The Pink Green Room

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

'The Green Room at Drury Lane Theatre', by George and Robert Cruickshank It's October. It's cold. It's wet. It's boring. Four things that I have been saying to myself incessantly and we're only five days into the month! With the virus still prevailing over our social lives, and much else besides, I have been persuaded, by popular demand, to transpose the junk shop of historical camp gossip and theatrical tit-bits, that I have been boring my friends and family with for years, onto the web. What follows on this blog are random, and probably sporadic, jottings to keep me occupied and out of everyone's hair. The posts are likely to delve into the arts and culture, both high and low (and not forgetting the lowest of the low) of the LGBT community in the last one-hundred years or so. Sound any good? Well frankly, whether you enjoy reading this or not is something that neither concerns nor interests me particularly - as the late, great Kenneth Williams once sai