Whatever Happened to Baby Gays?

Dear Bitches,

Whatever happened to our baby gays? You know. The young gays!

When I read that 'Bette & Joan: The Final Curtain' was to have a run in London soon after its Edinburgh Fringe debut, I jumped up with excitement, picked up the phone and texted Dolce.

Over a pre-theatre dinner of pasta and a cute waiter who was sa-shaying it, Dolce asked me, what are we watching? I said, "Bette and Joan." She said, "who are they?"

Gasp! Horrors of horrors! I waved it off and patiently gave a crash-course about these two gay icons while waiting for the bill to arrive.

Then I was with another group of young gays the next day. English roses, these are. I said to them "I saw this great production on Joan and Bette the other night..." Nothing! Blank looks across the settee.

Oh My God!

Now, I am usually on the side that argues there is no such thing as a gay culture. Just because we're gays doesn't mean we have to subscribe to certain ways, traditions, language. We don't all have to love the same things. But shouldn't we at least have history? Shouldn't we at least have knowledge of past gay icons?

So this I say to our young readers. Go and see 'Bette & Joan: The Final Curtain' at the Jackson Lane Theatre in Highgate. You'll have a good evening because it's fabulously camp and funny and you'll get an education out of it. It might help though if you watch first the film Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

To our readers who may have been around the block a few times, go and see the show because it's funny and fabulously camp and imaginative. The actors are fantastic in their roles and to watch them slowly transform into the characters in 'Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?' is priceless. You will appreciate how the writers have brilliantly infused into the dialogue the famous bitchy quips one has rumoured to have said about the other. You will relish to see again Bette ruthlessly kicking Joan in the head. Several times.

Also, coming out of the play, one is reminded of what true bitchiness is from these grand dames of bitchy. Many people have forgotten what it is to be bitchy and mistake it for mean-spiritedness. Not quite. They're not even in the same pitch. Mean-spiritedness is easy and anyone can do it. All it requires is a black heart. Bitchiness, on the other hand, requires wit, imagination and practice. Black-heartedness not required.


Until next time, sweet-tarts. Kisses,

Hollie Go-Lightly

Beach 19

Photo by Hollie Go-Lightly

Dear Bitches,

Right. So Yours Truly in all her ultra fabulousness paid Beach 19 a visit. What? !! Listen, sweet-tarts, even this diva is not above a bit of cheek. And anyway, what’s a naughty girl to do in Lisbon. There’s only so much tiles a bitch can see.

So, anyway, this bitch and her escort… What? !! Yes, I hired a local gay personal tour guide. And let me tell you, it’s ferries, trains, and busses to get to Beach 19, not to mention a fair bit of walking in the sand, and since you all can’t use a map to find your way out of a shopping bag, your diva selves must simply use the service of a guide, either by hire, or by Gay Romeo! If your lesbian selves insist on going there on your own, see the link below.

So as I was saying, moi and her accessory tour guide ventured into Beach 19. The car park is by Beach 17 and I had to catwalk it all the way to 19 to find me some hunky uns. The old queens whose joints can’t handle the jaunt are trolling pretty much as soon as one gets out of the car park. One can walk on the beach and enjoy the foam under their toes, or, like me, zigzag their way between the railroad track and the bushes to see some … you know what. Without having to go very far into the bushes, I saw men having sex. Oh my eyes! It really wasn’t pleasant. From then on, I kept to the railroad.

I got there on a hot August Thursday and there were quite a few men about. Some good looking and some were delightfully naked. Some, you want to throw a giant towel to cover themselves with. Plenty of lesbians! Naked, tits hanging out, lesbians! Other than that, it was pleasant enough. The sound of the sea mixed in with the sound of frolics and cheers. That’s the beach part. Behind me were the bushes where men walked about, necks stuck upward like cranes. Some were gorgeous, but even that couldn’t mask an air of sadness and despair. How desperate and lonely it looks, craning a neck out for some meat. So I stayed where I was, by the sea, with the frolic-makers, the disc-throwers, the dog-walkers, the sun-bakers, and finally finished the first chapter of At Swim, Two Boys.


Till next time, air kisses,

Hollie Go-Lightly