottom of my bed. I can always tell which room she’s in because the cat will be outside the door, squatting, his eyes downcast as if he’s either plotting murder or considering suicide. He has taken to shitting in the bedroom.

You couldn’t wish for anyone more charming to live at the bottom of your bed, however her smoking does bother me. I wake up to smoke-signals rising. ‘This is a non-smoking house,’ I tell her. ‘Of course it is, Darling,’ she says, gently stroking my left cheek with the back of her hand. One of my trainers is now an overflowing ashtray at the side of her basket-home. I empty it when she’s out.

She’s always perfectly turned out. New outfits appear all the time. A lot of whites, creams, with splashes of colour in the form of expensive-looking scarves. A burnt orange, a sunflower yellow, royal blue. I decide to iron a pile of my own clothes, which have been languishing in a heap on the floor for months, and soon it feels normal again to put on a fresh shirt every day...

...She leaves one day while I’m at work. I find her bedding folded up neatly on top of the bed, the room aired to rid it of any stale smoke, and a note:

Darling Man.
I hope you don’t mind.
JL xxx

An imprint of her red lips. I can smell her perfume. Alongside it a pile of envelopes: red-lettered reminders, long ignored by me, opened by her, a cheque with her signature left on top of them. I sit on the edge of my bed, looking down at the red basket, already reclaimed by the cat, curled up in it, opening his eyes briefly to squint at me knowingly: the intruder gone. For a moment I have an image of a Hello! magazine feature about Joanna Lumley, one of those ‘Stars in their Homes’ pieces. I picture a multi-page spread of her all dolled up, sexy yet classy, holding a glass of champagne, photographed living in some random bloke’s bedroom in an old cat basket at the bottom of his bed.

Impressive.



Following on from the world of fantasy, we traversed to the world of murder mystery (albeit a distinctly off-beat one), courtesy of the utterly adorable Helen Smith (the night's "token heterosexual" according to Mr B).

Reading from her latest hit novel Beyond Belief, her story revolved around the mass gathering of psychics, cult members and spiritualists in the - ahem - exotic climes of Torquay for a conference; and the prediction by one of their notable number that a murder would take place during the event. Hilariously transposing the portentous pronouncements of the future-telling characters with the day-to-day bewilderment of Torquay's assembled hen parties - it's very funny stuff!

Here's Helen herself, magnanimously sharing one of the secrets of literary success:

Helen Smith - How to write a brilliant book

Putting all tittering aside with a bang, V.A. (Veronica) Fearon launched us into a quite terrifying gang-war chase sequence from her (first) book The Girl with the Treasure Chest.



Thankfully, her second extract introduced us to the woman whose interventions were aimed at breaking this cycle of violence (Dani) and her cheeky way of seduction, of Susanna, at a family wedding. An intriguing insight into the book; it does sound very promising...

A good way to round-up part one, methinks.



Sarah Westwood describes herself as a "Rubbish Lesbian". So much so, she even has her own column of that name in Diva magazine - and now, some of her often hysterically funny musings have been published in book form. Including this one:

I do think it's important to be 'Loud and Proud', but it's possible I might have taken that sentiment too literally. I've just broadcast the fact I'm a lesbian to half of Currys Wembley. I wouldn't mind, but I only went in there to test speakers.

I blame the store assistant. He was the one who instructed me to try the sound of my chosen speakers for size. I plugged my phone in, scrolled down to a random playlist, and hit play. He whacked up the volume and gave me a look as if to say, "Just wait; you're going to be blown away." There was a momentary pause then a woman in a very deep voice came lustily over the speakers saying, "Sapphic Seductions, a collection of erotic short stories…" I'm blown away.

At first I just stare at the dude from Currys and he stares back. I had no idea that this racy little oeuvre was coming from my phone; I thought it must have been a mistake. I was thinking, "Any minute now Rihanna will kick in". But instead it continued, "I could feel the soft silk of my blouse tighten against my chest as I slowly arched my back in…" I glance down and notice my phone is now helpfully displaying an image of a naked woman and the title Sapphic Seductions. Oh hell. I'm wishing I'd gone for the cheaper, less audible speakers, or better still headphones.

I know exactly how this happened. A few years ago I was stuck in a Chicago airport lounge with a lot of stuffy businessmen. A heady mix of boredom and Bloody Marys prompted me to search iTunes for lesbian content and I downloaded this audiobook. It was a bit of fun at the time and I've never listened to it since. In fact I had forgotten about it's existence. This audiobook has been languishing in my iPhone for the last six years like some lesbian curse, just waiting for an opportunity to be heard again publicly. Why now, audiobook? Why Currys Wembley?

Coming out as a lesbian is one thing, but coming out as a lesbian fan of erotic audiobooks in a high street electrical store is unconscionable. I would have some of my guilty pleasure music: Steps, Celine Dion, or even Chris de Burgh. I frantically fumble with my phone in an attempt to silence my Sapphic Seductions, but I'm panicked and fat fingering. I can't make it stop. The couple in the aisle opposite, who have been loudly arguing over extending a television warranty stop what they're doing and listen. Everyone from Home Cinema to Audio falls silent. All that can be heard is the sound of a breathy voiced narrator and her tale of lesbian office 'romance'. Oh God, where the hell's Rihanna when you need her?

We had tears pouring down our faces with that one...



Our headliner Matt Cain - cute, in a camp-Max-Headroom-sort-of-way - was formerly culture editor for Channel 4 News (and claims he was the inspiration for a gay character in the BBC piss-take comedy W1A) and since leaving, has turned his hand to writing. His début book Shot Through The Heart is described (by the author) as "a romantic comedy about a Hollywood actress who falls in love with a paparazzi photographer; and as if that situation isn’t tricky enough the pap starts getting jealous about his new girlfriend’s relationship with her handsome co-star, who he doesn’t realise is a closeted gay man."

It was the meanderings of the latter, Billy Spencer, who formed the crux of the extract he read for us; and the arrogant self-love, the playing-up to deluded yet adoring fans, the shallowness of Billy's hiding behind the closet door all rang very true even in today's world - where fame at all costs is all that seems to matter, truth be damned. Very well-observed, very funny and pithy, I think this bodes very well for a first book, and the Polari audience appeared to think so too.

Depressingly, the evening was over all too soon. However, there is some very good news afoot for Polari, as Paul announced - thanks to an Arts Council grant, the "show will be going on the road" this year, with Pop-Up Polari events up and down the country. So look out for the literary gays appearing at a venue near you!

Speaking of which, I am planning to attend the first of these a week on Saturday (7th June), as Paul Burston, VG Lee, Alex Hopkins and Sophia Blackwell turf up at the Stoke Newington Literary Festival (how posh), just down the road from Dolores Delargo Towers!

June's (regular) Polari is on Wednesday 25th June 2014 at the Southbank, and features Julie Bindel, Alexis Gregory, Barbara Marsh, Michele MacFarlane and Rachel Holmes.

Polari website

Limehouse tarts, Burundi beats, dystopia, hunky policemen and a singing Xmas tree!

A strangely festive evening last night, for me, the eternal Grinch. Of course, the occasion was a special one - the last outing in 2012 for "London's peerless gay literary salon" Polari.



Suitably attired in Dickensian top hat and undertaker-black suit, our host Paul Burston welcomed the eager crowd - me, little Tony, our Paul, Ange, Roland and "Polari virgins" Suzanne (all the way from Germany) and Jonathan, and literary types such as Karen McLeod, DJ Connell, the very cute Polari prize-winner John McCullough, Rebecca Chance/Lauren Henderson (and entourage), Alex Hopkins, Toby Tobes, Suzi Feay, photographer Krys, and many, many more (the room was full to bursting) - to another packed evening's entertainment.







And what better way to open proceedings than with the magnificent "modern day David Bowie" (or if you prefer Elaine Paige's description "a new Tim Rice") Mr Marcus Reeves?



One of our favourite performers du jour, he entertained us to his new single Black Tears, and - here in the footage I recorded of him performing at Gay Lifestyles in October - the fantabulosa Mad, Bad World:

Marcus Reeves - Mad, Bad World

To find out how you can help Marcus complete his debut album Quicksilver, visit his website.

Whew! How do you follow such an extraordinary performance? With a little lust, of course!



A rare beast - an out-gay Somalian - Diriye Osman is a multi-talented man. Artist, model, campaigner, and a fine writer to boot, he read for us a tantalising extract from his rather salacious tale of a camp boy's obsession with his grandmother's new boyfriend, titled Shoga:

‘Is it not true? And furthermore, this business of me braiding your hair has to stop! You’re a boy not a lady-boy!’

‘You know you love me,’ I smiled, ‘besides, what’s wrong with being a lady-boy? It’s a good look.’

She pulled my hair and said, ‘Waryaa, if you grow up to be gay, walaahi I will do saar.’

‘Saar’ was a brand of Somali exorcism. The ‘possessed’ – which was code for the mentally unstable – were put through their paces. Healers would beat drums to release spirits from the possessed, who would shimmy and shake, and if they got too frisky, would face the kind of beat-down usually reserved for criminals. Such superstition has always been rife in the bush and my gran, a country gal through and through, knew its effectiveness at deterring unacceptable behaviour.

I smiled now as she flexed my follicles. My grandmother did not know that I was gay and that I’ve always loved being gay. Sure, Kenya was not exactly queer nation but my sexuality gave me joy. I was young, not so dumb and full of cum! There was no place for me in heaven but I was content munching devil’s pie here on earth.

I was seventeen and I specialized in two things: weed and sex. And there was only one person in my neighbourhood who served both those dishes on a steaming plate for me.

Boniface.

But I’ve missed a beat, my bambinos. A narrative without a back-story is like meat with no bone; there’s no juice to it. So let me take two steps back.

My family moved to Kenya in ’91, after my dad hauled our asses from Mogadishu. I don’t remember much about Somalia – I was only a toddler when we fled – but over the years Mogadishu assumed mythical status in our lives. It became the kind of place that could only truly flourish in selective memory. It was years later that I learnt the precise term for what my family and millions of other Somalis had experienced during the war: post-traumatic stress.

But my father was not one for wasting time. He got to work and started amassing a small fortune by selling blankets and medicine to NGOs headed for Mogadishu. My mum did her bit and became a pharmacist in Hurlingham. Whilst baba na mama made money, my gran took care of home.

All that changed in ‘94. My parents were driving home from Trattoria Restaurant one night when they got stopped by the police. The cops ordered them to get out of the car but my dad refused. Kenyan police are the shiftiest crooks this side of the Sahara. If they want to extort you, nobody can stop them. If they want to make you disappear, no one can prevent it. My father knew this so he refused to get out. Without missing a beat, the police fired three shots in his head. Then they blasted my mother’s brains out when she started screaming. Their bodies were found floating in Athi River the next day. I was seven years old.

Whilst my gran’s peers were settling quietly into old age, she now had to support both of us. We owned our small maisonette, so housing wasn’t an issue. My parents had taken out life insurance but it wasn’t enough for us to live on. My grandmother took half the cash and invested it in a small import/export business she ran out of our living room. The rest went into my education.

As the years passed, gran decided she needed help around the house. She found it difficult to bend over and clean floors and cook three meals a day, raise a teenager and run a business. She didn’t want another woman in her home. She wanted a man who was strong enough to cook, clean and carry water to the tank. She wanted a man to protect us from burglaries. Basically, she wanted a budget superhero: a blank canvas she could mould into a domestic god.

Enter Boniface.

Boniface was from Burundi and my grandma dug this. She dug the fact that he was a refugee like us but I was more impressed with his muscle mass. While she saw enough brawn to carry three sacks of bariis at once, I saw prime beefcake. Papi was beautiful and he looked like he was packing. I licked my lips and locked and loaded.

Wow.



Right on cue, to break us out of our reverie, we applauded the very welcome return of the splendiferous Celine Hispiche!

Stalwart of many, many Polari evenings during its five-year history, Celine has veered from Music Hall (supporting and duetting with Marc Almond at Wilton's in 2008) to punky dance music (with Dave Ball in the band Nite Wreckage, whose inaugural performance we went to see in 2010), and back again - her long-awaited "Music Hall musical" Betty May - the Musical: Tiger Woman versus The Beast will premiere early next year at the swanky Brasserie Zedel. I think this will be a must!

No footage exists online of Celine singing the choon she chose last night Limehouse Sway, nor indeed any of her Victorian repertoire (unfortunately), so here instead is Nite Wreckage and Popbawa!

Celine & Nite Wreckage - Popbawa

Marvellous.



After the break, it was the turn of the very lovely Helen Smith (a fellow blogger), to read from her "dystopian" novel The Miracle Inspector, set in the aftermath of war and in the midst of a tyrannical and seriously disturbed society where you need to have your wits about you to survive, as our "hero" the poet Jesmond appears to be able to do. It is beautifully-written, and definitely left us wanting more. Here is the lady herself, reading the very extract with which she entertained us last night...

Helen Smith - The Miracle Inspector

Our headliner of this very special Polari was the petite Bethan Roberts, whose novel My Policeman sounds a most fascinating and emotional rollercoaster of a tale, a menage-a-trois of relationships between a woman and a (forcibly closeted - the story is set in the 50s) gay man and their mutual love Tom, the policeman of the title. The piece she read - brilliantly I might add - was the gay man Patrick's first meeting with the gorgeous Tom, and was funny and poignant. Here, Miss Roberts explains a bit more about the book...

Bethan Roberts - My Policeman

Just when you thought it was safe... It was time for a finale, as Marcus Reeves returned to the stage, sardonic as ever, as "The Singing Christmas Tree"! With his wonderfully camp take on the "classics", he even managed to get the whole audience waving in time to I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day by Wizzard. Truly extraordinary, as you will see...



A "Very Polari Christmas", indeed!



And so, with tears in our eyes we bid farewell to our culture fix until next year...

Our next Polari will be on 28th January 2013, with headliner the literary luminary Christopher Fowler.

Polari

Sporno, unfaithful husbands, human trafficking and a shortlist

The first of our Autumn/Winter season planned events was the return of Polari at the South Bank last night - and a great evening it was, too!

Once more Mr Burston pulled out all of the stops with a varied line-up of readers, opening with the lovely Justin David (who at his last appearance, at Polari's third birthday last November was calling himself Justin Ward).



His semi-autobiographical tale Unicorn, set in the 80s and all about knitting and grandparents and an uncle who calls him "nancy-boy", was charming, funny and made me want to read more. This is, however, just a short story from a collection of works by Goldsmiths College alumni - I wonder if Mr David will develop it into a novel? I hope so!



Helen Smith's book Alison Wonderland is described in its sleevenotes thus:

After her husband leaves her for another woman, twenty-something Londoner Alison Temple impulsively applies for a job at the very P.I. firm she hired to trap her philandering ex. She hopes it will be the change of scene she so desperately needs to move on with her shattered life. At the all-female Fitzgerald’s Bureau of Investigation, she spends her days tracking lost objects and her nights shadowing unfaithful husbands. But no matter what the case, none of her clients can compare to the fascinating characters in her personal life.

Her reading from it was equally bizarre, in which the preamble involved women transforming into aubergines and pumpkins, before she even got to the story of her character's disappointment that the girl her hubby is having an affair with is skinny and plain, not glamorous and exotic as she had hoped... Funny and weird at the same time.



Concluding the first half was a man whose writing I have always loved - the superbly cynical author, journalist and some-time broadcaster, and purported inventor of the term "metrosexuality", Mr Mark Simpson. He chose to focus on one of his favourite subjects, the ostensibly straight sportsman who deliberately and provocatively courts "gay icon" status. Fab stuff indeed! (And his gruff, pumped-up appearance set poor John-John's legs-a-quiver, too!)

You can read the essay, brilliantly titled Sporno, on Mark's blog.



After the break, it was the turn of the artist formerly known as "London Preppy" (who blogged his short stories anonymously for several years), the gorgeous Greek stud-muffin North Morgan. Mr Morgan has just published his very first novel Exit Through the Wound, and read a couple of excellent short extracts from it. Here he is, in the flesh (oo-er):



Following swiftly on, it was the turn of the "man of the moment", Mr Jonathan Kemp.



His debut novel London Triptych won The Authors’ Club Best First Novel award, was shortlisted for the The Green Carnation Prize for modern gay writing, and is now shortlisted for the Polari First Book Prize (more of which later). I have just started reading it, and it is indeed gripping stuff. Mr Kemp read a perfectly pithy extract, followed by a teaser for his second novel Twentysix, which is due out in November 2011. We loved it!

Here is a snippet of London Triptych, courtesy of Mich Jamieson and none other than Mr David Hoyle:

Jonathan Kemp - London Triptych

Our final reader was the stately Maureen Duffy - a stalwart of gay rights activism since the debates around homosexual law reform in the 1960s, she is said to have been Britain’s first lesbian to "come out" in public.



Her literary career is equally extensive, and she chose to read from her most recent work The Orpheus Trail, a murder mystery involving occultism and human trafficking of young boys. The extract she read involved the complex relationship that blossomed between one of the young boys and the archaeologist hero of the story. Beautifully written, and certainly intriguing...

And so it was time for Paul Burston to announce the shortlist for the Polari First Book Prize! The entries are:

• >Love, Hope & High Heels by Clare Campbell (Tollington Press)
• Autofellatio by James Maker (self published ebook , now in print from BigFib)
• Homo Jihad by Timothy Graves (Paradise Press)
• Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar by DJ Connell (Blue Door/Harper Collins)
• London Triptych by Jonathan Kemp (Myriad Editions)

According to the press release: "The shortlisted titles consist of a poetry collection, a memoir and three novels. Of the five selected books, three are published by small independent presses, while one - Autofellatio - was self-published as an ebook before finding a publisher."

A good list, an excellent evening, and I look forward with anticipation to October's outing for "London's peerless gay literary salon", with Man Booker Prize-nominated author Philip Hensher already announced!

Polari