Berlin blackmail, corpses, temps, obsessive painters, a mysterious boy and the lesbian Bermuda Triangle

[Photo Justin David]

It was a somewhat depleted "gang" at this month's Polari - no Paul, John-John, Jim, Emma or Toby. Just me, Wayne, Little Tony, Simon, Bryanne, Val, Paulo, Jane, Anni and a crowd of the great and the good of the glitterati that included the legendary Bette Bourne in attendance, as our host Paul Burston proudly welcomed us to the seventh anniversary edition of "London's peerless gay literary salon" (can it really be that long? Scary).



Opening the show was Mr Ben Fergusson, writer and impresario at the Hayward Gallery on the Southbank Centre, who read for us an extract from his sinister and atmospheric first novel The Spring of Kasper Meier - a tale of blackmail, black markets and black deeds in the seedy underbelly of a post-War Berlin that had been reduced to rubble and a morass of half-lit corners, where one might stumble across a secretive bar, a suspicious character, or both. The piece he read introduced us to the story's anti-hero Kasper and his confidant bar-owner Frau Muller, and hinted at several of the sinister twists and turns that had - or were about to - unfold. A very promising start, we thought. Read an extract of the book here.

Here is Mr Fergusson talking about the book - which was also featured on BBC Radio 2's "Book Club" recently - on Celebrity Radio:

Ben Fergusson - The Spring of Kasper Meier

[Photo Justin David]

The ever-ebullient Alex Marwood (pen-name of Serena Mackesy, whose book The Temp was a "chick-lit" bestseller) was next to the stage, to lighten the mood somewhat. As a former journalist and columnist for The Independent, she has a knack for observation whether writing about shoes, office life or grisly necrophiliac murderers(!). And so it was that she was able to dip into her pre-Marwood world to talk about life as The Temp, and top it off with a chilling piece from her latest as Alex Marwood - Crime Writer, the semi-fictional account of a serial killer of the Dennis Nielsen type, whose neighbours in the shared house in which he lived never knew he was keeping corpses of people he murdered as companions...

Here's the lady herself, talking about the latter story The Killer Next Door:

Alex Marwood - The Killer Next Door

But it was her hilarious anecdotes of how people behave towards authors at book fairs ("What do you mean, you're not Adrian McKinty?!!") and her list of office "stereotypes" in the style of fantasy characters - The Gollum, the Barbie, the Handsome Prince, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Lion, and so on - that had us in stitches most of all.



Niven Govinden is no stranger to Polari, and is now on his fourth novel - which is short-listed for The Green Carnation Prize 2014. It was from his newest work All The Days And Nights - a tale of manipulation in a relationship between a dying artist and her husband John, as he sets off on a pilgrimage searching out his past in the portraits she painted of him now hanging in museums, galleries and private homes across America - that he read for us a passage. It is an intriguing construct, with even John's observations on his journey narrated second-hand by his wife back home, and an exhausting one as we tried to concentrate hard enough to keep up with who was supposed to be where, and doing what, during the narrative. Beautifully done of course, if a little difficult to follow.



Quite the opposite was the case with our third reader, Sarah Westwood, who opened the second half after the fag-n-booze top-up break. Sarah famously (notoriously) writes for Diva magazine a column titled "The Rubbish Lesbian", and her short stories are always a joy to listen to. Including this one - Lesbian sex. It's a bit like the Bermuda Triangle:

I mentioned my habit of 'fat-fingering' to a straight friend this week. She went very quiet, and then said, "Is that a lesbian thing?" What? No, it's an inability to use an iPhone thing. It made me laugh, but it also made me realise that lesbian sex is still the big question mark that remains unanswered for a lot of people. In the words of 80's songstress Toyah, "it's a mystery."

I've been asked "But how DO you have sex?" on many occasions. It seems odd, but for whatever reason many people just can't get their heads around lesbian sex. Maybe I'm just particularly flexible, but I've never found it that much of a strain.

Even before I became a lesbian, if I closed my eyes I could picture it with ease, and did, on many occasions. The image wasn't sketchy, and it didn't fade-to-black like a 1940's film when it got to the good bit. But for many people lesbian sex remains as baffling as the Bermuda Triangle - actually make that two Bermuda triangles rubbing together.

In the past when I've talked about "having sex" to some of my straight girlfriends I've noticed that their faces fail to compute. They have the look of someone reading the assembly instructions for an IKEA bedside table. It's as if they are sitting cross-legged on the floor with all the bits laid out in front of them, but they just can't picture how we'll come together.

I think it's the lack of penis that throws people; their minds are desperately grappling with the logistics of how sex is possible without one. It's hard to know what goes where; like a game of naked Twister, there are body parts swinging around, and skin slapping against skin, but they can't see the wood for the trees. Perhaps because there is no wood, or trees - only bushes?

What is it about two women having sex that's so hard to imagine? It's not as if we're aliens from planet Zorb with paint bushes for genitals. We've got all the same bits as straight women, and like them sex comes down to personal preference. There's no "one size fits all" answer.

We might have put people on the moon, but for some reason lesbian sex is one giant mental leap too far. Oh well, as long as it remains the final frontier I'll just have to keep on boldly going where no man has gone before.

[Photo Justin David]



And finally, that maestro of the English language, Neil Bartlett. We love him. An accomplished and respected writer, playwright and gay cultural historian - and OBE, no less - he exudes a magical way with words, not least in the piece he read from his newest work The Disappearance Boy, a heart-stopping passage about the panic-stricken rescue from the path of a train of a strange, mute, emotionless boy. We were gripped!

However, it was his reading of his poetic monologue from those dreadful days of loss in the AIDS era of the 1980s that had us all emotionally drained. Here he is, reading That's What Friends Are For:

Neil Bartlett - That's What Friends Are For

I cried. I was not alone.


[Photo Justin David]

With the rush of adrenalin and emotion out of our systems, that, bar the schmoozing, was that for another month... An absolutely wonderful evening, as always.

Our next outing will be "A Very Polari Xmas" on 12th December, featuring Susie Boyt, Rosie Wilby, Yrsa Daley-Ward, VG Lee, and headliner Jonathan Harvey reading from his new novel, The Girl Who Just Appeared.

Roll on December, I say!

Polari website

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