by Julian Clary
Philip and I took to frequenting a seedy club called Bottoms Up in Kings Cross, full of rent boys, lorry drivers and transvestites. It was presided over by Monique, a big-boned gal dressed in white. Hair wafted over her head à la Quentin Crisp, face cracked and caked, she had amazing eyes, slightly bulbous and unblinking, which she’d fix on any intrepid fan seeking an autograph. ‘That’ll be nine dollars,’ she said, menacingly. When the resident midget said hello she said, ‘I was wondering where I’d find a stool to sit on.’ She would peruse the room and point people out to me: ‘She’s a nice queen, he’s a low homo.’ I liked her until she began a prolonged invitation to dinner, suspiciously punctuated with the information that ‘there will be no one there, only us. I know after all the hassle of autographs you’ve been through that you just want to rest, one, two, three.’ I said yes but meant no.
I phoned Stephen often to see how he was doing. ‘I haven’t had a bite past my mouth all day but that’s because I’m twisted.’ He’d suffered three days of vomiting and diarrhoea since he drank a bottle of holy water someone sent him from the Nile. He had a Spanish boyfriend but had taken to faking his orgasms. His body was failing him but he was finding ways to cope. I admired his inventiveness: ‘I just thrash around while he grunts and groans, then grab half of his spunk and cover myself with it. Either that or I pretend to come and then grab a towel straight away and wipe myself although there’s nothing to wipe away.’ I asked him if he could come when he was by himself and he said no. He’d borrowed a porno film and got no results. ‘There’s nine films on this tape and normally I can’t get through the first but I sat through the lot without a twitch!’
9 March 1993
Asian waiter delivered my room-service Sebel burger and fries.
‘I didn’t know you hate me,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘You always have salad. I didn’t know you hate me.’
It took me a while but I finally understood; he didn’t know I ate meat.
Our final show of the tour took place on the eve of the Sydney Lesbian and Gay Mardi Gras (not forgetting transgender folk too), where I’d been invited to lead the parade down Oxford Street, waving at the crowds from the back of a decorated float.
After the interval my entrance music began and I headed towards the stage and fell over. Over the swelling violins of ‘Tara’s theme’ from Gone with the Wind I heard the crack of my arm breaking. There was nothing to do but go on.
‘I’m in terrible pain. I’ve just broken my arm,’ I said.
There was silence as the audience waited for the punchline.
‘No, I have. Really. Look, I can’t hold the microphone with my left hand. Helga, have you got any painkillers? These bastards don’t believe me, but it’s true. They think it’s part of a comedy routine.’
Helga trotted on with some Nurofen. I was desperate for a laugh by now, so I spat them out and made Helga bring me more. I struggled through the show, wincing through painful costume changes when I had to twist and turn my arms. I went straight to hospital afterwards, where my arm was plastered with festive pink plaster.
The next day I waved my damaged arm at half a million Mardi Gras revellers. By that evening’s party a rumour was sweeping Sydney. ‘Is it true you broke your arm fisting someone?’ I understood the basic mechanics of fisting, but it wasn’t something I had any desire to try. But I’d like to meet the sphincter that can snap a bone. Nevertheless the mental picture of me fisting someone amused me and I resolved to think of a fisting joke and use it when the opportunity arose.
TEN
I have a poet’s mind but a poor exterior,
What goes on inside me is superior.
STEVIE SMITH
ONE OF THE advantages of becoming famous is you can make unreasonable demands and people go along with them. It’s almost expected of you. I, for example, refuse to travel in a maroon car. Agents and tour managers have been alerted to the eccentricity. It’s only because that colour vaguely reminds me of school uniform. It’s not a serious aversion, I don’t break out in hives at the sight of such a vehicle, but no one dares to say, ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ so it becomes a vital requisite of Mr Clary’s transportation requirements. There are others. I prefer my driver to be a lactating mother; they seem to drive more carefully and never exceed my 80-mile-per-hour speed limit. I like to travel in the front passenger seat with my hand curled casually around the handbrake. This way I can create my own emergency stop at any time. On tour in the Terago minibus there is also the ‘No Trade In The Van’ rule. Backing singers and chorus girls are wont to pick up fans and are often understandably keen to transport them home for sexual shenanigans. Michael Dalton would invariably drag some floor-sweeper back to his hotel after our post-show disco outings, and I really couldn’t be doing with the small talk and the whiff of bleach in an enclosed environment. Call me old-fashioned, but the rule was created and rigorously imposed.
It was during our five-month tour of Australia that I decided I could no longer pack my own bags. Every week, sometimes every few days, we were on the move and the endless folding, zipping and buckling was too much for someone in my position. The task fell to Helga, the lesbian-in-the-wings tour manager. She would arrive an hour before departure and dutifully fold, squeeze and roll my scattered possessions from around the current suite into the tasteful selection of matching Louis Vuitton suitcases. When the day of our longed-for return to the mother country finally dawned, I didn’t mince my words with Helga. ‘Hurry up and pack,’ I said. ‘Get me out of here. I’ve had enough of Australia!’ I missed my family and friends. The relentless sunshine and partying were getting on my nerves. As was the acidity of some Australian queens: ‘Back in Australia again, I see . . . Things not going too well for you back home?’
I wanted to see the grey skies of home, I wanted to mix with my own sort, moan about everything and absorb some fine British apathy once more. Another day of jolly Aussies and I would scream. When my sundry bags were all piled neatly by the door for the porter to collect, Helga, the ultimate in efficient lesbionic tour management, asked the obvious question. ‘Plane ticket and passport?’
‘Yes, yes!’ I said and produced my ticket within seconds. It took a little longer to realise that my passport had already gone back to the mother country in the side pocket of a suitcase I’d sent ahead with Addison.
I lay on the bed having a panic attack and took the Valium I’d been saving for the journey home. After a few phone calls from a determined Helga, the British Consulate opened its doors for me, even though it was a Sunday afternoon, and clutching my temporary passport I was whisked across the tarmac on a buggy to catch my plane with seconds to spare. Had I been an ordinary Joe Public I’d have missed it, been forced to do things like queue up and get paperwork stamped. It doesn’t bear thinking about. As I relaxed in first class and perused the extensive menu, I thought how marvellously Helga had dealt with the crisis and how grateful I was to her. Everyone should have a bull-dyke problem-solver at their disposal. I wanted to let her know I appreciated her sterling work, but unfortunately she was back in economy and I couldn’t be seen there. I got the air stewardess to deliver a complimentary bag of nuts.
My mother said recently she thought my life would grind to a halt without the support network of cleaners, gardeners, beauticians, managers, agents, personal assistants and personal trainers I employ. She is right, I suppose, but having made the choice not to have anything to do with the practicalities of day-to-day life, all these minions are vital to my well-being. I don’t want to empty bins, poison slugs, discuss fees, pay bills, post letters or book train tickets. Assisted living suits me and leaves me free to spend my days thinking up buggery and oral jokes. It’s what the public would want. Anything more mundane than walking the dog or watering the plants, and reality might raise its vulgar head.
Safely home at last, there was no rest for the wicked. Aspel, interviews and meetings, not to mention the unfinished business of Hans. Tour
s require publicity, as did almost anything it seemed. I recently came across an interview schedule prior to my Camping at the Aldwych run in 1991. In three days I did interviews with the Ham and High, the Independent, William Cook (writing a piece on ‘Life After Thatcher’), the Pink Paper, Steve Wright in the Afternoon, John Sachs for Capital Radio, Dogs Today magazine, BBC Radio 5, Cathy McGowan for BBC News South East, John Dunn for Radio 2, Loose Ends, Box Office on Channel 4, LBC and GLR. Plus photo calls. I tried to be friendly and chatty but it didn’t always pay off. I made sandwiches and everything for a Guardian journalist once, only to be described (on Christmas Eve, too!) as ‘exotically packaged mediocrity’. The nerve! The only hint I’d had that she was capable of such bad taste was the earrings she wore, which looked like salvage from a recent car crash. She was all smiles when she left. Dogs Today were far more amiable, even writing to me afterwards and asking me to host their show. They were undertaking a nationwide search for the best singing dogs. The show was to be called the Paw-O-Vision Song Contest. Sadly I was too busy.
26 March 1993
I said to H: It’s only in the throes of passion that I love you. When you’re being Dutch and I’m being English, I can’t be bothered.
H: I enjoy being with you and I KNOW that you enjoy being with me. I know that.
Stephen arrived by taxi from the Brodrip Ward and sat fidgeting while I cleaned out my wardrobe. From five carrier bags full of old clothes he only rejected two old pairs of boxer shorts and a JCFC T-shirt. ‘It’s like Christmas!’ he said. Dropped him back off at the Middlesex and he wheeled his booty in on a wheelchair. We’d had a frosty moment earlier when he cast his eye at Christopher’s urn on the patio and said, ‘You should have a shrine built for Christopher,’ and I said, ‘Thank you for your opinion.’ I liked to see the urn out there, battered by the seasons. Earlier he said, ‘I never really liked Christopher and he never liked me,’ which was true enough, but the constant references to Christopher as a kind of gauge to his own deterioration annoy me. ‘At what stage did Christopher’s hair fall out?’ was one.
29 March 1993
Stephen has moved into a single room at the Brodrip Ward. Not because his condition suddenly deteriorated or anything, but because he saw it was empty and fancied it.
He went out today and bought a fish tank and three fish. He was sitting in bed smoking a joint when I arrived. In fact, it was the same bed I slept in head to head with Christopher one night towards the end, the night when the nurse slipped me a bottle of Valium.
‘I’m going to treat this place like a hotel. I’m going to come and go as I please. I’m going to buy a houseboat. I’m going to take an intensive driving course, so I am. I’m getting my self-confidence back. I refused laser treatment today, I’m not ready for it, I’m just up and about again.’ He raves on and on, determined to achieve so much in so little time. Then he starts attempting profound phrases I think he imagines will be remembered after he has gone, like: ‘Life is beautiful. Every day is a new beginning.’ I sit in embarrassed silence most of the time and talk about the patio plants.
Hans and I had a more conclusive conversation about our relationship. Neither of us can really end it just for the reason that it’s impractical. So we’ve decided to hang on for a while and see what happens. ‘Maybe we’ll have a row or something a bit more conclusive,’ I offered helpfully.
‘Perhaps we won’t,’ he said. I felt a shiver down my spine.
The UK leg of the Glittering Passage tour got under way in April. My new tour driver was a nervous young man called Toby. On his first day he walked dog shit through my flat and soon found himself on his hands and knees with a bowl of disinfectant and a J-cloth. He became known as ‘the Poo Man’ – not ideal for the self-esteem of a 21-year-old straight boy. The spaceship set took two men to operate it, and Steve and Keith, two south London non-theatricals, took on the task. One day Philip asked them: ‘You boys strictly down-the-line heteros or do you delve at all?’
After the Brighton gig, cast and crew retired to the bar at the Grand Hotel. Andy Cunningham, who had directed me back in the days of Covent Garden Community Theatre, came with us.
‘Such a nice outfit you’ve got,’ he said to me.
I casually brushed my clothes and said, ‘Oh, thank you. It’s just something I threw on.’
‘No,’ whispered Andy. ‘I meant nice people you’re working with.’
Hans came to visit but the situation wasn’t helped when I had a phone call one morning from Josh in Perth informing me he was in contact with the Sun and ready to sell his story. ‘What story?’ I asked, lying in bed with Hans beside me. ‘I’m 18. That’s illegal in Perth,’ he said triumphantly. I hung up, but Hans wanted to know what the conversation had been about, so I told him. The next day I came clean and told him about my other infidelities.
28 April 1993
This Morning with Nick Owen and a heavily pregnant Anne Diamond. Just before we went on air at 10.30 a.m. I was sitting on a sofa with Jilly Cooper, who turned suddenly and touched my hand. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, concerned. Worried that my hangover was showing through the make-up, I said, ‘Yes, I’m all right. I’m only half here, really.’
‘Sometimes’, she said, ‘you think you’re over something and then you realise that you’re not.’ I realised she was referring to Christopher and bereavement. But there was no time to continue the conversation. Suddenly cameras were rolling, Anne and Nick were showing their teeth and Jilly and I were making merry between a cookery item featuring stewed apples baked on butter-soaked bread and Claire Rayner helping the nation with their relationship problems.
I managed a good joke. Viewers were asked to phone in with tongue-twisters in response to a German student who needed help with his English lessons. ‘I’ve got something a German student might like to get his tongue around,’ I said. Nick and Anne just stared at me. There was silence, so thinking the camera might still be on me I widened my eyes and shrugged at them. Then the pause ended as Jilly shrieked with laughter. The show went on and on and on. My final appearance was a 90-second item with the Chef of the Year. ‘Have you ever stuffed a chicken?’ I asked him.
I hear that Addison refers to me, Philip and Michael as ‘the Handbags’, which might be offensive if it wasn’t funny. The other day he greeted Keith the technical by saying. ‘Tour going well, mate? How’s your arse?’
The next day we arrived in Oxford to do our gig at the Apollo, only to find the city centre sealed off due to a bomb scare. We sat in Fat Jack’s for four hours, until we realised we’d have to cancel. I called Addison. ‘Oh my Gawd. Why does it always happen to me?’ he said from his office in Peckham. We passed the time talking to the gay Australian waiter. ‘I really admire you,’ he said. ‘Making all that money just for being camp.’
My relationship with Hans did not survive the tour. I was in Margate when I called him. ‘In my country, if love is not fed it dies,’ he said. I went for a post-show walk along the seafront and felt suitably desolate. Feeling miserable was an interesting mood change, after the hilarity of tour fun and japes and the high of being applauded and lionised every night on stage. There is a self-consciousness, sometimes, about despondency. (There is with me anyway.) As I took my melancholy stroll I could almost have been auditioning for a remake of The French Lieutenant’s Woman.
Becoming famous plays havoc with your emotions, and because you are famous people will scrutinise your emotions much more than they ever did before. You are being looked at more than is normal, so it stands to reason that you are also being analysed. The Sydney queens who said ‘Nothing much to write home about’ would not have passed the comment had they not recognised me. They would have kept their thoughts to themselves. And while your ego is suitably massaged by the nightly confirmation of the public’s love for you, the stakes are higher. You think if you make one false move the adoration will be withdrawn. The game will be up. If they didn’t make as much noise in Southampton as they did in Glasgow, y
ou might think it’s your fault. You don’t always put it down to regional clapping variations or theatre acoustics. And if it hadn’t been for public demand you would not have been on tour and tired and emotional in the first place. Your worst fear is that it will stop. What if your next tour, your next performance, TV show, interview or joke is not received as favourably as the last? All will be lost.
What if I don’t want to do it any more? All this was just the low after the high, you understand, but I don’t think my reading material at the time helped.
6 June 1993. Margate
I’m reading Frankie Howerd’s biography so career dives are on my mind. Failures of all kinds, all round. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m by myself because I want to be, but it isn’t working.
I fancy a change of lifestyle. I could take a year off. I could change management, social scene, house and lover. I could finish the tour and see if I’m quite as hysterical about things then.
There is a trajectory to fame. We see it all the time, most commonly with pop stars who suddenly hit the big time. Self-esteem and insecurity battle it out. Modesty and disbelief give way to arrogance and self-delusion. I have been guilty of both, snappy and demanding with friends and fans alike. There is a period when the basic courtesies of human interaction do not seem to apply to you, the famous person. If luck is on your side this will all level out and you can make your apologies before too much damage is done. But we must bear in mind that those around a famous person often don’t conform to normal patterns of behaviour either. The whole business of day-to-day living is suddenly topsy-turvy: you’re not exactly behaving in a normal way, but neither is anyone else. It’s hard to know how to behave. I used to leave my fans waiting for hours at the stage door. ‘The longer they wait, the more they love you,’ I used to repeat nightly, as if it were an ancient Chinese proverb rather than an unnecessary test of loyalty. Nowadays I’m there before they are, offering a selection of sandwiches and a flask of tea. For my next tour I’m thinking of offering a free T-shirt to the first five to arrive. In TV terms, of course, one’s career goes through a number of phases from ‘Accept no offers. You’re too good for that!’ to ‘How lovely to be asked! I’ll take anything!’