København...

This weekend has seen me overcome with a wave of nostalgia for Copenhagen. You see, I've been watching the original Danish version of The Killing (Forbrydelsen, "The Crime"). Those of you who have watched it will know that it's a slow burning crime thriller set in the Danish capital, Copenhagen.

I visited Copenhagen frequently between 1997 and 2007 and grew quite fond of the town. I say town because it doesn't feel like a city, not when you're on foot. Once in the centre, you can easily walk to most places. A lot of the architecture is beautiful and old. However, you regularly stumble upon new, functional architecture that has a beauty too. It's this mix that makes it a magical place (if only the critics of London's Shard would understand this). In my mind Copenhagen is a city of two halves.

There's the vibrant colours of places like Nyhavn, the tourist harbour area with its brightly coloured house fronts; its busy cafes and bars overlooking the canal. Copenhagen is dotted with such areas; they bustle with a vibrant warmth and friendliness. And then there's it's skyline, punctured by the copper-green spires of countless churches. In the summer, this makes Copenhagen one of the prettiest capitals I've ever been to.

Then there's the darker side to this city. I don't mean sinister; just darker, colder and greyer in feel as well as colour. And indeed, it is this dark quality that The Killing exploits; set during the month of November, there's a damp and gloomy quality to series. It's quite evocative, with many of the scenes being set at night. This darker aspect of Copenhagen lends itself quite well to this drama.

These darker quarters of the city seem drained of colour, almost monochrome. No gayly painted frontages here - just grey and angular. And this has a beauty too. No-one quite does grey and angular like the Danes. Pictured above is the Royal Library, nicknamed the Black Diamond because of its striking marble and glass exterior. It's used as a location in the series and it's an exquisitely beautiful building.

If you've not seen The Killing, give it a try; the cast and atmosphere are great. I could say the same about Copenhagen itself; why not give it a try; the cast and atmosphere are great!

1 Year Ago:

Land of my fathers. And mothers...

Run 09/07/2012 17:50
Distance	5:02 km	Time	28:17
Pace	5:38 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Sunshine but windy.

Run 06/07/2012 16:37
Distance	5:18 km	Time	28:57
Pace	5:36 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Showers.

Victor Spinetti...

Victor Spinetti died yesterday. He was a Welsh actor, writer, director and raconteur. He found fame with Joan Littlewood's Theatre Workshop and in the films he made with the Beatles. He performed for the RSC, in the West End and on Broadway and was a talented mimic.

I was lucky enough to meet him a few times during my time as an actor. He always told a good story:

Victor was working on a play in Paris and his mother and sister were visiting from Cwm. Rehearsals were running late and so he rang up his good friend Marlene Dietrich to ask if she would entertain them at his hotel until such time as he could get there.

After rehearsals had finished and he dashed across town in a cab, he walked into the lobby of his hotel to find his mother and sister sat in the bar with Dietrich. They were dressed identically in homemade dresses, the material having been bought in Pontypool market and there they were; giving Marlene Dietrich beauty and fashion tips.

He had hundreds of funny anecdotes, many of which found their way into his books and into his one man shows. Here's the BBC News obituary. Here's the Guardian's obituary.

R.I.P. Victor Spinetti 1929 - 2012

Farewell, possums...

I adored Dame Edna. I still do. I remember buying a live album of hers, Housewife Superstar, recorded at at the Globe Theatre back in the late 70s. I was transfixed by this monster of a woman; a modern day Gorgon, petrifying her prey - us, her audience.

I was also impressed by the way she worked her audience and the way she worked her devastating humour around them. I was amazed by the way the entire show depended on the audience and what they gave; no set routines here. She deserved every glittering sparkle that set her apart from ordinary housewives with every barb that bedazzled us with her superstar status.

I first saw her live at in An Evening's Intercourse at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane on Tuesday April 6th in 1982. The date stays with me because the Falklands War had started the Friday before and Dame Edna was full of tales about being asked by Thatcher to call around to Downing Street to give her much needed advice on how to handle the Argentines. In setting the scene, Dame Edna spoke of a skip being parked outside Number 10 and described how she couldn't help noticing that was full to the brim of unwanted tins of corned beef.

During the show, she invited quaking members of the audience up on stage. Under the pretense of being able to deduce their true characters from their footwear, she got them to remove one shoe. She then bullied them into cooking a barbeque as they limped around this historic theatre's stage. They all then ate the barbeque, as Edna (ever so nicely) kept the insults flying at a furious pace. Fond memories.

And so it is with great sadness that I learned earlier this week that Dame Edna is to retire. What a loss to the world of comedy, characterisation, celebrity put down, taboo subject matter, taste and niceness this retirement will be.

Today's run at 17:22
Distance	4.04 km	Time	22:04
Pace	5:28 min/km	Cadence	80 spm
Comments: Sunny.

Happy days...

Pictured on the right is a London Transport Photocard from 1987. And pictured on that card is me aged 25. I came across it at the bottom of a drawer a couple of days ago.

I was working as an actor for Gay Sweatshop, a London based gay theatre company. We were touring out of London and it was my first professional acting role. I was (despite the rather earnest look on my face) chuffed to bits.

I spent my spare time drinking endless cups of tea at the newly opened First Out Cafe or watching Lily Savage (before she hit the big time) at the Prince of Wales in Brixton or the Royal Vauxhall Tavern in Vauxhall. First Out closed last year, the Prince of Wales is now a straight bar called the Prince but, I'm happy to say, the Royal Vauxhall Tavern (or RVT as it's now known) is still flying that rainbow flag.

They were uncertain times: Thatcher was at the height of her powers and there was always something to protest about or march against. Happy days, indeed...

If you'd been any prettier...

In 1961, Peter O'Toole started filming in the title role of David Lean's epic, Lawrence of Arabia. By the time filming was finished 18 months later, he'd lost 13kgs, sprained both ankles, dislocated his spine, broken his thumb, received third-degree burns, torn ligaments in his hip and thigh, sprained his neck and was twice concussed.

Lawrence Of Arabia was hailed as a masterpiece when it opened in 1962. His extraordinary performance made him a star. "I woke up one morning to find I was famous. I bought a white Rolls-Royce and drove down Sunset Boulevard, wearing dark specs and a white suit, waving like the Queen Mum. Nobody took any fucking notice, but I thoroughly enjoyed it."

His hard drinking and flamboyant character have often made the headlines. He is reputed to have once said, "I can't stand light. I hate weather. My idea of heaven is moving from one smoke-filled room to another." When asked if he had any regrets about his hard drinking reputation he replied, "Regrets, ah," he said, "Only French singers don't have regrets."

Upon the release of Lawrence of Arabia, Noel Coward is said to have told O'Toole, "If you'd been any prettier, it would have been Florence of Arabia."

Today's run at 17:44
Distance	3.98 km	Time	21:39
Pace	5:26 min/km	Cadence	82 spm

When you're dead, you'll regret not having fun with your genital organs...

In a flat at 25 Noel Road, Islington, London on the 9th August 1967, Joe Orton was murdered by Kenneth Halliwell, his partner of 16 years. He was 34 years old. Halliwell smashed Orton's skull in with a hammer and then took an overdose of twenty-two Nembutal washed down with the juice from a tin of grapefruit. Halliwell died first.

As I ran tonight, for some reason, I was thinking of Joe Orton. I think my mind was free-wheeling and somewhere I'd picked up Joe Orton as a passenger. He's a welcome and entertaining passenger is Mr Orton; he ensnares your mind by getting you to laugh and then getting you to question the things you've just laughed at. I thought about this dramatic technique as I ran; you don't see it employed that much nowadays.

I first became interested in Orton and his writing when I was in my late teens. He influenced my world view and I read anything associated with his name. His philosophy and outlook fascinated me. It was so irreverent, anti-establishment and deliciously wicked. His plays sprang directly from his experiences. He was an outsider; his class, his criminal record, his intelligence and his sexuality placed him (and kept him) outside - something he was boastfully proud of.

Looking in at society he was able to see the farce and sham that it actually was. His cruelly comic satires on the hypocrisy of this conservative British post war society and its values are a delight; savage and full of innuendo and contradiction. In all of his work Orton undermines society and the family and ridicules their values. In his plays there lies a seething sexuality and brooding violence but, above all, a wicked sense of fun. The same might be said about his life


The grade II listed Victorian toilets where Orton went cottaging in South End Green, Hampstead, North London were renovated with £50,000 of national lottery money at the turn of the millennium. The Sunday Times reported, "The prime purpose of the renovation grant is to preserve one of the last remaining Victorian lavatories left intact and still in service in London. However, both the council and the lottery fund agree that the Orton connection is an influential factor in securing the money." The British public were outraged. A fitting memorial for one of Britain's greatest wits and most provocative social commentators. Here's a wonderful clip from the film of Orton's stage play, Entertaining Mr Sloane starring the wonderful Beryl Reid on top form.

My run tonight was another zippy one for me: I ran with a pace of 5'25" over 4.02 km in 21'48" - despite nearly choking when I remembered this warning from Orton to live life to the full, "When you're dead, you'll regret not having fun with your genital organs."

A night at the opera...

I'm off to see the WNO's production of Mozart's Don Giovanni tonight. I'm quite looking forward to it. It's on at the WMC in the Bay. I've never seen this opera, despite having played Don Giovanni for the WNO back in 1984.


[Pauses, allowing his audience to digest this.]


In actual fact, I was a drama student in Cardiff at the time and the WNO wanted actors to walk the stage for their technicians to focus the lights etc. The world of opera was so far away from the world of theatre I was used to: in theatre actors were expected to turn up for technical rehearsals whilst opera stars paid actors to do it for them. My abiding memory is running around the the stage in a red shirt, twanging swords sticking out of the rock on the lip of a volcano whilst the director repeatedly bellowed, "Schnell!"

The director's name was Ruth Berghaus, married to Paul Dessau, friend and colleague of Bertolt Brecht and, at one time, director of the Berliner Ensemble. I was studying Epic Theatre and Brechtian techniques at the time, so, to be shouted at by this legend, I felt, was an honour.

The more she shouted, the more I smiled.

Why don't you try acting...?

Whilst out running tonight, I spotted my dentist. He was running on the opposite side of the road to me. I waved at him and shouted hello. However, as he got closer, I realised that it wasn't my dentist. To cover my mistake, I smiled like I knew him and shouted over, "How are you?" He just looked perplexed as he ran past me. He's probably sat at home now, feeling guilty and trying to recall where we might know each other from.

My dentist is a keen runner and whenever I see him we always talk about it. Or rather, he talks about it whilst I blink responses back to him, as he's usually elbow deep in my mouth. When I first met him we talked about running and this conversation segued into him mentioning that one of his favorite films is Marathon Man. I pointed out to him that, perhaps, it mightn't be the best of conversations to have before a course of dental treatment, given the torture scenes between Dr Szell and Babe.

I heard a wonderful story about an exchange between Lawrence Olivier (Dr Szell) and Dustin Hoffman (Babe) prior to filming the torture scene. Hoffman, an advocate of method acting arrived on set looking tired and dishevelled. Olivier saw him and said, "Dusty, what's wrong? You look awful." Hoffman explained that he wanted to bring as much realism to this scene as he could and so he told Olivier, "In order to prepare I haven't been to bed, I haven't eaten and I haven't washed." Olivier, looked baffled and simply replied, "Why don't you try acting?"

There is Nothing Like a Dame III...

Just this last one then I promise I'll shut up about Maggie Smith. Honest...

Re-reading my previous two posts about Maggie Smith, I notice that I allude in both posts to the fact that she is liked by gay men and that this liking is to be expected. But is this fact; is there any truth in this? Well, if tweets by the gay tweeps are anything to go by, then yes. And of the gay friends I've spoken to, I seem to be the only gayer on the planet who hasn't got Downton mania and missed the series when it was first broadcast.

Let's assume that Dame Maggie does have a sizable gay following. The interesting question for me is, why is that so? What is it about Maggie Smith that a lot of us gay boys like; what has captured our imagination? I think as good a place as any to start looking is in Maggie Smith's own assessment of some of the roles she plays. These are roles such as Lady Hester in Tea with Mussolini, Constance, Countess of Trentham in Gosford Park and Janet Widdington in Ladies in Lavender; roles that Maggie Smith herself refers to as her "gallery of grotesques" - formidable, redoubtable, rather grand, sarcastic and sometimes rude characters.

I think that gay men such as me are drawn to such characters; drag fascinates us with its broad, almost cartoonish and muscular (sometimes vulgar) portrayal of women and how those female characters survive in (what is still) a man's world. Look at Dame Edna, Lily Savage, Divine, RuPaul and Hedwig (from Hedwig and the Angry Inch); all formidable, redoubtable, rather grand, sarcastic and sometimes rude characters. Of course, drag isn't the sole domain of gay men; I think that some women such as Bette Davis, Liza Minelli, Joan Rivers, Bette Midler, Alison Steadman, (even) Dolly Parton and (yes, sometimes) Maggie Smith play that broad, almost cartoonish and muscular (sometimes vulgar) portrayal of women.

What is that fascination about? I think there's an enjoyment in watching a female character have the balls to take men on at their own game and a delight in the elegant and devastating put downs they employ. For me, I think it's about role reversal and flipping the world on its head, where the minority role is given all the best lines. Let's face it, you don't heckle a drag act; not if you want to escape with your dignity intact.

There is Nothing Like a Dame II...

As you've probably gathered from last night's post, I'm a bit of a Maggie Smith fan (show me a homosexual who doesn't like her). Why? Well, I think she's a first rate actress; on film, TV or on stage. I've only ever seen her on stage once, playing Lady Bracknell in Nicholas Hytner's 1993 production of The Importance of Being Earnest at the Aldwych. I don't remember much about Richard E Grant's Algernon nor Alex Jennings' Jack but I do remember Maggie Smith's stork like Lady Bracknell.

'The role of Lady Bracknell has always been haunted by the formidable ghost of Edith Evans, but at last another theatrical Dame has stolen the coveted crown and placed it firmly on her own head. Maggie Smith, with her handspan waist and sucked-lemon lips, is totally commanding.'

She's certainly an excellent comic actress who subtly brings to life that repressed English middle class female, half strangled by her own sense of decency. Witness her performance in Alan Bennett's A Private Function opposite Michael Palin. It is comic genius. Her aspirations, her apologies for her ageing mother (played by Liz Smith) and her ruthlessness to claw her way up the social ladder make for some wonderfully enjoyable scenes.

I've heard that she has an excellent and wicked sense of humour. As Desdemona to Olivier's Othello (which he also directed), he made the big error of criticising her for what he believed to be sloppy articulation. He advocated much rounder vowel sounds. Maggie took the point coldly and waited for the next performance. At interval, she popped her head round the door of Olivier’s dressing room, where he sat, blacked up as Othello and naked. All she said was, “How Now, Brown Cow?”

Another Maggie fix this weekend, I think, with more Downton episodes from the first series. I'll then catch up with the second series. Life's tough...

There is Nothing Like a Dame...

As is my way, I come to such things late. I missed the first ever episode of Downton Abbey and never managed to catch up and so Downton mania has passed me by. Whenever I've seen Facebook updates or Twitter tweets mentioning Downton, I've ignored them.

Knowing I'd have some time to kill on a train journey earlier in the week, I downloaded Downton Abbey, episode 1, series 1. Wow! Why didn't anyone tell me? On the strength of the first episode, I've now downloaded the entire series.

I have to admit that a major draw for me (and every other gay man with a TV) has to be Maggie Smith. I'm a major fan of this woman. No-one delivers a line quite like her:

Diana Barrie: We should never have come. I never know how to dress in this bloody country. It is so easy to dress in England. You just put on warm clothing. (California Suite).

Joyce Chilvers: I think sexual intercourse is in order, Gilbert. (A Private Function).

Susan: Shows me pictures of other gods, getting up to [pause] all sorts. "Well," I said, "she looks a very busy lady. Is that yoga?" "Well, it helps", he said. (Talking Heads - A Bed Among The Lentils).

Reverend Mother: Brace yourself, sisters. Spread out and look for Mary Clarence. Try to blend in. (Sister Act).

Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham: What is a weekend? (Downton Abbey).

Fantabulosa...!