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!!
x

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
x

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
x

A Short Rant...

I'm done... DONE I TELL YOU...

I am a total winter chap. I love winter. I love cold, blustery days and thick, wooly winter clothing. I firmly believe that the White Witch had the right idea but... BIG BUT... I'm bored now.

Today the journey from Gavin's to Mine left me freezing with red, frost bitten hands and a sinus cold to rival any other. I want spring. I'm finally hungry to see green things growing and to enjoy the luxury of wearing fewer layers without suffering. I want to see my poor little bonsai tree with new sprouts on it and to leave the back door open and welcome in the neighbour's cat. 

Roll on the fairer seasons... This here winter lover is ready to be unfaithful.

x

A Sad Goodbye...

Just a small nod in the direction of (Lee) Alexander McQueen. Though I have no links to the fashion world whatsoever, I'm a great follower of his rebellious, innovative work and admire his rags to riches story very much. What an inspiration to all the misfits and the eccentric youth of today that the son of an east London cab driver could rocket skywards and become one of the most respected designers in today's British fashion scene. His suicide has left enormous ripples across the world. What a sad, sad loss to the fashion industry and to England as a whole. 
x

Saint Who?

I pose some questions to you dear reader... 


When was the last time you called it 'Saint' Valentine's day? Who was Saint Valentine and does he/she mind that their saintliness has been quietly dropped from this international holiday's title?


With February 14th looming, I'm starting to sicken of bright red hearts and cuddly toys in shop windows. There are signs and billboards everywhere, subtly brainwashing London's busy shoppers into believing that love isn't real unless it is accompanied by a stuffed bear with the words "hug me" written on its pudgy belly. Where did this madness come from?
Call me a miserable, old curmudgeon, but I think Saint Valentine's Day is close to vomit inducing. I sat in a cafe yesterday evening watching men (You know the type- the tracksuit bottomed, sovereign ringed man who's idea of romance is allowing his wife to accompany him to the pub to watch the football) pouring in and out of Clinton Cards with armfuls of pink junk and mass produced cards stuffed with cliched declarations of love... It was enough to put me right off my skinny decaf latte.
Is this what love is about? Surely love should be shown on every day of the year and not just when the card companies vow it is time to do so? 
Being someone who loves a good excuse for a spot of research, I did so and discovered some very interesting facts. Ready? Good!
Apparently, the link between matters of the heart and February dates back to a pagan festival of fertility. To celebrate this special occasion, a carefully chosen animal was slaughtered and then all the young women of the village would strip naked and run around whilst the men of the village would chase them and slap their bare bottoms with the sacrificed animal's entails. This, obviously, made the young women more fertile and cemented February as one of the more amorous months of the calender. 
A second interesting little nugget was the execution of Father Valentine on the 14th of February somewhere between the 14 and 1600's (the dates differ quite substantially from source to source). According to some rather unreliable records, Valentine was put to death for performing secret weddings in a time when marriage was outlawed by the king in order to keep his army's minds on the mission and off the ladies. Right before they cut the poor bugger's head off, it is said that Father Valentine slipped a note to his lover (again she varies from his wife, the King's sister and even the executioner's daughter) that was signed "From your Valentine", thus the first Valentine was sent...


Lovely. Brilliant. So...!?!?!?


There were many Saint Valentines, though none have anything more than a tenuous link to February 14th. There's a pagan bottom slapping ritual, a dead priest, and somehow they all morphed into a commercial, extremely unromantic holiday about romance.
I call each and every person who believes in a spot of real romance to stand up and say "NO". No to the mass produced cards. No to the cuddly toys. No to the vile, eighties cliche of red roses.
Stand up you final few and say "I shall treat my loved one no differently on this day because I love them EVERYDAY!!!!!"


Phew... I got quite riled then... I think I need a sit down and a cup of tea...
x

Birthday Blog...

It is 11.45 pm on a snowy January day and I have exactly 15 minutes to write a birthday blog before it isn't...
As the first blog of 2010 I had hoped to write something profound or exciting, but sadly I have nothing much to say.
Today is my birthday... 27 today... bluuuurrrggghhh!
I have achieved all my some goals... I am a highly successful writer struggling writer. I am world famous and adored by all that know me have just spent the past christmas playing Marius in Les Miserable Peter pan in Canterbury's annual pantomime. I have a body that would make adonis jealous need to go to the gym a great deal more often and I have paid off my overdraft and put down a mortgage for a house am living in the cosy confines of my fat, fat overdraft.
But...
Things are good! Really good! 2010... Here we go!
x