The Pink Green Room

When my partner cajoled me into attending Birmingham Pride, all I can say is that I was less than enthusiastic. For all my campery and foppery I found that, having had a tough time of accepting who I was and coming out, I did not really feel 'proud'. Having seen pictures and videos of these events in the past, I always associate 'Pride' with the young and vibrant members of the LGBT community, the people who are 'hip' and 'on trend', the people who are loud and proud. Now, whilst some may say otherwise, I do not put myself in that category of individual and felt that I would stick out like a sore thumb or that I wouldn't 'fit in with the crowd'.  Anyway,  after more persuasion from my partner, I eventually shrugged off my doubts and decided that I would go (if not only to guzzle as many glasses of G&T as humanly possible and make the best of it). Immediately on arrival my 'old fart syndrome' kicked in - I was confronted by the hug

Last night, I watched the much admired Drag Race UK for the first time. I had heard some good things about it and thought it might be worth a shot seeing as there was bugger all else on the television. So, I fired up my 'laptop' - if you can call it that. I was given it in the early 2000s by a nephew - I call it the paving slab as it's just as thick and probably just as heavy (although I can't say I have much experience of heavy lifting, dear). Anyway, I dusted the wretched thing off and turned it on for the first time in donkey's years. After navigating the web to the IPlayer, I cracked open a babycham, chewed on a salted peanut and settled into watching it. Whilst the style of drag has seemingly changed over the years, and I can't say I am RuPaul's biggest fan, I was struck by how wonderful it is to have such a popular, entertaining and flamboyant  show on our screens when in my day it would have been unimaginable. This got me looking back, once again,  on

Far be it from me to gossip - as you all know I am discretion personified - but I was being a bit of a silver surfer the other day and stumbled across quite an interesting theatrical titbit online. You didn't hear it from me but it is  rumoured that, in his youth, the esteemed Irish actor of the last century, Micheal MacLiammoir ,  had an affair with General Eoin Duffy who, during the 1930s was the head of the quasi-fascist Irish blueshirts. Fancy that? Although, there is no evidence to substantiate this claim, other than idle gossip and tittle tattle, this got me looking back at the career of MacLiammoir and his partner Hilton Edwards. What follows, is a brief account of their story. If you care to pull up a pouffe, pour yourself a tipple of your choice and light yourself a well deserved fag, I'll begin... *** The Gate Theatre in Dublin has long been heralded as a mecca for the arts in Ireland. If I was to walk on its hallowed ground today, or any day over the last year or so,

 Sir John Gielgud was, without a doubt, one of the finest actors of his generation. With his silky smooth tones and polished delivery, he was the archetypal classical actor of the last century with a cerebral quality to his performances which contrasted with the physicality of his contemporaries (such as the much revered Larry Olivier). Despite his own international acclaim, this much admired knight of the realm was in fact arrested for cottaging whilst he was at the pinnacle of his acting career. Naughty, naughty Johnny G! Tut, tut, tut. Whist there was indeed much scandal at the time, this incident failed to blight his career, his reputation or his legacy which lives on - in fact the whole debacle has more or less been confined to the annals of forgotten theatrical history. So, what actually happened? How did dear Sir John comeback from it?   Let me set the scene. It's 1953. It's the 21st of October. Chelsea. Midnight. After a long days rehearsal and a few drinks afterwards,

Apologies for my absence during this last week or so, not that you've missed me. I've been away for a much deserved break in the country - the Cotswolds to be precise. I know what you're going to say but all this cogitation can be very tiring for an old soak like me, that's not to mention all the heavy lifting I do during the day - those bottles of Gordon's don't get shifted from the Co-op on their own you know, and sometimes I have to make two or three...or four trips a week. Then there's all of the public speaking I do. If you didn't know, I give talks all over the place, imparting my wisdom to whoever is stupid enough to listen. I've had the pleasure of performing before the likes of Duke of Edinburgh...the Prince of Wales... the Duchess of Bedford... and quite a few other well known London pubs. (I can only apologise for that gag - full credit should go to Mr Jameson for all of it's awfulness - but more about him in a mo).  Anyway, there I wa

 "Put on Radio 4 now!" - a request that sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe I'm odd but I have no interest in the state of modern GM farming; the records Ed Miliband would take to a desert island; or who stole Fallon's bunting from the village green in Ambridge. Anyway, this was the message I received from my partner last Friday, just as my arthritic wrist characteristically clicked as I began to unscrew the top of the gin bottle. I sighed deeply as I put the bottle down and turned to twiddle the knobs on the wireless. Well, blow me down with a feather! What I heard was not the usual monotone monologue from a former politician that I was used to! I could hear Richard Wilson...I could hear Antony Sher...I could even hear Ian Mckellen! Music to my ears! What was going on? What was this gold mine of the cream of English theatre? And, more importantly, what have I been missing whilst I've been listening to my beloved Round the Horne, Beyond Our Ken and Stop Messing Ab

It's Sunday night, the rain is beating heavily against the window-pane and I'm beyond bored and fed up, so nothing new there. At 6 o'clock I shake myself up, take myself upstairs and pour myself a deep bath (as hot as I can stand); pour myself a VERY large gin and tonic (as cold as I can stand), adapting Noel Coward's recipe for a Martini by pouring in the gin and waving the glass in the general direction of the Scheweppes factory in Hendon (NW London) rather than  towards Italy. Not as sophisticated or exotic, I know. Ablutions over, I slink downstairs, slump into a chair and begrudgingly switch the television on where, to my great joy and surprise, the BBC are re-airing Michael Palin's classic Around the World in 80 Days.  "What is this old fart on about?" I hear you cry in consternation and angst, "he promised us gay culture". Well, shut your face, as Frankie Howerd might have said, and read on, you might just learn something. During the progr