Scott Capurro

And demanded their money back, after staying and menacing from the front row for one hour. They laughed when I used dirty words, and played along when I flirted with them, assuring me that ‘We don’t have queers in Alabama.’ I know. I sprang a woody too.
Then they waddled off politely like bitches to the box office and begged for their cash.
Why don’t retards go see strippers?

Scott Capurro Goes MUCH Deeper
Recommended
Soho Theatre, 21 Dean St, London, W1D 3NE

Are children ever really ‘missing’? Is Obama really black? Can the homeless get any hotter? Scott is back on the road with a new show, which promises to offend you and make you laugh in equal measures. He’s a filthy and fabulous comic with more heart and intelligence than nearly any other comic on the circuit, which makes him a killer queen! Hot!

Scott Capurro: Goes Much Deeper (Nominated as BEST show on Londontown.com)
Soho Theatre, London
25th May 2009 until 30th May 2009
http://www.londontown.com/references/directory/images/title_editors_pick.gif

Anyone who has seen Scott Capurro live before will find it hard to suppress a wry smile on learning that his new show at Soho Theatre is entitled Goes Much Deeper. Given the charmingly uncouth, rip-roaringly camp and unflinchingly provocative nature of the San Francisco comic’s routines, the connotations are plain to see - especially when you have already witnessed Capurro flirt outrageously with a married Frenchman perched somewhat unfortunately in the front row during one of his gigs. In short, Capurro offends easily but, arguably, endearingly - although try explaining that to the Edinburgh Festival crowds who walked out following his “Holocaust Schmolocaust” quip in 2001, or the one man who he said should “die of Aids”. As he once told The Evening Standard: “I don’t give a shit about those who don’t like my work.” This may not sound like a barrel of laughs, but when Capurro gets it right - and recent evidence suggests he has calmed down somewhat from the controversial figure who was banned from Australian airwaves after being accused of “polluting minds” not so long ago - he really hits the mark. He’s come a long way since starring alongside Robin Williams in Mrs Doubtfire as cross-dressing “Aunt” Jack and picking up a Perrier Award the following year as best comedy newcomer, and if you watch his honest and personal show now, you’ll finally understand that Capurro does in fact go much deeper than you may have first thought.

I’ve enjoyed writing for this magazine, but all good things must fade away and die. Or something. But don’t worry. Hopefully some other glossy mag will hire me and underpay.
see you at the soho theatre? may 25 - 30. it’s in london, cretins.

GT
June 2009

At a Paris book lunch, the fashion writer rattling on about red carpet dresses couldn’t really grab the crowd in the corner. But then they were young and sleek and local. A chatty Canadian lady with shoulder-length hair wasn’t in their radar.

During supper at George’s, atop the Pompidou Centre, I sat next to her and watched her teeth. She must have had 80. They were glowing, but not as impressively as the Eiffel Tower, which changes from still yellow to sparkly silver. It glitters, every hour, like a disco ball. Our seats were powder pink plastic. The waitress wore Versace. Can Paris get any more camp? Carrie Bradshaw wannabes inhabited every table. The food, like their male companions and their conversation, was irrelevant.

The writer told us, “It’s very important to have boundaries. I have a friend who writes about her family, and they’re angry. I mean,” She continued, “I did write about my ex husband. Twice. For the Observer. But I don’t now. I mean, I have, reluctantly, for the Times, but divorce isn’t chic. I think there’s more interesting creativity happening. Like Oscar night.”

Our bill was huge, to me. But I’m broke. I paid my portion in coins. A drunk gay sat across from me and every so often he rolled his eyes back so far the pupils almost disappeared. He’d met every name the Canadian lady dropped. She quizzed him about a designer’s mother. She was desperate for an interview. Once again the Eiffel effused.

After pissing asparagus juice, I watched my reflection in the snakeskin sink’s mirror. My eyes seemed insular. I looked lost.

Later, at a cramped, fashionless gay bar, a tiny Gaul told me George’s was for wankers.

“And this place?” I was petulant.

“Oh,” he sipped his beer bottle, which was almost bigger than his head, “I never come here.”

And yet here we were. The French are as enigmatic as addiction. And almost as coy.

“Do you speak French?” It’s the only question the French ever ask.

“No. I have a future.”

He stares. Irony isn’t his strong suit. But Parisians adore thin ties and sarcasm.

“Do you have an American flag on your lawn, like Obama?”

“I have an Obama on my lawn. And a Sarkozy in my toilet.”

I’m not even sure what that means, and actually I think Sarkozy is hot. But frankly, my boutique hotel room has one narrow bed, and I’m not sharing it with anyone who disrespects Obama. Not even with Sarkozy. Him, I’d finger in the shower.

The hotel staff is new and obviously trained by some corporate moron to be nice.

“Did you have a good evening?” I’m asked at breakfast. Their smiles are like grimaces. They grip the coffee kettle so hard that their knuckles are white. The tip I leave behind is stared at blankly, as if I’ve deposited a semen sample. I almost buy a Paris mug at Starbucks, until I notice the girl serving me has one eyebrow up. You can’t change custom. Why Americanize French service? Parisians aren’t rude. They’re passively aggressive, but that has kept their city in tact.

At Brasserie Lipp, the lighting is so bright I think it’s closing time. My food arrives quietly, the waiter is ancient and invisible and thankfully without a nametag. There’s fuss, then a profile sweeps by. She’s in black sequined trousers and sports a bright red something on her lapel. It’s Kate Moss. My two friends disagree. But I can hear her common chatter over the buzz.

She’s encased in entourage. Her female friends are younger and more beautiful, but no one cares. They flank the table like bodyguards, while Kate performs for diners. She’s quite gregarious, but then the French adore her. Her French mocks them. It’s a win/win.

She doesn’t eat. She is quite tan. I walk by the table several times. She leans forward and laughs as men come and go. They squeeze in to be close to her, only to be replaced by another designer or a different conceptual artist. She’s 35 and rich and I want to crawl inside her body and molest every person at her table.

Next morning, my bags are packed early. I would usually email my mother and give her all the details, avec photos. Once home in Hackney, I’d call and she’d ask, “Now honey, remind mom. Who’s Katie Moss?”

I miss my mother’s laugh. It’s like time isn’t passing. This I suppose is grieving. Shutters drawn, I curl up.

I wish it were a year from now, and some of this pain had passed.

Scott Capurro
GT
May 2009

My Mother, Donna, has died, and perhaps I shouldn’t be writing about this, but I have no idea what else to do.

Everyone who knows that my Mother has passed asks, “How are you doing?” My sister Liz and I laugh privately about this. Our days are so humorless; we appreciate anything remotely near levity. What should we say? Do neighbors really want to know? OK then, here you go: We’re in great pain. Our best friend is lying in a mortuary. My heart actually aches, like it might split in two. I lie in bed at night listening to it beat loudly. So loudly, I wish I could harness mine to my Mother’s heart, so hers could beat again. All that mushy stuff makes sense. My heart is, figuratively, broken. Liz and I walk in circles in our Mother’s living room, searching for our cell phones.

Donna had boxes of photos, which my sister and I are trying to arrange, chronologically, for viewers at her wake. I’m surprised how disorganized these boxes are. The photos are in good condition, mostly, but they’re stuffed and stacked and some have been torn in half, removing an unwanted relative. My mother was usually very neat. She was a Capricorn. But then she was never typical.

I write ‘was’ like I believe she’s dead. But I don’t. Not completely. I’m not crazy. I’m not hearing her voice or anything, although frankly I wouldn’t mind. Some part of me, however, keeps thinking, I have to call Mom, like she’s waiting, somewhere, to chat.

I don’t believe she’s now a tree or a leaf or a picnic table. I don’t think we change forms. I have no human experience of this. What I am sure of is that I’ll never again hear her sing Happy Birthday, which she did, into my answering machine, every year. I have the most recent recording in my flat in London, and my hands shake every time I walk by my landline. I want to listen, but it will just remind me that the only person who never asked me to change, who never wanted me to be anything else than who I am, is now ash.

My sister is miraculous. Somehow, she manages to look after her daughter, Olivia, and chose a church, talk to a priest and pick an urn. When shown the urns, my stepfather just stared. Liz pointed to a lovely Egyptian patterned jug, black and gold, which my mother would’ve actually liked, and then moved on to other arrangements. She knows the urn isn’t the subject, and it’s not the problem. The problem is that our Mother, who helped raise Olivia, has succumbed. Loss is terrifying.

What’s going to happen next? Who will I call when I need a recipe, or hand holding, or a practical resolution? My Mother would often say, “I wish I could tell you something to make it all better.” Just hearing her voice cooled me.

She died peacefully, thankfully, in her sleep. She’d been ill for a while, and though she was able to look after herself and her husband, Liz and I discussed what we might do if Mom ever needed full-time care. We never came up with a plan. Maybe we knew our mother was too thoughtful to put us in that position. She was also strong willed. She had a ‘do not resuscitate’ order. She did not want to wind up in a hospital, surrounded by hovering doctors. Her mind was strong, her lungs weak, and they stopped breathing out.

After having suffered for so long with respitory disease, I’m a bit thrilled she took her last leap painlessly. But she couldn’t have planned this, right? She loved her kids too much. She had company arriving on Sunday. Liz was on her way, with gorgeous Olivia, and Steven, my brother, was dropping by. I was in London, sipping green tea on the edge of my bed when I heard my sister cry, “We’ve lost her. She’s gone.”

My hand clenched my robe, and I looked down, my face twisted. I’d just joked with Mom whilst at the San Francisco airport, five days ago. I was proud. I could still make the funniest person in our family laugh.

That same woman, who outed me to myself, then sent out Indian runners to save me the misery of telling everyone else, is now living in her children. We’re what is left of her. I know this. I just don’t believe it.

I’d forgotten I did this, but then when asked my favorite film, book and piece of art, i was eating a sausage roll and running for a bus, neither of which is a euphamism, because a.) i can’t spell and b.) the glamour never ends.

These are a few of my favourite things: Scott Capurro, comedian
The Scotsman

Published Date: 21 March 2009
FILM
REAR WINDOW
THIS is easily my favourite film – it’s really well acted, I think Grace Kelly’s angelic, and I love the way there are all these little stories and they all tie in. I also think it’s really amazing how you get to know so much about so many of the characters without even hearing most of them speak. It’s a great way of using film. Often I see films and I think, “why am I watching this in a cinema? Why isn’t it a play or a book?” But with Rear Window it’s almost all completely visual, which I think is great. I saw Slumdog Millionaire and it’s visual too, but it’s an MTV video, you know? The recent film Doubt, starring Merryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman, was also very clever in the way it worked visually, but to be honest, neither of those films is really in the same league. Every time I watch Rear Window I see something in it that I didn’t notice before.

BOOK
THE SECRET HISTORY, BY DONNA TARTT

I was absolutely captivated by this book and after years in the Hollywood wilderness it now looks like it’s finally being made into a film, with Gwyneth Paltrow as producer and her brother Jake as director. The writing’s really strong – in fact that’s the thing that makes it stand out: some of the passages are incredibly smart and canny.

WORK OF ART
GUERNICA, BY PICASSO

This is a huge, gorgeous piece – very moving and very modern but also quite traditional, in the sense that it’s a narrative painting, telling the story of a terrible atrocity. I saw it in Madrid when I was about 21 and I just stared at it for hours. I think it’s still as powerful today as it was when it was painted. A lot of people protesting about the Iraq war have used it because it still affects people in the same way.

• Scott Capurro Goes Deeper is at the Tron, Glasgow, on 27 March, tel: 0141-552 4267. Capurro will be hosting American Homecoming at the Stand Comedy Club, Glasgow, on 28 March, tel: 0870 600 6055. Both events are part of the Magners Glasgow International Comedy Festival. For more details, visit www.glasgowcomedyfestival.com

But then that’s the benefit of a good editor. He put my thoughts together beautifully. i think when he asked me these questions, i was eating a sausage roll and running for a bus. So the glamour never, ever ends.

These are a few of my favourite things: Scott Capurro, comedian
The Scotsman
Published Date: 21 March 2009
FILM
REAR WINDOW
THIS is easily my favourite film – it’s really well acted, I think Grace Kelly’s angelic, and I love the way there are all these little stories and they all tie in. I also think it’s really amazing how you get to know so much about so many of the characters without even hearing most of them speak. It’s a great way of using film. Often I see films and I think, “why am I watching this in a cinema? Why isn’t it a play or a book?” But with Rear Window it’s almost all completely visual, which I think is great. I saw Slumdog Millionaire and it’s visual too, but it’s an MTV video, you know? The recent film Doubt, starring Merryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman, was also very clever in the way it worked visually, but to be honest, neither of those films is really in the same league. Every time I watch Rear Window I see something in it that I didn’t notice before.

BOOK
THE SECRET HISTORY, BY DONNA TARTT

I was absolutely captivated by this book and after years in the Hollywood wilderness it now looks like it’s finally being made into a film, with Gwyneth Paltrow as producer and her brother Jake as director. The writing’s really strong – in fact that’s the thing that makes it stand out: some of the passages are incredibly smart and canny.

WORK OF ART
GUERNICA, BY PICASSO

This is a huge, gorgeous piece – very moving and very modern but also quite traditional, in the sense that it’s a narrative painting, telling the story of a terrible atrocity. I saw it in Madrid when I was about 21 and I just stared at it for hours. I think it’s still as powerful today as it was when it was painted. A lot of people protesting about the Iraq war have used it because it still affects people in the same way.

• Scott Capurro Goes Deeper is at the Tron, Glasgow, on 27 March, tel: 0141-552 4267. Capurro will be hosting American Homecoming at the Stand Comedy Club, Glasgow, on 28 March, tel: 0870 600 6055. Both events are part of the Magners Glasgow International Comedy Festival. For more details, visit www.glasgowcomedyfestival.com

I think it’s nice. It seems mostly supportive. I dunno, I’ve been very emotional lately, so everything I hear or see leaves a pinched imprint. And I have a hard time reading reviews of my own work. I focus on one word, or wonder why the critic discusses my outfit, which this reviewer doesn’t do, and now I’m totally tangential.
So this is from Chortle, a UK comedy website. Steve runs it, and he saw the first show of my new live chat thingy I’m hosting at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Come, it’s light and fluffy and crunchy sometimes, and loads of celebs are stopping by. I’ve called in lots of favors. It runs every Tuesday until April 21.

If any chat show is only as good as its guests, Scott Capurro’s new live venture looks promising indeed, with the likes of Ken Livingstone, Julian Clary, Brain Paddick and Graham Norton all lined up to join him at South London’s Royal Vauxhall Tavern.

But guests are only half the equation, and Capurro wouldn’t perhaps be most commissioning editors’ first choice as host, particularly when causing offence is a paralysing fear. Not only is his stand-up act so thoroughly filthy that he’d make the pre-Sachsgate Jonathan Ross look like Mother Theresa’s maiden aunt, but also his persona is so narcissistically self-centred that you’d think it would be well nigh impossible for anyone else to get a word in edgeways.

It turns out that he can be generous with the limelight, and in conversation with Jo Caulfield prompted plenty of anecdotes about her family – especially her brother the Catholic priest (cue lots of sniggering paedophile gags) – and opinions on the perceptions of female stand-up. This opening segment was amicable and moderately entertaining, but with his lascivious wit neutered, there was little to separate Capurro from any other attentive and confident interviewer.

In the second section, all changed. As Capurro interviewed cabaret artist Dickie Beau – following his mesmerising and moving turn lip-synching to a tragi-comic interview with a drunkenly defiant Judy Garland – the tables were turned as the host did more talking than his subject. We learned much about Capurro’s hang-ups, family and relationships - all told with the deliciously biting wit for which he is rightly known, but the talk-show aspect was all-but forgotten as the catty San Franciscan held court.

The balance was better with Jerry Springer: The Opera composer Richard Thomas - not a natural on stage but clearly an interesting interviewee, and the devilish star of that controversial production, David Bedella, who sang powerfully but gave nothing away in conversation.

In the final section came the man most had surely come to see: Graham Norton, hotfooting it from his changing room in La Cage Aux Folles. Waiting for him to travel in from the West End made for a long night - but the wait was worth it, as the ever-charming Irishman proved as cheekily entertaining as an interviewee as he is as an interviewer, regaling the audience with his impishly indiscreet showbiz confessions and pithily expressed opinions on the nature of his job.

The banter here flowed the easiest it had all night; with the well-matched Capurro and Norton batting the conversation back and forth like Forrest Gump playing ping-pong. This might have been Capurro’s first bash at a talk show, but by the end he had found his feet.

The Royal Vauxhall Tavern, however, might not have been the best choice of venue for such an experiment. Much of the well-lubricated audience at this predominantly gay bar, perhaps more used to seeing rambunctious cabaret here, found it difficult to keep schtum, proving distracting at best, disruptive at worst.

But maybe they - like Capurro himself - haven’t yet had time to quite adjust to the mechanics of this format.

Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
March 19, 2009

I’m not necessarily proud I Yogayed, but I did. And I want my friends to know about it.
Actually, I am proud. It was fun to be a hippy again. Wait. I was never a hippy. I grew up in Marin, sure, but I was less organic farmer, and more an Yves Saint Laurent closet case. I was far too pinched and tense to be a tennis playing skate boarder, which, if you haven’t guessed, is what all the guys I had crushes on were. Oh Frank and Martin, where are you now?
Playing on a yoga mat with naked gays was like re-visiting my childhood, only with better lighting. And a lot more cock.

GT
April 2009
Scott Capurro

Yogay beckoned. I had such an adverse reaction to flamboyant balancing gays that my friend Vincent accused me of homophobia.

“What does a Vegan Buffet have to do with asana?” I asked, begrudgingly sipping soy.

“Why not boil some lentils and find out?”

When I arrived at the sprawling Victorian home on a quiet street in San Francisco, I was nostalgic yet apprehensive. I knew the house was a hotbed of gay radicalism. And though I’d attended Solstice parties there, and heated up a few beds myself, I’ve never been victimized. I mistrust sloppy political expounding and I think mythology is for druggies. Yet as I walked up the rickety stairs to the main floor, Radical Fairies, those gender bending, tambourine playing, mother earth loving gay heathens darted about like forest nymphs. My palms perspired. Am I too hip to strip? My yoga mat is by Paul Smith!

After slipping off my brogues, and noticing the wood paneled, cock painted, fern hung homage to the 70s that surrounded me, and which, like most childhood memories, I found both charming and suffocating, I strolled past dark closed doors and a large circular glass shower into a larger room that contained, in the center of the shag, a naked, undulating, bearded white guy. He was on his belly, and his hairless, pale body writhed from top past bottom to the brown underside of his bare feet. He was humping the ground. I wondered how fast I could make it back to my car.

“Hey Scott, what are ya’ doin’ here?”

Around a corner came Richard, a teacher raised in Texas whom I’d cruised locally for fifteen years. Blushing with arms akimbo, he appeared annoyingly fit, even in black socks.

“Vincent sent me. I’m really here for the free booze.”

“Don’t tell that to Yoga Daddy.”

“I brought lactose-free brownies.” I was trying to acclimate, organically.

“Very kitsch. Put them in the fridge but mind the bullets. They make a lot o’ noise when they spill, and this is a safe space.”

Matty, the home’s owner, is a cop who’s ready for the Revolution. That night however, he was disrobed and in full Lotus. Others ambled in, sporting tiny shorts, chatting quietly.

I unzipped my cardigan, then looked around for a hanger.

“I’ll put that on my bed.”

Richard lives here? Can I move in?

He turned back. “Shall I take your tie?”

“Do you need one?” I trembled with angst. I became Julie Christie. I pouted.

“Yoga Daddy’s watching you.”

I turned and saw nothing but a kitchen scene on a laptop screen. Then I heard his solemn, monotonous voice.

“Hello. Can anyone see me?”

A red bearded face pressed itself against twelve inches.

“Uh, yes. I can.”

“Hey Scott. It’s me, Carl.”

Carl the builder? We went sailing together once. He has a tail. Well, an extended spine ending with a patch of hair. So…a tail.

The other boys chimed in, praising Skype and greeting Yoga Daddy, who was in Portland on a gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender-questioning AIDS yogic healing circle.

“I’m sautéing spinach now.”

Yoga Daddy led us bumpily through a series of poses. The sound crackled. So did the wood fire. The room grew very warm. Eventually almost everyone was exposed. Eyes were half closed as glistening bodies swayed and swooned through headstand, shoulder stand and downward dog. Each practitioner moved at his own pace. Some even skipped a pose or two. With Carl in another city, discipline lagged.

Starfairy Trilogy (AKA: Henry.) kept his red jock strap strapped. I retained my white unitard, but then I studied modern dance for one semester. We watched each other without eyeing one another, moving cautiously beneath the stained glass. As we both lay panting at the end, I could almost taste the sweetness of his youth. He smelled like straw.

Yoga Daddy mumbled goodbye and we eagerly ate rabbit fodder. Gays disappeared to the Jacuzzi, then reappeared embracing, giggling and much hungrier. Somehow we all wound up in the triple headed shower, rubbing mint gel on one another’s damp, sinewy backs. Starfairy leaned on my arm, and I caressed his smooth balls.

“I shave them in support of our Muslim brothers in Palestine.”

Genuflecting, I pleaded silently that this might be the evening’s final protest. His lack of circumcision surprised me. He smiled. I thought, ‘He’s kind.’

“Are you Canadian?”

“Yes,” whispered Starfairy, “but don’t tell the Fairies. They’re boycotting Maple syrup. Sapping is territorial.”

As my head bobbed, also in agreement, mandolins strummed softly on the outside deck.

So many people have said they can’t tell the difference between my old (mangled, deformed, shockingly awful) nose, and my new (vastly improved, much more useful, both aesthetically and in every other way) nose. But then that’s the point. That’s good surgery bitches, live it - learn it.
Actually, right after I got the bandages off, a minor friend asked if I’d had a face lift. That’s a compliment. Of sorts.

Scott Capurro
GT
March 2009

Next day, post-op:

It’s done. I’ve been cut. My vanity embarrasses me, but my doctor told me the growth would only grow stranger. Soon the nostril would be blocked, I wouldn’t be able to breath properly, and I’d die in my sleep. Actually, the death part I added, but we all die. We’re all the same. We all distrust our noses. Or is that the painkillers talking?

I woke up during the surgery. Twice. Unexpectedly, there was a second man standing over me. Not only standing. Digging. Both doctors looked as though they were scraping away at my face with putty knives. They were leaning forward, grimacing, like it was hard labour. I felt a great deal of pressure against my cheek bones, but my hands were tied to the table, I couldn’t move, so I moaned, “I can see you. I can feel that.”


When I met with my doc this morning, I asked if I’d dreamt the assistant.

He said, oh no, that’s my technician.

Right. And were you both scraping away?

“Might have been.”


Weird the trauma one must go through in order to return to whatever one was. Or thinks he was. I’m not sure if the surgery was successful. I’m still bandaged like the invisible man. I really thought it would be a ’slice and plaster’ kinda thing, where I’d be dancing and drinking at Daddy’s in the Castro that evening. But I’m not going anywhere. Apparently there were more obstructions than had been presumed.

Typical. I love building walls. Then walking into them.

Actually, I went out for a meal last night with my sister, and if there were anyone that enjoys seeing me bandaged, it would be her. Not that she’s malicious, but I have won a lot of arguments.

On the way into some Vegan Trendy Hell restaurant chosen for proximity’s sake, a guy skateboarding by said “Skateboarding?” He’d assumed I’d injured myself flying off four wheels.


I said, “No, I’m 46.”


His reply: “So am I.”


Me: “Then stop skateboarding!”

San Francisco is full of people seeking their youth. Either through baggy shorts or sinoplasties, we want back what we think we missed out on. I’m viewing a photo of myself at 19, so sweet, fresh, girley; and one of myself this morning, 27 years later, battered and bruised. It reminds me my nose is a bridge to nowhere. I can’t go back.

Two days later:

I’m still bandaged and drugged. I’m on steroids to reduce the swelling, and my apartment has never been cleaner. I’ve cleaned it three times, starting from three different angles because dust is clever.

Spoke with my doc today. He has a lovely, melodious, reassuring voice. I’m honored to have shared a putty knife with him. Anyway he offered more surgical details. Secure a barf bag, if you haven’t already.

He started by filleting my nose, then peeling it back. Look at me, I’m a trout. Finally. Then he scraped grooves into one side of my septum - the lucky side, obviously - so it would bend easier.

“You know, the way you do with a piece of cardboard.”


Yeah, whatever hot stuff. 
 Then my septum, which was pointing one centimetre to the left, he bent straight. There goes my French film career. He then secured my septum in place by sowing it to the bone behind my upper lip. Hence the stitches in my gums, which I thought had magically appeared because I’m - what? - evolving.

Then - oh yeah, there’s more - he grafted cartilage onto my air holes, where bone had grown over. That sounds dirty, which I like. Of course he had to GRIND down the bone first. Hence the pressure on my cheekbones that woke me up, further reducing my dignity because I peed.

Immediately after the procedure, I demanded I be allowed to piss some more. Lots. The nurse called me at home to suggest I get tested for diabetes.


“You urinated before, during and after the surgery. Is that normal?”


You mean, do I pee a lot when I’m having face work done? Who wouldn’t? It’s so exciting to be renewed. Fact is, BITCH, I’ve never had work done. If I had, do you think I’d voluntarily resemble Kevin Bacon?

Actually, this surgery seems to have worked. I’m inhaling easier, and soon, once my nose is unpacked, it’s off to a gay sauna, to see if all this has worked to my cock-attracting advantage.

If only breathing clearly were enough!

I was just so so offended by some culturalist retard’s reaction to my little area, that I wrote the following. Actually the end result was much improved, an appropriate, lovely man is now looking after my flat, but at the time of this violation, I turned violet with rage. Hand to pearls, I was so hurt, I wanted to kill the below mentioned Kraut cunt.

Gay Times
February, 2009

Some Belgian sounding cunt that was supposed to drop by my top floor flat for a look-see, with the possibility of subletting, just called my cell.

“Yes, well, we’ve had a walk around the area, and we’re not impressed.” Apparently he has a girlfriend, probably a toothless concubine. “We did not want to waste your time, or ours.”

I wanted to yell, “Not impressed?! By what? The fashionable Brick Lane? Or the lovely Columbia Road Flower Market, five minutes north? Or the park I overlook? Why don’t you go back to whatever fucking off-ramp you drove in from, you chocolate promoting, language flipping, EU loving leeching piece of shit.”

However, because I’m middle class, I hung up on him and instead scribbled a lazy, slightly racist retort.

Look, I know Bethnal Green Road is the ugliest high road in Central London. From the defunct Walgreens to the beat up Tescos, and every browned fruit and wilted vegetable stand in between, the street looks like Wales. It’s grim and it’s shit. It has sixty – yes, SIXTY – sari shops between my front door and the tube, which is a seven minute stroll. I might be missing some, since I wouldn’t dare set my Paul Smith encased foot inside any of those narrow, terrifying little ‘malls’ that dot the long runway toward Liverpool Street. There might be eighty or a hundred sari shops nearby, but wouldn’t three be enough? It’s not like the fabric or styles change. Ever. Once you’ve seen one shiny white plastic torso wrapped in thin orange cotton, you’ve seen too many.

But the area has its charms. Pelucci’s, an old, camp Italian restaurant with ancient woodwork and a red neon sign that sometimes buzzes, is cheap and good and the food is prepared by a woman as gracious and old as – might I say it, although the comparison is silly, since this lovely lady cooks well and so offers pleasure - the Queen. And speaking of queens, the staff is as mincing as the holiday tin pies above the cash drawer.

After a hearty meal of chicken parts and tomatoes, if you’re feeling emasculated, you can stumble around the corner and buy steroids from any one of several beefy street vendors outside the last remaining “Rocky” inspired gym within thirty years. Whenever I see bloated sweaty mammoths barely jogging through Weaver’s Field, I know where they’ve been rubbing armpits recently, and that’s as reassuring as the warm pinkness of a stuttering local discussing, with austere respect, his first encounter with Reggie Krays.

“He stabbed my eye.” The guy lifted his fringed grey patch to show me the hole. It was late, I was in a pub called The Sun, which is dark and dingy and owned by an old queer, like so many of the pubs on BG’s strip. The hole left behind was more of a wrinkly cross. The type cartoon characters have when they’re intoxicated, which seemed appropriate.

“You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.” I was distracted, wondering where I could get more cocaine. The bartender was singing ‘Don’t Cry Out Loud’ with a tiny Moroccan near the Karaoke Machine. Everyone was smoking cigarettes, two years after the ban. It was like the Blitz, without the gay sex.

“Naw, mate. He needed me. I found him boys.”

Pause. Back up. Cancel previous remark.

“Did you ever have sex with him?” I felt risky. Bombs were dropping.

“Not here. In prison, but he broke my arms and legs after, to prove a point.”

Like the British economy, this guy was barely standing. The walls of The Sun were damp, they seemed to be leaking, and the music had morphed into an ABBA rant, so I buttoned up my cardigan and headed home, sure I could find a Bangladeshi groom from Whitechapel on line and desperate for a Valentine’s night blow job.

I watched several young Pakistani gentlemen bang their fists into a Barclay’s cash machine. Suddenly I heard a screech, and when I turned quickly (ish) I saw a D3 bus stop suddenly, hitting a stray dog so hard the canine’s head flew off and rolled to within two inches of my nearest gutter. Its tongue hung out of its head, and it smiled up, relieved I think to be spirited to a warmer, kinder place. A fast food employee took pity on the beast, and gracefully swooped its skull up with a blue plastic bag, disappearing into his work. The customers at the counter eyed each other warily, but ordered burgers nonetheless.