Saturday, 4 November 2017

Please Mr Policeman, He Touched Me Twenty Years Ago!

These "He touched my thigh/He raped me/He flashed his cock at me/He threatened me" stories are getting to be so ridiculous and frequent that I'm actually starting to feel sorry for some of the alleged perpetrators. Most of these accused are indeed creepy actors, producers and politicians that I can't stand and who always looked "iffy" to me (Bruno Langley being an exception). What I cannot understand is all the sackings and stepping-downs based on what so far appears to be people jumping on the bandwagon. There have been no arrests, nothing has been brought before a judge and yet, as my late father-in-law used to fondly say, so much shit has been mistaken for plum pudding. And what will happen if these cases do go to court, as happened with William Roach (and almost with me a few years ago, though not for anything remotely like this) and others, and these people are found to have made it all up? Reputations and careers will have been ruined for nothing. Of course, if the stories are proved to be true, then I shall have no remorse for the perpetrators. Until then, it should be innocent until proved guilty and they should put up a brave fight if they truly have done nothing wrong, or if the women/men in question were willing at the time to hop on to the casting-couch to further their careers. It has to be said that I have never heard of most of them, and that some of the others have floundered somewhat from the dizzy heights of stardom.

Finally, as for any court case happening with "the anonymous young British actor" (and again I speak from experience), and who almost certainly will have been named by the tabloids by this time next week, and possibly revealed to be two shades left of Liberace, there'll be no such thing unless the courts here acquire an International Arrest Warrant... which they only grant if you're a master criminal.

Sunday, 3 September 2017

So Sad When A Vile Person Dies

I've lost a few friends and acquaintances this past few weeks. Dear Charley Marouani, Barbara's manager and the man who opened so many doors for me...when Charley died, part of me died with him. Jeanne Moreau. Mireille Darc. And poor Ludovic Chancel, who was not blessed with the nicest of mothers.

I cry when those whom I care about die. Occasionally, though, there is the demise that makes by heart beat wildly with joy, when I am able to shout out, 'Thank God for that!' Today was one of those occasions. An occasion when Mrs. B and Master B shouted 'Thank God for that!' in unison.

I will not mention the name of this hideously vituperative female who has curled her toes in foreign climes, save that she was older than us, and that Cocteau may hold the clue, though bonne she certainly was not. This creature created a furore a few years ago by writing that, not only was I languishing in jail, but that Mrs. B was in fact my mother, and that our son was autistic because he was the product of an incestuous relationship. Therefore am I glad that she is dead? You bet I am!

Only yesterday I was checking through Death List 2017. This is a list of fifty personages predicted to cash in their chips this year. Many of them are very old, therefore it's inevitable that the Grim Reaper is prowling around their boudoir. Some are not. As of yesterday, ten of the fifty have departed this life.

Two years ago, my Death Wish List amounted to just seven names, As of today, only three remain. Karma has been very kind to me of late. Let's hope that she keeps up her good work...

Monday, 17 July 2017

RIP Ludovic Chancel, Maligned By His Pop Star Mother

Ludovic Chancel took his own life two weeks ago. He was just forty-two, and leaves behind a wife and two young children.

He was the son of the French pop songstress Sheila, of whom Marlene Dietrich observed, "She wiggles her backside and sucks on the microphone, and tells everyone she's famous. What she doesn't say is that she doesn't have any talent!"

I might disagree with my friend there. Sheila did have talent, but as a mother she left a great deal to be desired, and she made Ludo's life a living hell. When she found out that he was bisexual, she disowned him and he went through a very bad patch indeed. Only last year she was saying that she would never wish to have anything to do with him again.

Like myself, Ludo fought back. He and I had much in common, almost parallel lives. We knew each other. He detailed his struggles with a bad parent in his book, Fils de... I chose a stronger title: Old Bastard. I was lucky in that my old man curled his toes, not that there is anything in there that I wouldn't have said to his face, and indeed him and his horrendous second wife.

There's a lot more that I could say about Ludo here, and a lot more I could say about Sheila. She's getting all the sympathy, whereas Ludo's wife and children appear to have been overlooked. My son was a fan, but his Sheila records have now gone in the bin. I would define Sheila, and in no way is this litigious, as the second most repulsive female who has entered my world. Karma, though, has a nasty habit of biting you on the bum. Ludo never mentioned his mother while in our company, and though Sheila claims that they made up and put their differences behind them some time ago, others firmly believe...and have stated openly in the press...that there was no contact between them for seven years.

Now, I hope that this dear chap, wherever he is, has found the peace he never managed to find in this life.

RIP, Ludo.

Friday, 7 July 2017

Casey Donovan: Pioneering Gay Porn Legend: Edinburgh Festival 1979

In 1979 we attended the Edinburgh Festival with our friends Marian Montgomery and Richard Rodney Bennett. Sitting at the dinner table, one of thirty people, was this very handsome American man who looked like he had stepped straight out of a fashion catalogue. Marian introduced us, not just to him but to around a dozen others. I never thought about until some years later when I was made aware that the pretty blond was Casey Donovan, in Edinburgh as part of a group to promote the prize-winning film, "Gal Young Un". So we met gay porn's pioneering legend without even knowing who he was! Later on we met Ryan Idol, Karen Dior, and of course Joey Stefano and a few others. All of them absolute legends.

Casey's story is now published:

“I think my greatest accomplishment so far is something that doesn't show up in lights or get reviewed - and that's simply the sexual sanity that I have tried to contribute to over the last twenty years.”
   This was Casey Donovan, speaking in 1983, four years before his untimely death.
   Born John Calvin Culver, he was a pioneer and will eternally remain amongst the elite of the adult film industry. Yet he was more than just a porn star. As a hustler par excellence his clients included movie stars, senators, European royalty, and ordinary fans. The love of his life was the tough-guy actor Tom Tryon, who treated him badly. His other famous lovers included Rock Hudson, Paul Newman, and Superman actor Christopher Reeve.
   Casey scored successes on the legitimate stage—Tubstrip toured for two years and packed theatres across North America. He acted opposite Ingrid Bergman, and played Jesus Christ in an avant-garde production of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. As a “tour guide” he escorted well-heeled clients to exotic locations. As an “agony uncle”, he eloquently responded to fans’ letters for four years in Stallion magazine. It is for his contribution to the cinema, however, that he was revered. He shot to fame in Boys in the Sand in 1971, the very first gay porno feature film as opposed to the tawdry “loops” of the day. He triumphed in Radley Metzger’s Score, made heterosexual porn films, and remained at the top of his profession for fifteen years, a long time in the world of adult film.
   Away from the screen, Casey was the unassuming boy-next-door. On film nothing was too exhibitionist or outrageous for him to tackle. Published to commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of his death, this is his amazing story. It includes full details of his twenty-seven films and ten theatrical runs, and more than fifty photographs.

Saturday, 17 June 2017

Is Owen Jones An Enemy Of The State?

Without Prejudice
Personally, I think that he is. This man's behaviour since the general election, and particularly in the wake of the Grenfell Tower tragedy, has been nothing short of reprehensible.

We don't yet know how many people perished in that fire. We don't know exactly how it started, or who is responsible. This is why they are holding a public enquiry, while the tabloids speculate about exploding fridges and illegal cladding.

Owen Jones blames the tragedy on the government...not the one who was in power when the flats were built, but the one who is in power now. He has launched a campaign to oust our elected Prime Minister, Theresa May. As Alex Deane said just now on the news, the "Owen Jones" of this world are in so many words accusing Mrs. May of arson.

Owen Jones is a revolutionary. He has always been possessed of two non-qualities: an over-sized ego, and a head the size of a gasometer. And with a mouth to match. He is a Labour supporter, therefore to his blinkered way of thinking, anything the Conservatives do is tantamount to heinous crime.

He has been organising rallies and protests left, right and centre. Yesterday there was one outside a church, for goodness' sake. Today, he has reached the zenith of puerility. After gurning while clutching a "clean up" feather duster, he has advertised a protest he has organised to take place in Downing Street. "Bring your families and friends," he pleaded. So yes, the reward for dozens of people dying in a fire...the recompense for THEIR families and friends, is Owen Jones' Family Outing. I'm surprised this odious little man didn't set up a stall selling popcorn.

But his protest did not end there. Adding to the unwanted mayhem, and I don't doubt to the grief of those families who were invited to Number 10 today, was a pathetic sideshow within which a hideous drag-queen was "singing" seditious songs about Theresa May to a whooping, I should say inebriated crowd. What a pity that this loathsome creature did not topple of its high-heels and break its neck.

I confess that Mrs. May took her time speaking to relatives of those lost in the tragedy, but this does not mean that she was not thinking about them, that her heart is in the right place and that she was working behind the scenes to help them. She has only just one week ago emerged from a general election. She had just returned from official duties in France, and was putting together a cabinet. Owen Jones' mouth may be all over the place right now, but Mrs. May can only do one thing at a time.

I don't doubt that Mr. Jones will keep up his vile campaigning, just as I do not doubt that this will lead to a great deal of civil unrest in the coming weeks on account of this modern-day Jack Cade with a mouth and ego the size of Wales, and few grey cells governing. I am certain that any day now we will be turning on the news to see our hard-stretched police forces out in droves, clutching shields and wielding batons while being attacked by yobs who are daft enough to listen to this mouthy clown.

Let's hope then that someone arrests him before then.

Thursday, 11 May 2017

The Sun "Newspaper" and "Benidorm": Reaching A New Level of Stupidity

The Sun newspaper, aka The Katie Price & McCann Hourly News, has plunged to the nether depths of stupidity once more.

On Benidorm, that wonderful character Joyce Temple Savage, played by the equally wonderful Sherrie Hewson, observed of a high-pitched, not very handsome karaoke singer that he had "the voice of a thirteen-year-old girl and a face like a dropped pie." We all roared with laughter at the series' funniest episode yet.

Now, the Sun~famed for digging the dirt on recently-deceased celebrities, and hounding the likes of Justin Fashanu to suicide but for writing persistent bullshit about missing children's grieving families, talentless women with big tits who have had more men than Mary Millington, and druggie soap-stars who really do have faces like dropped pies~is accusing Benidorm of mocking disabled people. "They are mocking people with cleft palates," barks Paul Revoir.

Mr. Revoir~might I suggest it should be au-revoir~clearly belongs to that school of "journalists" who would be incapable of writing their initials in the snow. Sherrie Hewson was doing no such thing, you silly gawp! Neither she nor the millions of viewers would have noticed "the cleft palate" if you hadn't pointed it out~ and don't you think the actor doing the crooning would have been shown the script?

So, why don't you stick to writing about what you know? Which happens to be not much...

Sunday, 7 May 2017

UK Tabloid Obsessions: Writing Rubbish About Trashy Celebs While Ignoring Real Stories About Real Criminals

The Mail, The Sun, The Mirror and The Daily Star are all guilty of obsession with people that they label stars, whether these be criminals, drug addicts, faded soap stars, or reality trash.

There is the former glamour model (I use the term lightly) who will doubtless die, aged 47, when her implants explode, and whose six husbands and coterie of lovers will squabble over which of them will be her pallbearers.

There is the junkie soap star whose face looks like it's been run over by a bus, and who has been in and out of rehab more times than Jock Strap had his willy inside Mary Millington.

There is the never-ending saga of the missing child, which will go on until Stephen Hawkins' end-of-humanity prediction occurs. From where I'm sitting, at least two journalists are employed full-time scribbling about this.

There is the "romance" between the tattooed Irishman and his lush, both of them so thick that they wear C & A undies so they know which way to put them on.

There is the footballer who has been in more clinics than Doctor Spock, and who will end his days face-down in a pool of vomit after one tipple too many.

There is the hideously ugly American sportsperson who does not know if they are male or female, or something in between, and who has spawned the latest accessory: transgenderism. So daft that kids of five want to have a go

On and on it goes...

Now, we have a "Let's pick on Rolf Harris" day, which of course will go on for weeks until he dies, whence we will get a wealth of "Rot In Hell" headlines.

In the UK, we have laws. Nobody serves a full prison term unless they are murdering maniacs. Mr. Harris is about to be released, having served his term and behaved himself, to look after his dying wife. The tabloids are baying for his blood. They want him and two very nice footballers who happened to use their cocks instead of their brains (but on whose side I will always be) to be dragged to some modern-day Tyburn and strung up.

Whatever Mr. Harris did was years ago. I am hard put to remember some of the things that happened to me in 1975, but these "victims" of course can remember every little detail. Why they wait such a long time to jump onto the bandwagon is another matter. I would suggest it's not justice they want, but money.

It's okay for the British tabloids to victimise old men who are in no position to fight back, and to write thoroughly pointless "exclusives" on any of the above which appear at an hourly rate on their on-line pages...but what about all the REAL stories that they are covering up? Why don't they have the guts to employ journalists to write stories that might have some impact on our society--such as reporting criminals, paedophiles and the like, that they are well aware of, and that they have known about for some time? Criminals that are active, ere we speak. They knew all about Jimmy Savile. And who in their right mind is going to believe that silly story of how Rolf Harris shoved his hand inside a television presenter's knickers, on live television and while an entire crew was standing around?

Why don't our tabloids NAME the felons who are known to them, and who are doing damage to our children and young people NOW instead of decades ago? Why do they wait until they are dead to hold an enquiry?

There's a simple answer to this. They don't have the guts.