Poppets, if you wish to do your bit to create yet further confusion in the minds of literalists, fascists and UKIP, do make a financial contribution to Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World, to be held in London in October.
Was it really five years ago that Madame Arcati attended the 2009 Alternative Miss World? Read all about it here. "Is that a vagina?" co-host Ruby wax wondered aloud as yet another drag interpretation wafted past her. Personal transformation is one of the major themes of our time and I cannot think of a more exotic event than Andrew's for bringing to life the full spectrum of artistic cross-dressing (or whatever the latest term may have been assigned).
I won't go on as I'm busy. But do visit this page and read all about the history of Alternative Miss World and how you can play your part in the furtherance of sartorial and cosmetic art.
Isn't it time Andrew Logan had a knighthood? I hope they don't keep him waiting as they did my delightful friend Sir Christopher Lee.
Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World will be held at Shakespeare's Globe on October 18, 2014.
Molly Parkin's return to the stage last night was an overwhelming success. Perfectly set at daughter Sophie's fab London E1 club Vout-O-Reenee's, the show - titled X-Rated Ruminations of a Sequinned Relic - wowed a full house. Among the audience ( I almost want to say congregation) was darling Andrew Logan whose Alternative Miss World returns this October. I'll have more to say about that shortly - meantime, do read my review of his 2009 extravaganza.
It was a mere 28 years ago that Moll last did stand-up - though she might not describe her show as such. So wild and gorgeous was she then that she got herself banned from Ireland - "I think I still am," she tells me. May I suggest to our friends over there that Moll, 82, be forgiven for whatever indiscretion(s) she committed. In all likelihood, most of the audience of that time have either passed away or are queuing up for assisted suicide now that it's fashionable not to suffer any more prior to death.
Certainly, Ruminations covers life's gamut of experience. It includes Moll's poem Viagra (read here - but beware David Beckham's cock. I know how sensitive some of you are; never having got out) as well as a reminiscence about a steel ladder she purchased in order to expedite her passage up the astral tunnel, prematurely, via the Thames. Moll's genius is talk and her magical ability to convert the daily humdrum into the sublimely comic. And she does it without telling one joke. It just comes natch. Her Ruminations show will be touring parts of the UK (and Ireland?) so keep a beady eye on your local ents listings when you can quite tear yourself away from regional coverage of the church fete or magistrate's court.
Moll and I are now permanently engaged once again - and she has a ring from Venice to prove it. Quite what that means in your world is frankly none of your business but ours. And stay in touch with Moll on Facebook.
I like my weirdos glam and clever. Weirdo? A person who manifests her or his organic interior in a fascinating, creative, non-homicidal way. This blog is peopled with natural weirdos - and now that I am back for a while, I've just noticed another one to add to the galère.
Her name is Amanda Eliasch.
She's been under my nose for quite a while. Ages back she said I was her favourite blog (well, you won't confuse this site with anything by Toby Young) and I peeped at her biog and saw she is a photographer, and peripatetic fashion editor of Genlux Magazine in LA. She seems highly proactive. Always white-teeth smiling. And blonde. (Sort of sleb-ish herself - I mean, your average magazine person is pure subfusc with sniffs.) And about 25. Now I read she's 53 (Taurus - luxury lovers). For me, this is perfection. I cannot abide authentic youth. I will not have them in the house - except my new friend Lyndsy Spence (see interview here). There is nothing more vile than a human being in evolutionary transit who's dreaming over your shoulder. Why should I be bothered with this sort of fate-harlot?
But 53 is arrival time. 53 is about right.
Then recently I noticed Nicky Haslam ('Oh God, not him again!') pushing his latest heterosexuality-celebrating album of song, Midnight Matinee. And one of the tracks is called Amanda written by Amanda Eliasch. She assures me on Facebook that it is her voice. She sounds like a heavenly choirboy approaching the cusp of his first wet dream. Here listen (it's track 16 for a sample).
Recently, I noticed something about a movie. It's called The Gun, The Cake and the Butterfly. She wrote it, directed it and stars in it. This is auteurism at its most extreme. Don't call her Orson! She's won an award for it. I've not seen it. But apparently it's about her awfully glitzy, stars-strewn life. I am assured she has never had sex with Boris Johnson. But I believe she may have gone all the way with Sir Tim Rice. Lord Lloyd Webber will be well jel. At some point in her life she baked a cake containing the sperm of two fuckees. Well, that's what it says here.
Oh, here's the film trailer. I have a feeling I may say more about amazing Amanda.
'Andrew Logan Phenomenal
Elizabeth Taylor Portrait'
Some time ago I wondered (very) aloud why venerable actor Christopher Lee had not yet been knighted, when just about anyone garlanded with a sporty medal is honoured by the age of 30. It took awhile for comprehension to sink in, but one day I awoke to the news that Sir Christopher had arrived.
I now turn my attention to Andrew Logan. Not merely founder of Alternative Miss World, he is a celebrated sculptor, jewellery-maker, performance artist, painter and portraitist - a fine example is his Elizabeth Taylor, currently on sale on eBay for a modest £22,250 - 'postage' is an extra £500. Buy here.
Andrew Logan's Red Bracelet: £280
His international influence is without question - no object may be saved from conscription into his multi-media fantasies and bling; and Los Angeles, Monterrey and St Petersburg have hosted his exhibitions, among other places. Not one celebrity has so much as grazed their moist, perfumed flesh on the jagged glass framed in his pendants, necklaces or bracelets: to turn a stellar ego into a looking glass for other stellar egos to gaze into for auto-erotic delight is itself a subversively amusing phenomenon, an irony lost on many of the mirror dolls in their showbiz get-ups, perhaps. Even planets have a part to play in his artistic vision - so naturally, I am a fan.
When our dreadful leaders have quite sated themselves on the persecution of the poor, unemployed, disabled and anyone else perceived as economically vulnerable for a cheap slash, perhaps they might like to consider honouring Mr Logan (a Libran btw, born 1945) and demonstrate to the world that British talent does not start or end in the fucking Olympic Village.
If you want to learn more about Logan I recommend you see the 2011 movie documentary, The British Guide to Showing Off, which explores and celebrates his glittery and anarchic world, and features the 'shitting glitter' observation (by gorgeous Grayson Perry, I think). Here's the trailer....
One thing I must do this year is read a Julian Clary novel. Most of the reviews of his work I've read exhibit sweet favour. Nothing is more depressing than the prospect of reading a sleb novel (I have yet to savour Katie Price's work, or David Baddiel's) so Clary's reported high competence is most welcome.
That his latest book,Briefs Encountered, features Noel Coward and that Clary lives in Noel's old cottage in Kent - well, how could Madame Arcati fail to be intrigued? I may even buy a copy, though professional journalists as a rule should be gifted the things they intend to publicise. Not that I'm cheap or anything.
I have much to thank Noel Coward. It is due to him that Molly Parkin and I are permanently engaged: Moll once had a curious style fixation on Margaret Rutherford who famously brought Madame to life in David Lean's masterly 1945 film production of Coward's Blithe Spirit. So, when a 'Madame Arcati' turned up on the doorstep of her life some five years ago, she could not but wonder at fate's symmetry. We bonded over memories of old thespian jowls and clairvoyante crystal balls and never looked back. I'm sure there are odder love stories.
Julian now makes for a Cowardy ménage à trois - albeit a remote, perhaps oblivious, member. But I must get to the point. A rather gorgeous book reviewer who has read Briefs Encountered (out March 29) has written in... and the news is good. H/she writes: 'Just finishing his new novel which is amusing and enjoyable though not Great Literature (I'm no snob about that, I like being entertained). Anyway it's very Blithe Spirit, set in his house using Noel Coward as a character... You might enjoy.'
If you missed Molly Parkin on Radio 4's Desert Island Discs this morning, here's a chance to catch up. She's described as the 'grande dame of Bohemian living' and talks vividly of her life.
PS Following the show, her memoir Welcome To Mollywood rocketed up the Amazon Biography sales chart. Even Madame experienced a surge with over 4000 extra visitors to the various posts on Moll (see labels).
Here's an exclusive new portrait of my fiancée Molly Parkin by the fabulous Darren Coffield (see his website; click image for bigger pic). I understand he is now using this or another photo in the set as a model for a painting which will hang in the National Portrait Gallery. Darren's picture also showcases Molly's latest millinery creation which I believe features an orchid in the flared bell of her "horn". I really do think one of the better chain stores should snap this design up: the sooner we banish appalling hairstyles from the high street the better.
The 'Rev' Andrew Logan
As to the matter of our wedding, Molly and I have yet to agree on anything, such as venue and form. We have flirted with the notion of Andrew Logan marrying us. One of the London Eye pods could be an amusing location - I've not mentioned this to Molly yet - or perhaps the premises of the Spiritualists Association of Great Britain in Belgrave Square: I've always fancied being given away by my late paternal grandmother via a medium (not Derek Acorah).
See Croatian photo album in postings below l to r: Film director Robert Chilcott, actress Carson Parkin-Fairley, Molly Parkin and some tag-along. Photo: Jadran Babič of Slobodna Dalmacija. Click images for full size.
Poor Professor S! Out of humanity I shall not publish his name. But yesterday he was fed into the Molly Parkin sausage machine and spewed out as mangled mince; or dumped like a turd at the water's edge on the Croatian island of Brač. Even now I inwardly cringe at his operatic humiliation. But the tale has to be told.
The Professor had dreamt of an idyllic day celebrating the work of a Croatian painter: a charming woman in a lovely dress. And who better to invite along as honoured guests to partake in this appreciation on Brač than the famous artist Molly Parkin and her entourage (now including newly arrived daughter Sophie and husband Jan)? The Ghetto Club's Sonja had phoned our hotel to tell us that the promised six-seater taxi had not been booked so we must get cracking and phone for two taxis to get our party to the harbour at Split within the hour. "I have a surprise for Molly!" Molly's granddaughter Carson had barely finished washing her hair and she was bundled into a car. So the group mood was already faintly toxic.
The surprise! Kočani Orkestar greet Molly. Click each image for full size. Photos by MA
The harbour surprise was Gypsy brass band Kočani Orkestar with Sonja at the head, clapping. A very generous and charming gesture. Molly was utterly delighted, dancing to their music as they trailed us to the ferry before the 50 minute trip to Brač. "I'm a Gypsy, you know," she chided on the boat when her entourage proved churlish about the racket. "You're all killjoys!" And the mood turned darker when it dawned we were not about to meet Croatia's cultural elite here but to be treated to a walking cultural tour of the island: or "traipsing" as Molly called it. "I don't do traipsing," she declared to the Prof. We refused to traipse: instead I noticed a sign in the grass showing a dog with an erection and took a pic of Molly posing behind it. The Prof looked most put out. Someone explained that the erection was actually doggy poo and is not encouraged in public places.
We anchored ourselves in a waterside bar in front of a noisy church as the art lovers traipsed on. By now Molly had learnt that the Prof was not gay. "I have two sons," he revealed, unwisely. Molly said to me, "I've lost interest in him now. I much prefer gay men around me to talk about art, much more interesting. I can't have him wittering on in my ear."
The promised al fresco dinner in the marina failed to sweeten things. Though we were invited guests we were told we'd have to pay for anything that wasn't the local plonk, the anchovies or some fish paste (and what looked like Christmas cake). The very idea! The Professor snuck up to Molly and said, "I have a lady who wants to meet you. She is a motel. " "A motel?" asked Molly. "Yes, a motel - a moh-dell. She was a model in the 60s."
This prompted a rebuke. "Please, Professor, would you please stop giving me a history of everyone who wants to meet me." Not taking a hint he pushed on and described at length another fan who desired to supplicate at Molly's open toes. Molly exploded. "You can give that kind of bullshit to your art students but not to me. Please stop. If someone wants to meet me just bring them over."
We all exploded when the Prof informed us that the ferry was running late. We wouldn't be leaving before 22.45, which meant we wouldn't get back to the Ghetto in Split before midnight where the Parkin Lot was booked to perform. We refused to view the artist's paintings, we all wanted to leave. Now. "You can't!" said the Prof. When Carson noticed private water taxis available for hire he said, "They take two hours!"
Photo: Jadran Babič
In fact not. Jan and I secured a water taxi and at around 9.30pm Molly and entourage took off into the Adriatic night and were back in about 50 minutes. The moonlit journey was pure bliss, bumpier than the ferry, part African Queen. We all felt awful about Professor S: I shall never forget the bewilderment etched on his face as he probably rehearsed what he'd say to his fellow art lovers - and featured artist - by way of excuse.
If he's reading this - sorry! Lesson: Get the itinerary blessed first.
Oh, and that dog with an erection (click for full size). Photo by MA
A selection of pics from Croatia all by Madame Arcati. See guide index below. Click each image once for full size. 1
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Index: click each image once for full size 1 Ghetto femme 2 Ghetto homme 3 One of Ghetto's bars 4 Ghetto: Molly intros Madame Arcati night 5 Ghetto staffer: Would you Adame & Eve it? Monika of the club shows MA her etchings 6 Sophie Parkin with mother at Le Méridien Hotel, just outside Split 7 At Split Harbour: Gypsy brass band Kočani Orkestar greets Moll (band pics in post above). Ghetto's Sonya in shades peering at me. Fly-on-the-wall Robert Chilcott films Moll embracing a member of her public 8 Professor S with Moll on ferry to Brač before the "misunderstanding" 9 Meanwhile back at Ghetto: an angelic 'tache 10 "Falling In Love Again": One of a number of new erotic paintings by Molly Parkin at the Ghetto Gallery, Split 11 "Honeymoon" by Molly Parkin. At Ghetto Gallery, Split 12 Ghetto: Rose - our fave bar mixologist 13 Ghetto: l-r: Monika, Rose, Sonya (NB red kerchief) and friend Lilly 14 Ghetto: Molly becomes part of interior furnishings (or vice versa?) 15 Ghetto: Arcati night clubbers. Man in background owns island in Australia 16 And finally for now: my marina view from my room at Le Méridien
Daniel Radcliffe's new friend Our Lady J is heading for the UK later this month with gigs at the Purcell Room and in Manchester - the latter headlined "Our Lady J’s Gospel for the Godless With the Cocquettes and friends". Her recent tabloid ascendancy will not have harmed ticket sales and I notice that she's selective in her media responses: Perez Hilton earned a tweet and Out.com a "statement" in which she managed to confirm that she and Daniel "support each other as artists." Conversationally or in other ways? The statement begs the question, dearie. Such starry pickiness I tend to associate with showbiz savviness, if you get my meaning. Dietrich would be proud.
She also claims to be a witch with powers to punish warped messengers: that makes two of us then.
I note that on her website she slips into the almighty first person plural (thank you for the correction, Anon) to announce: "We’re sorry to remove the Our Lady J blog, but it’s in the process of being edited for publication. Her transition from male to female is just too juicy to have floating around the internet for all to see!!" Ah, yes. A publishing deal. Juicy. Now I know what the J stands for.
Meanwhile, on Twitter she writes: "Enjoying the death threats. Reminds me of my childhood. Kind of like my baby-blanket!"
Transexual singer Our Lady J is reportedly Daniel Radcliffe's very good friend - with munchy dates and hand-holding and mutual, er, admiration - so naturally we should acquaint ourselves with her ... she's plainly smart ... and political. She writes on Twitter: "Apparently I'm in the British tabloid, The Sun. FYI, I'm NOT a drag queen - I'm a tranSEXual... do ur research." Coronation Street star Antony Cotton appears to be a fan of Our Lady J.
What? You've forgotten what Daniel Radcliffe looks like? God, you bloody Alzheimer's freaks ...
“Is that a vagina?” Ruby Wax demanded to know as co-host of Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World 2009. Three large sails had made a grand entrance on the stage - a vagina was not the first thing they reminded me of, unless you‘re talking about an acute case of thrush. On a similar theme she added later of more imagined stylised pudenda: “There’s a strong smell of fish in the air.”
Yes, so moving on …
The 12th in the series since 1972, this Crufts-inspired AMW was once again the post-Warholian dry debauch of androgynous excess. The venue this time was The Roundhouse in London’s Camden and the theme The Elements - happily, only very loosely taken as inspiration.
Miss Flotsam told how she hates tidy beaches, and Miss No Signs Of Any Civilisation Whatsoever complained of traces of rust on her underbelly. I liked Miss Trailer Trasher’s boast that she has enough residual energy to become extremely unpleasant while Miss Bubbles Of Hope was composed of 78% air, 17% alcohol and 5% grape resin. Miss Majordha Beach's helium-inflated balloons, representing clouds, broke away and collected on a roof trap high up: I wondered who pops them in the morning. When Miss Sahhara gave birth to Africa I prayed Madonna wouldn't materialise and adopt it.
I can’t remember who won now but if it was the Miss who was hoisted aloft out of a tank-size puffball skirt then I concur - was that Miss Hokusai? Please write in.
Actually, the winner was Miss Fancy Chance
Andrew appeared as principal and exemplary host and hostess in a male/female harlequin-style get-up: to Ruby he probably looked like a badly bruised vagina with labial piercings and mirror adornments. Not for me to reason why.
My fiancee Molly Parkin was one of the judges and she took me as her VIP guest. We’d rendezvoused at the Chelsea Arts Club first - she was dressed as a thunderstorm in black and sparkling red. But since flashlight is white we recast her as a volcanic eruption with lava flows. I wore a dark velvet suit - a cloud seeking a silver lining. Molly Parkin and Bruce Lacey (photo by Frances Lynn, see below)
In the Roundhouse’s VIP gallery other judges and their friends and/or fuckees joined us: Julian Clary - he asked me how he could find Madame Arcati on the internet: his delightful friend wore a pink balloon; Ken Russell, who sported a one-piece tent, his fifth or sixth wife and feet bandages; Time Out boss Tony Elliott - I told him I approved of his acting editor Mark Frith and he said “He’s good, I hope he stays”; the wonderful eccentric and performance artist Bruce Lacey - in one minute he twice fell off a pouffe, yet danced later; Zandra Rhodes; Tim Currey (great new teeth), oh, and so many others. Btw, Molly got the biggest aud cheer during the introductions.
One guest told me how she'd been Miss Conception in '81 - "and we had these props to represent artificial insemination". Now her daughter was about to open the show singing La Vie En Rose - "Andrew told me to wear a little black dress so people might think, 'Am I at the right show?'" Another guest told me: "I came second to Ursula Andress once in a beauty pageant ... "
The striking thing about the judging panel, in contrast to the huge youthy throng below with their muscle and tatts, was their age: both Bruce and Ken are over 80, many of the others in their 60s and 70s. Even Julian is close to 50 though looks closer to 30. This I like. All these Yodas presiding over the stripling Anakins for mischief and mayhem. Pass the lightsabre, darling.
From the gallery I peered down on the Misses preparing their costumes backstage: a multicoloured prosthetic body parts tip, lit by dressing room mirror lamps, with young lithe bodies seeking drag heaven. The show was tremendous fun. I can’t imagine why it’s not on ITV1 - it’s a telegenic spectacle, funny, and it doesn’t have Simon Cowell pulling panto faces. What more do you want? No wonder Michael Grade’s on his way out.
“He’s being strangled by a penis,” shouted Ruby as a monster tower-costume collapsed on stage. For once she was right. She may not know her cunt but she can certainly spot a cock.
My new friend the author Frances Lynn has some good pics of the judges and guests, click here. She's also written this enlightening piece on Madame Arcati here. Yet more amazing photos at frillip moolog, here. Ken Russell writes about the show inThe Times.
Incidentally, I was much taken by The Irrepressibles, a 10-piece orchestra - fronted by the "angel-throated, androgynous, Jamie McDermott"- that was part of the entertainment
I plan to see Antony And The Johnsons' Antony Hegarty's The Creek exhibition at the London Isis Gallery: a very good interview in the Independent yesterday alerted me to his artwork and environmental concerns. His Ghost self-portrait reactivates my pediophobia (fear of dolls): it's a Gothic photographic nightmare achieved by projecting an image of his late great-grandmother on to his own face. It would make a great movie poster: all it needs is a movie to back it. I also like Julia's Hand, a photographic study of his mentor Dr Julia Yasuda, described as an intersex person, neither male nor female.
The subject of hands reminds me of Mickey Rourke and his freakishly large ones, on display in the excellent The Wrestler. His fingernails are rudimentary curved claws, white as milk. I know I would never get on with Mickey, just because of his hands.
