Suddenly you're older

Another Saturday night in, I feel positively middle-aged. Oh well, Duckie next Saturday and both nights of the Big Bexhill Valentine's Weekend. Outfit crises a-brewing.

And it's not like this week has been a solid run of abstemious school nights. Wednesday was the Peter Tatchell fundraiser cabaret event at the Phoenix Artists Club. I'm not quite sure why Tatchell needs funds at the moment - maybe he's saving up to punch the Pope or something - but no-one could argue with the line-up of fabulous gay artistes, many of them familiar from the Axis of Duckie.

Bit of a last minute decision on our part but me and TSB hung around in Soho after work for a few hours before toddling along to the Phoenix, where everything is setting up. Coincidentally, I'd seen the venue only a week earlier when Mel took us there, and I'd liked it so much I'd joined up on the spot. £120 a year isn't bad for a quiet(ish) spot in Soho where one can be guaranteed a seat of a Friday. And I like the general atmosphere, the clutter of theatrical bric-a-brac.

On Wednesday, there was a clutter of theatrical queens. Having lived a while in London, with its large-enough-to-self-segregate gay scene, I don't tend to come across that particular subgroup of Gay Men Of A Certain Age very often. When I lived in Scotland, the scene was much smaller, so bars and clubs and "gay events" were more diverse, in terms of age range. Here, the likes of Duckie (with its "playgroup for the over-30s" vibe) are more varied than most, but one would have to venture to the Quebec to see the sixtysomethings at play.

Chatting with DawnRightNasty, we agreed that it was refreshing to see so many of this older demographic: it bolstered one's confidence that queer social life doesn't end at thirty, or forty, or sixty, or whenever. Lots of nice cashmere coats and a sprinkling of growing-old-disgracefully leather. If I'm as attractively dapper in my sixties as these guys, I'll be very happy indeed.

Oh, speaking of sexy older men, Brian Paddick was there for a little while, looking very fanciable. I think I'm developing a bit of a crush on him...

And so, on with the show! We parked ourselves in the Members Bar at the back and watched the main area become progressively busier. Nathan Evans, David Hoyle and DawnRightNasty were sitting nearby, and were later joined by Fred Bear - all very Vauxhallville. My eye was caught by a rather dashing (and oddly familiar-looking) chap in distinctly Victorian white tie and tails. Turned out he was one of the MCs, Mr Meredith (Luke? I didn't catch his first name). The acts were introduced, the first being Earl Grey reprising his Queen's Speech. Clever, funny stuff, but I rather missed his Vivien Leigh. Caught him afterwards:



I missed a few of the following acts, having become engrossed in conversation with the ever-fascinating TSB. There was a poet called Ernesto Somethingorother, a striking latex geisha Miss Akimbo, QBoy and the very lovely Le Gateau Chocolat. I'd seen the latter (very deservedly) win one of the voguing categories at Liverpool Is Burning but it was a bit of a revelation to hear him sing. I liked his version of The Man That Got Away. Here he is with Miss Akimbo:



I pushed through the crowded main bar to grab a photo of Dickie Beau then retreated to a more comfortable spot to enjoy his extraordinary Judy Garland monologue. Despite having seen it before, this was just as emotionally engaging, holding the audience spellbound. Where I was standing, people were making little gasps at points of particular intensity.



I briefly chatted to Dickie Beau afterwards and drunkenly gushed at him a bit. As I do.

An angelic-looking David Hoyle was introduced as the last act. I think I liked him; he's so out of the ordinary that sometimes it's hard to tell...



Fred Bear had got togged up in a very cute outfit (I got to feel his scut!) and I was initially disappointed that they'd run out of time for him to perform. David Hoyle brought him up on stage, though.



How does he get his facial hair to look so immaculately handlebartastic? I have moustache envy.



He finished off with a spot of bearbacking:



We drank far too much wine for a school night and indulged in the traditional-but-ill-advised ritual of popping into filthy, seedy ol' 79CXR for a final one for the road. Boozehounds.

There'll be Over The Rainbow for me

And so, once again, to Duckie. We're becoming quite the regulars, these days; I think it makes a difference having discovered the little Duckie-flavoured corner of the blogosphere and knowing people to chat (or at least nod) to. The place was quiet too (relatively speaking), and it was good having more room than usual to dance. Is this a reflection of Credit Crunch Duckie, a shape of things to come? Perhaps it was just the Last Saturday Before Payday effect.

Having grabbed a (very) brief nap after early evening Eurobeat, I'd decided at the last minute to accessorise with my Blue Peter badge. Dominic at the door noticed, and I had to admit I'd bought it from eBay. The shame! In the course of the evening, another three people remarked upon it and I decided I really ought to make up something more exciting, claim I sucked off Peter Purves, perhaps, or deflowered Percy's garden. Ho bloody ho.

Initially a four-hander, with Amy still in the air (in Ayia Napa, apparently) and Richie Rich standing in for Chelsea Kelsey. I noticed that Chelsea did arrive later, though, and finished off the night. I'm never very sure what governs the comings and goings of the Readers Wifes - they move in mysterious ways, their wonders to perform - but I like to imagine that even when he's officially absent/awol (can a DJ pull a sickie?) Chelsea can't resist the siren call of Duckie.

The cabaret was introduced again by Amy replacements, Nathan Evans (and, having chatted about it with Gareth, I'm more convinced than ever that I ought to break the No Going Out On School Nights rule and make it along to Nathan's Thursday night Vauxhallville more often) and some nameless chap dressed in a cub scout/schoolboy uniform. Hmm.

First act was one Dickie Beau. Ho hum, I thought, another bog-standard lip-synching drag queen with a Judy Garland fixation. Wrong! Within a minute or two, I was absolutely rapt, held spellbound by what turned out to be an extraordinary performance piece of unusual intensity.



Yes, the obvious Judy Garland references, dramatically displayed (a scarlet Dorothy!), but more than that: the initial distorted Chasing Rainbows mash-up (with handfuls of pills and shots of blood-coloured liquor) segued into an utterly riveting spoken (or ranted) word piece, presumably taken from one of Garland's more out-of-control recorded monologues (I wondered if it was from the same place as the defiant quote at the end of The Other Side). Dickie Beau performed the monomaniacal rant perfectly, capturing the attention of all in the club, with jerky, doll-like movements, expressions and gestures which, while exaggerated, never lapsed into slapstick. When he fell over backwards in his chair, face bloodied, it was shocking rather than funny. There were a couple of moments when, for a second or two, I felt suddenly tearful.



There was music playing softly in the background of Dickie Beau's monologue but, other than Sakamoto's refrain from Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence - which fitted beautifully, affectingly - I can't recall what. I think everyone was caught up in it: even allowing for the fact that it was a smaller audience than usual, the pin-drop silence was eerie. Quite incredible. Afterwards, I found myself thinking about Liza Minnelli (the streaked mascara and handfuls of prescription drugs were, I think, meant to reference her as well as her mother) and the nod toward Little Red Riding Hood. Child stars as babes lost in the woods, gorily consumed by the Big Bad Wolf of celebrity? Okay, possibly too much analysis but it did seem a multi-layered piece which could be read into a number of ways. It reminded me a little of Geoff Ryman's WAS.

Second act was Nathan Evans as the Queen, a sort of puppet striptease act making a series of points about the shedding of various human rights. I was sure I'd seen him do this one before, possibly on YouTube:



It was a good and clever piece but, coming hot on Dickie Beau's ruby heels, seemed a little lacking in bite. Perhaps we're more used to the one kind of nihilism than the other? Still, after last weekend's disappointment at the zoo, it was nice to finally catch a glimpse of the Queen's beaver. Just the one, though.



Following from Gareth's Duckie Commandments, I think the biggest unspoken rule of thumb would have to be

Thou shalt not remove thy shirt.

That said, there's something amusing about those gayers who've obviously strayed into Duckie for the first time and take a while to realise the ways in which it's not quite as other gay clubs. The punters are, by and large, there for non-pectacular reasons: the music is not simply an aural backdrop for muscleboy adoration; the music is the principal raison d'être, the reason people are there. Getting one's disco tits out for the lads is neither big nor clever and will generally be met with averted gazes and embarrassment (such a social gaffe...) rather than gasps of appreciation. Put 'em away.

Then again, there are exceptions to every rule. Standing out from last night's crowd was a dark-haired fellow, bare-chested beneath a rather nice black leather waistcoat. Somehow - possibly because he was pleasantly hairy, possibly because he didn't strip off entirely, possibly because he didn't seem to be soliciting pec-worship - he managed to carry it off.

Don't try this at Duckie, kids.