Boys For Breakfast, Boys For Lunch And A Proper Dinner...

Jean Maurice Eugene Clement Cocteau... Visionary, playwright, opium addict, painter, sculptor, potter, poet, film director, novelist, theatrical designer, exuberant homosexual and all round inspiration... How's that for an introduction?


I was introduced to the works of Jean Cocteau by a friend and was instantly captivated by the strange, wafer-thin man. He was an energetic concoction of man and faerie and mythological being all rolled into one wiry, angular body.
I have often been known to state that I was born to the wrong era. His life of gay abandon and artistic experimentation set against the hedonistic backdrop of the French Riviera in the 40/50's is one I am most jealous to have not been a part of.
His artwork still adorns the dockside chapel in the town of Villefranche. I love the obvious clash of a chapel built for the hard, very heterosexual laborers of a french dock that is covered from ceiling to floor in the homoerotic frolicings of  toned, beautiful angels and muscular fishermen. What a sense of humour he had...

I cannot help but feel a great deal of jealousy towards the likes of Jean Marais (Cocteau's Muse). It was his face that inspired hundreds of Cocteau's grecian paintings. He stood as the epitome of male beauty in Cocteau's eyes and starred in many of Jean's films including Orphee and both the role of the beast and the opposing prince in La Belle Et La Bette.


Oh dear... I'm living in the wrong generation. How I'd love to sidle toward the seafront in Villefranche, dressed in 1930's attire and introduce myself to the visionary that was Cocteau. No doubt he'd be sitting at the dockside smoking and enjoying the company of a great many beautiful, young men...
Oh well... I've viewed his murals in the French church on Leicester Square, Chuckled at the interior of his painted chapel and stood next to his sculpture by the boats in the harbour of Villefranche. That's about as close as I'll ever get... Humph!!
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Barbaric Customs...

Everybody needs to rebel...

Short of collecting A.S.B.Os, injecting narcotics or throwing televisions through hotel windows, my little rebellion of choice is that of the Tattoo variety. Though I am by no means the Tattooed man from a victorian freak show, I'm wracking up a small collection and have my next one planned and in the pipeline.
Tattoos (in my opinion) can be amazing, artistic and liberating things. When executed with a skillful hand and chosen with a tasteful eye, a tattoo can be a thing of rare beauty.


True, there are some bloody dreadful ones walking around (see the examples below)... Nothing quite like having the the word "EXREME" plastered across your chest or a shark devouring a baby in the safety of your armpit.

But... BIG BUT... it cannot be ignored that, since ancient times, the human race has loved adorning and embellishing their bodies. I find it very interesting that tattoos can be looked upon with such a disapproving eye when body modification is happening in almost every walk of life across the globe. Be it ear piercing (or any other piercing for that matter) make up, the latest fashion, tummy tuck pants, push up bras, high heels or hairstyles. They are all methods we humans employ in the endless struggle for individuality. They all take us that little bit further from 'the way we were made' and push us slightly closer to being unique... different... special!?

I for one love tattooing and stand firmly by the fact that it is no longer reserved as the dockside practice of sailors and skurvy dogs. Tattooing (good tattooing) is a fine, delicate art form that requires a skilled artist and a brave volunteer.
Here's to fine art...
Here's to barbaric customs
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Where've You Been???

A lot has happened since my last blog... Time flies far too quickly when your mind is preoccupied with other things. It's scary!
I have been extremely busy fighting dragons debt collectors, writing sweeping sagas of great derring-do stories about toilets and getting lost down them, drinking champagne tea, eating caviar on delicate brioche toasts bubble and squeak at Borough market, shmoozing with the likes of Trevor Nunn my mum and Salman Rushdie the man in the newsagents. It's very tiring work, But... I'm back! Let the blogging commence
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