I went a bit old skool gay last weekend: watched a bit of saucy gay theatre in a shabby, old flea-pit and then went for a timewarp and a few drinks in one of the creaking, back-street old gay pubs that are firmly stuck in some distant era (including the staff).
The play was a one-man show about different aspects of gay life – all played out stark-bollock naked. I have to admit to being persuaded by a sexy poster and assumed it would be a packed house. How wrong I was…
The theatre is above a pub and we arrived about ten minutes before the performance start time to find a deserted bar and a locked theatre door. Maybe the entire audience was stuck in traffic? We got our drinks, positioned ourselves with a good view of the entrance, and waited. We heard three other guys (all on their own and all older) come in and quietly ask at the bar about the gay play upstairs – the dirty mac brigade had arrived.
In the end there were eight of us (including the actor) in a theatre designed for about sixty. It was already dark when we walked in and the few shadowy figures dotted the edges. We didn’t want to sit right at the front – the actor could be really hung! – nor at the back and look too cruisy.
The actor wasn’t that hung and the experience wasn’t voyeuristic or titillating (mind you, at one point he seemed to get pretty aroused himself). Although he had used his naked body (with a carefully placed sticker) on the poster, I now see why he hadn’t featured his face, disguising this old queen’s age in the process. I’m sure with a packed audience there would have been a proper buzz in the room, but it was so quiet that I got a disapproving glance from the actor when I sucked my gin and tonic a bit noisily through my straw.
I couldn’t identify much with the acted-out gay experiences, feeling as though most came from a different era and probably from the guy’s past. There was a lot of use of the word ‘poof’ – who says ‘poof’ these days? An even older queen in the audience who really was wearing a dirty mac was laughing approvingly though.
On to the pub. We didn’t want to go far in the pissing rain so ducked into a real old-fashioned gay establishment where you’re likely to be called ‘duck’ or ‘duckie’. I’d only been in this particular pub once before, years ago, and it hadn’t changed a bit. I think the same staff were serving and probably the same customers were ordering. It’s one of those places where any guy under the ago of about 40 is lustingly eyed-over as chicken meat – which can feel kind of nice when you’re not 18 any more.
We ordered our drinks and the barman called me ‘dear’; we sat down in a corner, most eyes still upon us. I looked around at the sad decor and the raunchy pictures and there was one thing that had changed: this place used to be packed on a Saturday night and now it wasn’t even a quarter full. I’m sure this wasn’t just because of the rain – the loyal drinkers are aging with the pub and the younger guys just walk on by.
I find myself with contradicting feelings about the threatened extinction of this particular shade of gay life, the people and places that are a hangover from the days when the scene was a much more underground, seedy and risky playground. Gay people aren’t as segregated or back-street-dwelling anymore and want trendy, fashionable night spots just like everybody else. But it would be a shame if this flavour of gay was lost forever – it’s good to have a bit of shabby, shifty, seediness every now and then; it’s where all us poofs come from.
Old skool gay
The play was a one-man show about different aspects of gay life – all played out stark-bollock naked. I have to admit to being persuaded by a sexy poster and assumed it would be a packed house. How wrong I was…
The theatre is above a pub and we arrived about ten minutes before the performance start time to find a deserted bar and a locked theatre door. Maybe the entire audience was stuck in traffic? We got our drinks, positioned ourselves with a good view of the entrance, and waited. We heard three other guys (all on their own and all older) come in and quietly ask at the bar about the gay play upstairs – the dirty mac brigade had arrived.
In the end there were eight of us (including the actor) in a theatre designed for about sixty. It was already dark when we walked in and the few shadowy figures dotted the edges. We didn’t want to sit right at the front – the actor could be really hung! – nor at the back and look too cruisy.
The actor wasn’t that hung and the experience wasn’t voyeuristic or titillating (mind you, at one point he seemed to get pretty aroused himself). Although he had used his naked body (with a carefully placed sticker) on the poster, I now see why he hadn’t featured his face, disguising this old queen’s age in the process. I’m sure with a packed audience there would have been a proper buzz in the room, but it was so quiet that I got a disapproving glance from the actor when I sucked my gin and tonic a bit noisily through my straw.
I couldn’t identify much with the acted-out gay experiences, feeling as though most came from a different era and probably from the guy’s past. There was a lot of use of the word ‘poof’ – who says ‘poof’ these days? An even older queen in the audience who really was wearing a dirty mac was laughing approvingly though.
On to the pub. We didn’t want to go far in the pissing rain so ducked into a real old-fashioned gay establishment where you’re likely to be called ‘duck’ or ‘duckie’. I’d only been in this particular pub once before, years ago, and it hadn’t changed a bit. I think the same staff were serving and probably the same customers were ordering. It’s one of those places where any guy under the ago of about 40 is lustingly eyed-over as chicken meat – which can feel kind of nice when you’re not 18 any more.
We ordered our drinks and the barman called me ‘dear’; we sat down in a corner, most eyes still upon us. I looked around at the sad decor and the raunchy pictures and there was one thing that had changed: this place used to be packed on a Saturday night and now it wasn’t even a quarter full. I’m sure this wasn’t just because of the rain – the loyal drinkers are aging with the pub and the younger guys just walk on by.
I find myself with contradicting feelings about the threatened extinction of this particular shade of gay life, the people and places that are a hangover from the days when the scene was a much more underground, seedy and risky playground. Gay people aren’t as segregated or back-street-dwelling anymore and want trendy, fashionable night spots just like everybody else. But it would be a shame if this flavour of gay was lost forever – it’s good to have a bit of shabby, shifty, seediness every now and then; it’s where all us poofs come from.