Drunk Review No1: Naked Boys Reading

Naked Boys Reading: The Moribund 4th Birthday Spectacular!

Thursday, 29th September 2016
Ace Hotel's Miranda Bar
http://nakedboysreading.com/events/

Naked Boys Reading was the funniest show I’ve ever seen.

There’s your headline and I could probably end this here.

What I had expected to be smutty, silly and awkward was in fact a slick, smart and incredibly well curated piece of performance art. I mean, it was also SO smutty, silly and awkward.

Let’s rewind.

A few years ago, I saw an advert for Naked Boys Reading as part of the Manchester Pride Fringe line up. Though my friendship circle was the gayest around we were also the laziest and so slammed shut the window of opportunity to see the marriage of my two favourite things: penises and literature.

Thankfully, 2016 is our year of “see it, do it” so when we saw Naked Boys Reading: 4^th Birthday advertised in Attitude, my finger was on the enter button. All puns intended.

Now is the time to introduce the host, my new favourite queen. Embodying all that drag has evolved into, Dr Sharon Husbands (think Carrie Bradshaw Season 5 with a beard) manoeuvred us through the show with the kind of dry sass and jaw-aching humour that make you feel gutted to leave the building without a signed contract for her to curate your life. I was also impressed to hear right away that she co-created this show herself; this isn’t just a string of readings from naked guys that you should ogle at, this has been researched, devised, attended to, and that makes it all the more genius.

My personal highlights:

The very first reader. The virgin experience. Scottish, attractive, Scottish (…know what I mean?) and a great orator. The perfect “oh my God where do I look? Am I allowed to look at it?” opening. His chosen work was Charlotte Perkins’ The Yellow Wallpaper, the extract from which was heart-breaking, if a little long.

The surprise vagina visit. Apparently infamous, eastern-European lesbian friend of the family, Bica, strode onto the stage to declare that “cunt is better. European cunt is even better” and read from James St James’ Disco Bloodbath. The movie Party Monster bored me before it ever really got going but this re-enactment of an after party spiralling into a desperate search for “that secretly stashed gram I’m certain we never finished last time” was delivered so on the mark that most of the audience was hiding their head in shame.

Alfie Ordinary: a naked man in full little-boy-doll make up. Terrifying, right? Not when you throw in a Whitney Houston puppet, a Whitney Houston medley, Diane Sawyer interviews Whitney Houston sound clips and a fuck tonne of confetti. I don’t feel qualified to put this into enough words for you to “get it” but I ask that you look up Alfie Ordinary. You shan’t regret.

Lastly, props to the final guy. Who’d have thought that providing a dramatic reading of Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ off your phone could be so funny? Okay I could probably have imagined already but this guy delivered.

We missed the boat on the next show (it was a river cruise, lol) but I’m determined to make this a regular feature in my life.

Also we were both hit on, as a couple. Great story for next time.

Soundbite summary: penises; Carrie Bradshaw; Whitney Houston; Kate Bush; Cocaine; funny lesbian; penises

The Ultimate Disappointment

The following is a rant I wrote for my funniest writer friend, Imogen, who asked me to guest star (that's right, I said guest star) on her blog, http://imogenthinksalot.blogspot.co.uk

Thank you to Imogen for the content prompt; of all the titles she gave me I, of course, chose the one that sounded the most bitter. Enjoy, share, roll your eyes, whatever.

It is the ultimate disappointment to log on to LinkedIn and find the idiots you went to school with are now financiers in The City earning about triple your salary. Or to log in to Facebook to see gloriously tanned “friends” jet-setting around the world getting paid to write, or do PR, or work on TV shows. Or the fellow dancers that you trained with who are now gorgeous and muscled and have long since surpassed you in talent, now treading the board in West End theatres or filming music videos in the desert.

It is the ultimate disappointment to find that you're such a jealous person. The ultimate disappointment is to be disappointed in yourself.

Me? I wanted to be a choreographer or a male Carrie Bradshaw writing for Gay Times. Instead, I work in a firmly uncreative job but for a company I love, in a buzzing office where I've made some great friends and have some real opportunities ahead of me. And yet every day, while glaring at my Excel spreadsheets, I curse myself that I'm not the next Hofesh Shechter or hopping out of my apartment with a leather satchel on my way to writing a tell-all piece on being a fabulous 20-something homosexual.

Were my dreams unrealistic? Perhaps, a little. But do I still regret some of the choices that led me here instead of there? Definitely.

I look to my left and see friends buying houses, while I stare at my Natwest app and weep a little. I look to my right and see friends dancing away at LA festivals, or wandering around European cities and wonder how the hell they afforded their plane ticket. I look on Instagram and see previously podgy friends now rocking great arms and a six pack (that one sucks a lot). I look at myself and think…James you're doing none of that. You're just floundering.

And this is the curse of your 20s. Trapped between “I should grow up and start saving for future me” and “fuck this I'm young, I don't want to look back on my youth and think I wasted it!” Continual questions flood my already over-processing mind. Questions such as: Should I pack it all in, think about a grown up job sometime in the future, and run off to do the tour around America I’m desperate for? Or do I stick at the career, work my way up, get on the property ladder and just try to make an effort to do more interesting things with my weekends? Should I completely push my style boundaries and wear some on-trend outfits that turn heads? Or do I stick with what I know because I look good in it? Should I be taking more photos to document every move I make? Or do I stick in this weird middle ground where I half-heartedly hashtag my photos with #instagay so that I get ten more likes, for a purpose that I’m still not quite sure of? In this do-it-put-it-on-Facebook world, where it’s absolutely common and acceptable to see the woman next to you at the hairdressers take a selfie of her hair being shampooed (I mean genuinely who gives a shit?), it’s hard to shake the feeling that you’re not keeping up, despite the fact that many people reading this will be nodding their heads in agreement.

I will always be grateful for the ability to make friends easily, where others wallow in social awkwardness. I will always be appreciative of having a good education (should I choose to use it one day) where others struggle with words. I will always be comforted by my many siblings and that I get along with them all so well, where others wonder how they even share the same gene pool as theirs. I will certainly look around me and be thankful for my lot…but if all you tanned, successful, well-travelled, creative friends could fuck off and live your fabulous lives away from The Gram, that would be great. Ta.

How to Win a Sample Sale War

With my crotch pressed firmly against an HR Advisor’s backside, the screams of pent up frustration filling the air and a plethora of arms and legs flying at each other in rage, I grab blindly at anything I can see and wonder if there isn't a more intense moment in life than this. But this isn’t a scene from an even more poorly written Mr Grey story. This is real life. This is a real war. This is a sample sale.

Remember the episode in Friends where the girls go to the wedding dress sample sale? Well when I say sample sale you may be thinking of that. But you’d be wrong. For starters, there’s only one fight. And how hilarious to think you can approach a sample sale with a method; if they tried that shit with one of ours I’d be like, “Monica, babes, save your breath, save your energy. Ain’t nobody got time for whistles”

Should you be facing your first sample sale, be it work or a high street store, take note of the below and you’ll be the Napoleon of 50p bargain hunts in no time. See you in there!

Except you won't see me in there because if I lose a tug of war over a Moleskin diary due to your insistence on waving at me, shit will go down.

“There’s no I in team. We can do it if we stick together!”
HA! NO. IT’S EVERY MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD FOR THEMSELVES. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TALK TO YOUR FRIEND MIDWAY OR I WILL THROW YOU OVER THE NEAREST BOX OF CHRISTMAS CARDS.

“Dignity, always dignity”
What the fuck is dignity? This is no time for pride! This is no time to worry about what you look like to your colleagues! You start worrying about that and the nearest lurker will swoop on that nice pair of mis-matching Brogues you’re taking an age to mull over. Don’t bother doing your hair that day. It’s going to get ripped out anyway.

“Take your time; slow and steady wins the race”
Nope. It’s a smash and grab situation here, people. Take everything your arms can carry, hook a few dresses over your forearm and then get a friend to pile on some more. Think less “Victoria Beckham takes Harper for casual stroll through Burberry” and more “Mother of six goes nuts in an Asda Black Friday price slash” Once you’ve picked up everything that remotely caught your eye, take yourself off to a corner and rummage through your hoard like Golem.  Feeling like a monster? See above.

“You never know if you never try”
Listen, I once witnessed a grown man cowering in the corner of a photography room with his eyes darting about wildly as he wondered how the hell he was going to get out from underneath the mass of clothes that had been vetoed in a cull. Okay, I’ll admit, I only noticed him because I realised my “no” pile had grown two shaking arms and a pair of teary eyes but my point is that if you don’t think you can handle it; do everyone a favour and take that “never try” option. Some of us rely on this for extra cardio.

“Less is more”

Oh don’t be ridiculous, no it is not. If somebody offered you a wheelbarrow full of cash you wouldn’t say “oh no, knock a couple of grand off so I don’t look as needy” You’re paying 50p for a pair of shoes; £1 for a jacket currently sat on a shop floor at £39.99; you’re paying 2p for a pink phone case with a cat wearing sunglasses! Somebody’s going to want that! Of course you can pull off a size XL tweed blazer, just wear it “oversized” around the Northern Quarter or Shoreditch and you’ll be serving 80s realness for days! You’re set for shit-but-pricey presents until the end of the year so just throw the lot in a bag and sort it out when you get home. Don’t be selfish: there’s folks living on the street out there who would kill for a glittery Jesus money box and yes, I genuinely bought that.

Interim: A Reflection on London

Celebrities I’ve thought I’ve seen since moving to London:
- Thierry Henry crossing the road outside ‘Bend it Like Beckham The Musical’
- Jennifer Lawrence outside TCR tube station, sporting robot-from-the-future sunglasses and gym leggings
- Daenerys Targaryen walking up Charing Cross Road. (Not Emilia Clarke; actual Daenerys)
- A fat Ed Sheeran drinking with friends outside a pub in Soho.


Celebrities I’ve actually seen since moving to London:
- Angelina Jolie shopping in Paperchase. Freak.Out
- MORIARTY! He looked into my soul with sad, hungover eyes.
- The bitch from My Mad Fat Diary/home wrecker in Dr Foster

Celebrities I may have seen since moving to London:
- Nick Grimshaw. Apparently he was in the general vicinity of Greek Street the night I was falling out of Be At One and straight into a lamppost on my way home. He might have seen me so that counts.

Fascinating homeless people I’ve experienced in London:
- A man (still uncertain on actual homelessness) lying face down next to a pedestrian crossing clutching a glossy brown wig.
- A busker holding a saxophone but making the noises himself, acapella style, rather than actually knowing how to play.
- Three young men singing a selection of west end hits outside The Commitments (again, still unsure of homelessness vs open-air audition)
- A Jamaican man serenading an alfresco diner with a mega mix of Waiting in Vain, Caribbean Queen and Day-O outside a café on Charlotte Street.

Places I’ve nearly been mowed down by a taxi in London:
- Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square, Charing Cross Station, The Strand, Old Compton Street, halfway down Kings Road whilst listening to the Made in Chelsea theme tune and pretending to be in Made in Chelsea.

Moments of uninhibited, uncontrollable tourist-induced street rage:
- Infinite. Ongoing. Continual

Number of times I’ve been smiling with excitement then inhaled, through the mouth, the stomach churning, rancid stench of stale tramp piss:
- See above