Here's an exclusive new portrait of my fiancée Molly Parkin by the fabulous Darren Coffield (see his website; click image for bigger pic). I understand he is now using this or another photo in the set as a model for a painting which will hang in the National Portrait Gallery. Darren's picture also showcases Molly's latest millinery creation which I believe features an orchid in the flared bell of her "horn". I really do think one of the better chain stores should snap this design up: the sooner we banish appalling hairstyles from the high street the better.
The 'Rev' Andrew Logan
As to the matter of our wedding, Molly and I have yet to agree on anything, such as venue and form. We have flirted with the notion of Andrew Logan marrying us. One of the London Eye pods could be an amusing location - I've not mentioned this to Molly yet - or perhaps the premises of the Spiritualists Association of Great Britain in Belgrave Square: I've always fancied being given away by my late paternal grandmother via a medium (not Derek Acorah).
See Croatian photo album in postings below l to r: Film director Robert Chilcott, actress Carson Parkin-Fairley, Molly Parkin and some tag-along. Photo: Jadran Babič of Slobodna Dalmacija. Click images for full size.
Poor Professor S! Out of humanity I shall not publish his name. But yesterday he was fed into the Molly Parkin sausage machine and spewed out as mangled mince; or dumped like a turd at the water's edge on the Croatian island of Brač. Even now I inwardly cringe at his operatic humiliation. But the tale has to be told.
The Professor had dreamt of an idyllic day celebrating the work of a Croatian painter: a charming woman in a lovely dress. And who better to invite along as honoured guests to partake in this appreciation on Brač than the famous artist Molly Parkin and her entourage (now including newly arrived daughter Sophie and husband Jan)? The Ghetto Club's Sonja had phoned our hotel to tell us that the promised six-seater taxi had not been booked so we must get cracking and phone for two taxis to get our party to the harbour at Split within the hour. "I have a surprise for Molly!" Molly's granddaughter Carson had barely finished washing her hair and she was bundled into a car. So the group mood was already faintly toxic.
The surprise! Kočani Orkestar greet Molly. Click each image for full size. Photos by MA
The harbour surprise was Gypsy brass band Kočani Orkestar with Sonja at the head, clapping. A very generous and charming gesture. Molly was utterly delighted, dancing to their music as they trailed us to the ferry before the 50 minute trip to Brač. "I'm a Gypsy, you know," she chided on the boat when her entourage proved churlish about the racket. "You're all killjoys!" And the mood turned darker when it dawned we were not about to meet Croatia's cultural elite here but to be treated to a walking cultural tour of the island: or "traipsing" as Molly called it. "I don't do traipsing," she declared to the Prof. We refused to traipse: instead I noticed a sign in the grass showing a dog with an erection and took a pic of Molly posing behind it. The Prof looked most put out. Someone explained that the erection was actually doggy poo and is not encouraged in public places.
We anchored ourselves in a waterside bar in front of a noisy church as the art lovers traipsed on. By now Molly had learnt that the Prof was not gay. "I have two sons," he revealed, unwisely. Molly said to me, "I've lost interest in him now. I much prefer gay men around me to talk about art, much more interesting. I can't have him wittering on in my ear."
The promised al fresco dinner in the marina failed to sweeten things. Though we were invited guests we were told we'd have to pay for anything that wasn't the local plonk, the anchovies or some fish paste (and what looked like Christmas cake). The very idea! The Professor snuck up to Molly and said, "I have a lady who wants to meet you. She is a motel. " "A motel?" asked Molly. "Yes, a motel - a moh-dell. She was a model in the 60s."
This prompted a rebuke. "Please, Professor, would you please stop giving me a history of everyone who wants to meet me." Not taking a hint he pushed on and described at length another fan who desired to supplicate at Molly's open toes. Molly exploded. "You can give that kind of bullshit to your art students but not to me. Please stop. If someone wants to meet me just bring them over."
We all exploded when the Prof informed us that the ferry was running late. We wouldn't be leaving before 22.45, which meant we wouldn't get back to the Ghetto in Split before midnight where the Parkin Lot was booked to perform. We refused to view the artist's paintings, we all wanted to leave. Now. "You can't!" said the Prof. When Carson noticed private water taxis available for hire he said, "They take two hours!"
Photo: Jadran Babič
In fact not. Jan and I secured a water taxi and at around 9.30pm Molly and entourage took off into the Adriatic night and were back in about 50 minutes. The moonlit journey was pure bliss, bumpier than the ferry, part African Queen. We all felt awful about Professor S: I shall never forget the bewilderment etched on his face as he probably rehearsed what he'd say to his fellow art lovers - and featured artist - by way of excuse.
If he's reading this - sorry! Lesson: Get the itinerary blessed first.
Oh, and that dog with an erection (click for full size). Photo by MA
A selection of pics from Croatia all by Madame Arcati. See guide index below. Click each image once for full size. 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Index: click each image once for full size 1 Ghetto femme 2 Ghetto homme 3 One of Ghetto's bars 4 Ghetto: Molly intros Madame Arcati night 5 Ghetto staffer: Would you Adame & Eve it? Monika of the club shows MA her etchings 6 Sophie Parkin with mother at Le Méridien Hotel, just outside Split 7 At Split Harbour: Gypsy brass band Kočani Orkestar greets Moll (band pics in post above). Ghetto's Sonya in shades peering at me. Fly-on-the-wall Robert Chilcott films Moll embracing a member of her public 8 Professor S with Moll on ferry to Brač before the "misunderstanding" 9 Meanwhile back at Ghetto: an angelic 'tache 10 "Falling In Love Again": One of a number of new erotic paintings by Molly Parkin at the Ghetto Gallery, Split 11 "Honeymoon" by Molly Parkin. At Ghetto Gallery, Split 12 Ghetto: Rose - our fave bar mixologist 13 Ghetto: l-r: Monika, Rose, Sonya (NB red kerchief) and friend Lilly 14 Ghetto: Molly becomes part of interior furnishings (or vice versa?) 15 Ghetto: Arcati night clubbers. Man in background owns island in Australia 16 And finally for now: my marina view from my room at Le Méridien
Daniel Radcliffe's new friend Our Lady J is heading for the UK later this month with gigs at the Purcell Room and in Manchester - the latter headlined "Our Lady J’s Gospel for the Godless With the Cocquettes and friends". Her recent tabloid ascendancy will not have harmed ticket sales and I notice that she's selective in her media responses: Perez Hilton earned a tweet and Out.com a "statement" in which she managed to confirm that she and Daniel "support each other as artists." Conversationally or in other ways? The statement begs the question, dearie. Such starry pickiness I tend to associate with showbiz savviness, if you get my meaning. Dietrich would be proud.
She also claims to be a witch with powers to punish warped messengers: that makes two of us then.
I note that on her website she slips into the almighty first person plural (thank you for the correction, Anon) to announce: "We’re sorry to remove the Our Lady J blog, but it’s in the process of being edited for publication. Her transition from male to female is just too juicy to have floating around the internet for all to see!!" Ah, yes. A publishing deal. Juicy. Now I know what the J stands for.
Meanwhile, on Twitter she writes: "Enjoying the death threats. Reminds me of my childhood. Kind of like my baby-blanket!"
Transexual singer Our Lady J is reportedly Daniel Radcliffe's very good friend - with munchy dates and hand-holding and mutual, er, admiration - so naturally we should acquaint ourselves with her ... she's plainly smart ... and political. She writes on Twitter: "Apparently I'm in the British tabloid, The Sun. FYI, I'm NOT a drag queen - I'm a tranSEXual... do ur research." Coronation Street star Antony Cotton appears to be a fan of Our Lady J.
What? You've forgotten what Daniel Radcliffe looks like? God, you bloody Alzheimer's freaks ...
“Is that a vagina?” Ruby Wax demanded to know as co-host of Andrew Logan's Alternative Miss World 2009. Three large sails had made a grand entrance on the stage - a vagina was not the first thing they reminded me of, unless you‘re talking about an acute case of thrush. On a similar theme she added later of more imagined stylised pudenda: “There’s a strong smell of fish in the air.”
Yes, so moving on …
The 12th in the series since 1972, this Crufts-inspired AMW was once again the post-Warholian dry debauch of androgynous excess. The venue this time was The Roundhouse in London’s Camden and the theme The Elements - happily, only very loosely taken as inspiration.
Miss Flotsam told how she hates tidy beaches, and Miss No Signs Of Any Civilisation Whatsoever complained of traces of rust on her underbelly. I liked Miss Trailer Trasher’s boast that she has enough residual energy to become extremely unpleasant while Miss Bubbles Of Hope was composed of 78% air, 17% alcohol and 5% grape resin. Miss Majordha Beach's helium-inflated balloons, representing clouds, broke away and collected on a roof trap high up: I wondered who pops them in the morning. When Miss Sahhara gave birth to Africa I prayed Madonna wouldn't materialise and adopt it.
I can’t remember who won now but if it was the Miss who was hoisted aloft out of a tank-size puffball skirt then I concur - was that Miss Hokusai? Please write in.
Actually, the winner was Miss Fancy Chance
Andrew appeared as principal and exemplary host and hostess in a male/female harlequin-style get-up: to Ruby he probably looked like a badly bruised vagina with labial piercings and mirror adornments. Not for me to reason why.
My fiancee Molly Parkin was one of the judges and she took me as her VIP guest. We’d rendezvoused at the Chelsea Arts Club first - she was dressed as a thunderstorm in black and sparkling red. But since flashlight is white we recast her as a volcanic eruption with lava flows. I wore a dark velvet suit - a cloud seeking a silver lining. Molly Parkin and Bruce Lacey (photo by Frances Lynn, see below)
In the Roundhouse’s VIP gallery other judges and their friends and/or fuckees joined us: Julian Clary - he asked me how he could find Madame Arcati on the internet: his delightful friend wore a pink balloon; Ken Russell, who sported a one-piece tent, his fifth or sixth wife and feet bandages; Time Out boss Tony Elliott - I told him I approved of his acting editor Mark Frith and he said “He’s good, I hope he stays”; the wonderful eccentric and performance artist Bruce Lacey - in one minute he twice fell off a pouffe, yet danced later; Zandra Rhodes; Tim Currey (great new teeth), oh, and so many others. Btw, Molly got the biggest aud cheer during the introductions.
One guest told me how she'd been Miss Conception in '81 - "and we had these props to represent artificial insemination". Now her daughter was about to open the show singing La Vie En Rose - "Andrew told me to wear a little black dress so people might think, 'Am I at the right show?'" Another guest told me: "I came second to Ursula Andress once in a beauty pageant ... "
The striking thing about the judging panel, in contrast to the huge youthy throng below with their muscle and tatts, was their age: both Bruce and Ken are over 80, many of the others in their 60s and 70s. Even Julian is close to 50 though looks closer to 30. This I like. All these Yodas presiding over the stripling Anakins for mischief and mayhem. Pass the lightsabre, darling.
From the gallery I peered down on the Misses preparing their costumes backstage: a multicoloured prosthetic body parts tip, lit by dressing room mirror lamps, with young lithe bodies seeking drag heaven. The show was tremendous fun. I can’t imagine why it’s not on ITV1 - it’s a telegenic spectacle, funny, and it doesn’t have Simon Cowell pulling panto faces. What more do you want? No wonder Michael Grade’s on his way out.
“He’s being strangled by a penis,” shouted Ruby as a monster tower-costume collapsed on stage. For once she was right. She may not know her cunt but she can certainly spot a cock.
My new friend the author Frances Lynn has some good pics of the judges and guests, click here. She's also written this enlightening piece on Madame Arcati here. Yet more amazing photos at frillip moolog, here. Ken Russell writes about the show inThe Times.
Incidentally, I was much taken by The Irrepressibles, a 10-piece orchestra - fronted by the "angel-throated, androgynous, Jamie McDermott"- that was part of the entertainment
I plan to see Antony And The Johnsons' Antony Hegarty's The Creek exhibition at the London Isis Gallery: a very good interview in the Independent yesterday alerted me to his artwork and environmental concerns. His Ghost self-portrait reactivates my pediophobia (fear of dolls): it's a Gothic photographic nightmare achieved by projecting an image of his late great-grandmother on to his own face. It would make a great movie poster: all it needs is a movie to back it. I also like Julia's Hand, a photographic study of his mentor Dr Julia Yasuda, described as an intersex person, neither male nor female.
The subject of hands reminds me of Mickey Rourke and his freakishly large ones, on display in the excellent The Wrestler. His fingernails are rudimentary curved claws, white as milk. I know I would never get on with Mickey, just because of his hands.
The 'Rev' Andrew Logan
