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

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