8pm. Soho. Coffee shop.
On the counter in front of me; a mug of black coffee, a mobile and...a moleskin.
I open it. Find a clean page. Make a note of the date. Friday 30th July. Then I cross it out and start again. Friday 29th July. Bad start.
I don’t like this black ink pen either. The line is too fine. When I write I like the ink to be crisp, clear. I rummage through my bag. Find another. It’s no better. So I go back to the first...Back to Black.
It’s been a busy week. On Tuesday I went to Nicholas de Jongh’s house in Islington. We drank pink Prosecco in his garden and discussed his latest play. There’s a cat that frequents his garden. At one point it was perched precariously on the fence and Nicholas shouted, “Ginger Rogers! I’ve told you before about that! Come down at once Ginger Rogers!” I wonder what the neighbours thought.
After three Proseccos we left for the Almeida, the restaurant opposite the Almeida Theatre. The waiter was impeccably dressed in a grey, modish suit and black tie. Tall, slim, in his twenties, with a campish lisp, apparently he’s straight. He gave us two free glasses of champagne.
Over the course of the meal we talked more about theatre. Nicholas has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the subject and has met all the greats; John Gielgud, Sybil Thorndike, Maggie Smith, and he often recounts the most fabulous anecdotes. I’ve told him, he should put them in a book. Then we talked about a scene in Nicholas’s play where a character makes a decision that affects the direction of his life for the next 40 years. I find these ‘sliding doors’ situations interesting. Like most people I can pinpoint a few seemingly non-important decisions, which have, in hindsight, set my life on a completely different track. I made my most important one at 16. I’d arranged to meet a man. For sex. He was 21, which seemed at the time to be verging on geriatric. We arranged to meet in a hotel car park and I can still recall, as I hid behind some bushes, how anxious I was, watching his Ford Transit van for over an hour, knowing that if I was to walk over and speak to him, not only would I be admitting something to myself but that it would change my life forever. So I did. And it did.
On Wednesday I met up with David Benson. We went for dinner at the Pizza Express behind the National Theatre. We chatted about the hit show he’s in at the moment (One Man, Two Guvnors) East End saunas, sex, death and...Amy Winehouse. She’s been on my mind all week.
Then we walked around the corner to the Cottesloe Theatre to see London Road. David’d bought me a ticket but warned me beforehand that all the dialogue was sung and that it was based on the Ipswich prostitute murders of 2006. It didn’t bode well. But it was a stunning.
And now I’m here. In a Soho coffee shop. Waiting to meet my friend Maria. It’s her 50th birthday and we’re going to the Soho Theatre to see The Tiger Lillies. We’re meeting at 9pm so I’ve got an hour to kill; to drink coffee and watch the flotsam and jetsam of Soho life drift by.
Over by the doorway a huge, muscled, tattooed bruiser of a bloke that I recognise from Soho Gym is chatting with a friend. He’s Irish. His head is shaved and he’s wearing a wearing a Ben Sherman blue checked shirt, the sleeves of which are so tight they almost draw blood.
Just below me, outside, a guy is chatting to a woman. He’s got a beard, salt and pepper hair and he’s wearing a dark navy Puma sweatshirt. He keeps catching my eye. And although I’m not deliberately listening, I catch snippets of his conversation.
“You could come down to London for a week and still only scratch the surface.”
The street is teeming with bearded guys tonight. Rugby shirts. Abercrombie polos. Bulky bears. It’s getting harder to tell which is a casually dressed unshaven straight man and which is a gay man appropriating the look. Sebastian would’ve been horrified.
Someone behind me orders a tea and a black coffee. The coffee percolator grinds into action. On the radio a song trickles out, the now poignant, ‘Love is a Losing Game’ (and losing Amy is a crying shame).
Now the guy below is talking about his eyesight. “Once it’s there, I can read it. Once it’s there, I’ve lost it.”
Then a stylish woman, in her 60’s, with a waist length black plait draped over her shoulder saunters past. She’s followed by a mohawked dyke leading a black poodle, the cute waiter with the nice arse from Cafe Emm talking on his mobile, a girl that looks like Nicola Roberts holding a red rose with a yellow ribbon and three Polish builders. A Soho melting pot.
Outside the 24 hour supermarket, a guy with an enormous belly is stroking his foot long ginger beard. He’s wearing a red polyester top. He looks like a darts player. Mean and threatening. Then an equally large guy in a white football shirt walks up to him. They kiss.
A muscled, inked guy swaggers past. His enormous V shaped, ‘Deca built’ back taking up most of the pavement. The type of guy you wouldn’t want to see walking toward you down a dark alley. Appearances can be deceptive however as his Gaydar profile testifies (‘Sub Seeking Correction’).
Then a slim, toned Indian queen with a piss elegant look sashays by. Then it's a gaggle of screaming girls with ‘Easyjet orange’ skins, bleached ironed hair and pink fluffy bunny ears, screaming “Whatevahs” and “Innit tho’s,” all wearing tee-shirts with ‘Susan’s Hen Night’ written on the back.
Two middle-aged American dykes dressed as cowgirls take seats next to me. One of them delves into her rucksack and removes some pitta bread and humus. They gobble away, talking about the huge stiletto outside Priscilla Queen of the Desert which leads to a discussion about the various methods of treating foot fungus.
It’s 8:50pm.
Maria sends me a text. I call her back. Smile at the waitress as I leave.
I meet Maria outside the Palace Theatre and we weave in and out of the Friday evening crowds, down Greek Street, crossing over Dean Street to the Soho Theatre.
Maria takes a seat outside while I order some drinks. When I get back she’s talking to an elderly refined gentleman called Bruce.
“I’ve told Bruce all about your book,” Maria says. “I’ve told him it’s set round here.”
Bruce looks at me, confused. “I think I’ve heard of it,” he says brightly but unconvincingly.
It’s all a bit embarrassing. So I quickly whisk Maria downstairs and we’re shown to our seats at the side of the stage.
The room is packed and there’s a mood of expectation in the air. The Tiger Lillies appear as the second hand hits 9:30pm. Maria’s leaning against me, already nodding off. I’m sitting upright, preparing myself not to enjoy it, as I’ve heard that this show is full of songs about Soho characters and, being an ex-local, I’m a tough nut to crack. But within minutes I'm transported to the Kit Kat Club of Weimar Berlin, listening to tales of drugged up prostitutes, shady pimps, bank-robbing gangsters and pre-op transexuals, all sung by a garishly made up singer with a strange Antony Hegarty style voice.
And that’s when I relax, lean back and I’m forced to admit...this nut has been cracked.
On the counter in front of me; a mug of black coffee, a mobile and...a moleskin.
I open it. Find a clean page. Make a note of the date. Friday 30th July. Then I cross it out and start again. Friday 29th July. Bad start.
I don’t like this black ink pen either. The line is too fine. When I write I like the ink to be crisp, clear. I rummage through my bag. Find another. It’s no better. So I go back to the first...Back to Black.
It’s been a busy week. On Tuesday I went to Nicholas de Jongh’s house in Islington. We drank pink Prosecco in his garden and discussed his latest play. There’s a cat that frequents his garden. At one point it was perched precariously on the fence and Nicholas shouted, “Ginger Rogers! I’ve told you before about that! Come down at once Ginger Rogers!” I wonder what the neighbours thought.
After three Proseccos we left for the Almeida, the restaurant opposite the Almeida Theatre. The waiter was impeccably dressed in a grey, modish suit and black tie. Tall, slim, in his twenties, with a campish lisp, apparently he’s straight. He gave us two free glasses of champagne.
Over the course of the meal we talked more about theatre. Nicholas has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the subject and has met all the greats; John Gielgud, Sybil Thorndike, Maggie Smith, and he often recounts the most fabulous anecdotes. I’ve told him, he should put them in a book. Then we talked about a scene in Nicholas’s play where a character makes a decision that affects the direction of his life for the next 40 years. I find these ‘sliding doors’ situations interesting. Like most people I can pinpoint a few seemingly non-important decisions, which have, in hindsight, set my life on a completely different track. I made my most important one at 16. I’d arranged to meet a man. For sex. He was 21, which seemed at the time to be verging on geriatric. We arranged to meet in a hotel car park and I can still recall, as I hid behind some bushes, how anxious I was, watching his Ford Transit van for over an hour, knowing that if I was to walk over and speak to him, not only would I be admitting something to myself but that it would change my life forever. So I did. And it did.
On Wednesday I met up with David Benson. We went for dinner at the Pizza Express behind the National Theatre. We chatted about the hit show he’s in at the moment (One Man, Two Guvnors) East End saunas, sex, death and...Amy Winehouse. She’s been on my mind all week.
Then we walked around the corner to the Cottesloe Theatre to see London Road. David’d bought me a ticket but warned me beforehand that all the dialogue was sung and that it was based on the Ipswich prostitute murders of 2006. It didn’t bode well. But it was a stunning.
And now I’m here. In a Soho coffee shop. Waiting to meet my friend Maria. It’s her 50th birthday and we’re going to the Soho Theatre to see The Tiger Lillies. We’re meeting at 9pm so I’ve got an hour to kill; to drink coffee and watch the flotsam and jetsam of Soho life drift by.
Over by the doorway a huge, muscled, tattooed bruiser of a bloke that I recognise from Soho Gym is chatting with a friend. He’s Irish. His head is shaved and he’s wearing a wearing a Ben Sherman blue checked shirt, the sleeves of which are so tight they almost draw blood.
Just below me, outside, a guy is chatting to a woman. He’s got a beard, salt and pepper hair and he’s wearing a dark navy Puma sweatshirt. He keeps catching my eye. And although I’m not deliberately listening, I catch snippets of his conversation.
“You could come down to London for a week and still only scratch the surface.”
The street is teeming with bearded guys tonight. Rugby shirts. Abercrombie polos. Bulky bears. It’s getting harder to tell which is a casually dressed unshaven straight man and which is a gay man appropriating the look. Sebastian would’ve been horrified.
Someone behind me orders a tea and a black coffee. The coffee percolator grinds into action. On the radio a song trickles out, the now poignant, ‘Love is a Losing Game’ (and losing Amy is a crying shame).
Now the guy below is talking about his eyesight. “Once it’s there, I can read it. Once it’s there, I’ve lost it.”
Then a stylish woman, in her 60’s, with a waist length black plait draped over her shoulder saunters past. She’s followed by a mohawked dyke leading a black poodle, the cute waiter with the nice arse from Cafe Emm talking on his mobile, a girl that looks like Nicola Roberts holding a red rose with a yellow ribbon and three Polish builders. A Soho melting pot.
Outside the 24 hour supermarket, a guy with an enormous belly is stroking his foot long ginger beard. He’s wearing a red polyester top. He looks like a darts player. Mean and threatening. Then an equally large guy in a white football shirt walks up to him. They kiss.
A muscled, inked guy swaggers past. His enormous V shaped, ‘Deca built’ back taking up most of the pavement. The type of guy you wouldn’t want to see walking toward you down a dark alley. Appearances can be deceptive however as his Gaydar profile testifies (‘Sub Seeking Correction’).
Then a slim, toned Indian queen with a piss elegant look sashays by. Then it's a gaggle of screaming girls with ‘Easyjet orange’ skins, bleached ironed hair and pink fluffy bunny ears, screaming “Whatevahs” and “Innit tho’s,” all wearing tee-shirts with ‘Susan’s Hen Night’ written on the back.
Two middle-aged American dykes dressed as cowgirls take seats next to me. One of them delves into her rucksack and removes some pitta bread and humus. They gobble away, talking about the huge stiletto outside Priscilla Queen of the Desert which leads to a discussion about the various methods of treating foot fungus.
It’s 8:50pm.
Maria sends me a text. I call her back. Smile at the waitress as I leave.
I meet Maria outside the Palace Theatre and we weave in and out of the Friday evening crowds, down Greek Street, crossing over Dean Street to the Soho Theatre.
Maria takes a seat outside while I order some drinks. When I get back she’s talking to an elderly refined gentleman called Bruce.
“I’ve told Bruce all about your book,” Maria says. “I’ve told him it’s set round here.”
Bruce looks at me, confused. “I think I’ve heard of it,” he says brightly but unconvincingly.
It’s all a bit embarrassing. So I quickly whisk Maria downstairs and we’re shown to our seats at the side of the stage.
The room is packed and there’s a mood of expectation in the air. The Tiger Lillies appear as the second hand hits 9:30pm. Maria’s leaning against me, already nodding off. I’m sitting upright, preparing myself not to enjoy it, as I’ve heard that this show is full of songs about Soho characters and, being an ex-local, I’m a tough nut to crack. But within minutes I'm transported to the Kit Kat Club of Weimar Berlin, listening to tales of drugged up prostitutes, shady pimps, bank-robbing gangsters and pre-op transexuals, all sung by a garishly made up singer with a strange Antony Hegarty style voice.
And that’s when I relax, lean back and I’m forced to admit...this nut has been cracked.
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