BIGGER BANG V

Despite freezing conditions and snowy blizzards 750 people turned up to see our latest Bigger Bang Show at Brighton Dome on Dec 3rd, with me as The Doc and Professor Hal Sosabowski.

There were plenty of methane gas related fart gags and plenty smutty humour all dressed up as a fantastic, explosive science display.

The highlight was our new, world record, smoke vortex generator...

Le Petomane.

Bayou Seco

Mamane Barka: World Class World Music at The Astor presented by Smugglers records.

The Private Widdle Social Club: A Widdle Bit of Jazz

Something of a misnomer: in the absence of Mr Paul Foot (life president) after his appearance on Television's 'Never Mind the Buzzcocks' November (10)'s meeting was a dedicated musical evening in the spirit of improvisation, loosely termed ' a widdle bit of Jass', or Jazz for the modernists.

The idea was, as Private Widdle likes to break the rules, to set up a 'happening' with free-form music, poetry, film and entertainment. Not really jazz, just living art.

The ticket proved a harder one to sell than the cabaret soirees, the faint-hearted and conservative baulking at the mention of the J-word on the publicity.

However, with the stalwart plugging of Mr Greenham, Widdle's musical director, and the hard-nosed schmoozing of the Social Secretary, the night, once again sold out in so many ways.

As ever, Private Widdle was hugely grateful to those who, in the spirit of the event, lent their efforts to the cause. Mr Benji Powling - fresh from his Leed's Conservatoire - gave a fanfare display of a ten minute saxophone solo to open the evening. Young Master Jess McConnell had spliced together an audio visual display of jazz film which was projected to the strains of beat combo 'Gang Starr's' Jazz Thang (v2) by which time the audience numbering already 100, was feverish for more free-form entertainment.

Reader, they were not disappointed:

The Zen Bicycle Band gained one of the Astor Theatre's rare standing ovations for their 45 minute improvised set, warmed up, as they had been, by some jazz-related poems by the wonderful Ms Sophie Parkin.

Ms. Parkin, daughter of 60's novelist and libertine Molly, newly resident in Deal, is doyenne of the Chelsea Arts Club and the much missed Colony room in Soho. She and Private Widdle had exchanged memories of the great scat artist Slim Gaillard, whom both had known in his last soujourn in London in the early 1980's. rare footage of Slim at the WAG, not long after we saw him:

Ancient Slim from the 40's

Zen's flautist, Paul Chenour (world ranking number 74) brought back memories and tapped new synapses with his evocative use of at least 74 flutes: from the bass guttering pipe to the chinese 2" penny whistle. He is expertly aided and abetted by his equal member Zenner's , Messrs Clive Fletcher and Dave Robinson, all of whom enjoyed Private Widdle's pumpkin soup and quiche before the show. (recipes available later on this blog)

A short burst of rapology was interspersed with Mr Ollie Seager aka MC Kochin, plus harmonica playing by diminuitive harp-master, Mr Phil Holden (pictured), who also provided some comical delineations throughout the event.

Laura J Martin next, was a revelation, everyone fell in love with this bastard daughter of Kate Bush and Bjork and...a man. (Her very nice dad who drove from Liverpool, I think)

I will leave the words in favour of her clip...

Finally Zoo For You, 8 piece funky brass combo funked up the remainder of the evening as tables and carpets were rolled up for the medium of dance. Their bedrock drummer Josh is brother of Syd Arthur's Joel and Liam MacGill...fine musical gents all and Canterbury's answer to the Gallaghers.

Words can not do justice to the musical quality of the evening, the reviews have been rave.

Try the clips to get a flavour of the wonderful pot-pourri once again brought to Deal by Pte Widdle and his clever associates at The Astor Theatre.

Widdle once again, pulled himself, and others, off...

The Bigger Bang V : Dirty Bomb.

The BIGGER BANG V...subtitled DIRTY BOMB, explodes on Brighton Dome 3rd Dec 2011 for its fifth sell-out year.

Watch this space for more explosive details.

It's da BOMB!

plus a bit of vintage Doc ans Steve on Holly and Stephen's Saturday Show.

BIGGER BANG REEL

I'm Black and I'm Proud.

Sometimes my inner black man gets the better of me, especially when I hear of the passing of another great...

Phelps "Catfish" Collins, recently deceased (Aug 10) James Brown sidesman, master of the funk guitar. Called Catfish by his brother Bootsy, on account of his looking a little like a catfish. Bootsy Collins is playing bass in the clip.

And another of the late Godfather, playing to a bunch of whiteys on Playboy After Dark.

My guess is that Mr Brown will have pulled the foxy brunette dancing enthusiastically behind him.

RIP Soul Men.

Your Builder - Beauty Pageant

MyBuilder.com Commercial from Sell! Sell! on Vimeo.

Save the Arts: David Shrigley Video

Save the Arts: David Shrigley Video

PRIVATE WIDDLE SOCIAL CLUB - NUMEROS DOS

Magical Mystery

Mulhern

The Private Widdle Social Club Numeros Dos (Number Twos) was a sell-out SUCCESS!

Hosted once again by life President Mr Paul Foot, who was on TOP FORM the meeting had one or two surprises.

The identity of the MAgical Mystery Guest was revealed when TV's Stephen Mulhern turned up as a favour to Private Widdle, showing that "Deal's Got Talent" and demonstrating his superior skills in crowd control. (Very handy when he was mobbed in the kebab shop at 2am)

All the acts were stupendous, but some favourite moments were provided by the previously unseen Hell's Belles. Their charming, tattooed reinterpretations of long-lost dance moves charmed the crowd (see the Cardiff Stroll below) as well as their kitsch raffle which included 1940's hamper of powdered egg and camp coffee as well as a signed Larry Grayson autobiography, a prize marrow and some pig's trotters (organic, local, supplied by Black Pig Butcher, Kingsdown)

Hells Belles introduced Major Pereneum (sample of his act below) Twang to Private Widdle as well as his snake-charming assistant Miss Jezabelle DuBois, who will be displaying her Boa Constrictor at a future event.

On the subject of scary things from the Jungle, Karin from the Kongo provided a delightful musical sequence based around the mewling of cats, the like of which has never been seen.

We thought we'd seen it all after "How Much is that Doggy...?" Is there a theme emerging?

Mr Nicholas Harby delighted with his steam train impressions and educational monologue while another surprise of the open spot, Miss Jodie Goffe provided a moving contrast with her first public performance and frail, touching, self-penned song. There was not a dry eye in the house.

Miss Tootsie Sugar was a no-show, but was more than adequately replaced by the beautifully upholstered Missy Maybe who, apart from being a marvellous burlesque performer is an all-round nice girl and good egg, battling through a cold at the last minute to present her Women's Institute Strip. After Missy's display, there was barely a dry seat in the house, either.

Thank you to all our acts. More Widdle to follow. Watch this space.

The Lovely Missy Maybe

Panto, Doc and Glitter

I have finally taken the panto shekel and signed up for Christmas with Paul Hendy and Evolution Productions
The good news: I'm working - and I miss most of Christmas; I'm working with Emma Barton and a lovely cast; I'm reviving the Doc.
Bad news: in Chatham.

I last went to the Central Hall Chatham in 1973 to see Gary Glitter. My mum wouldn't let me go alone, so she came with me. Probably wise. I recall I wore a pair of Brutus dungarees and Army boots painted with red humbrol and stencilled with silver stars on the toecaps.

My mum never really recovered from the experience, she screamed all through Gary's show, vociferously stating that she did want to touch him...there. She went to all his concerts after that, including his Gladiatorial Finale at the Dominion Tottenham Court Road. I regretted for ever that I had not gone to see Bowie's Ziggy Stardust show at Chatham the following week, but I had done my entertainment budget.

I got to meet the Great Glitter on many occasions during my career in semi-showbiz. I moored alongside his boat in Tortola in the Virgin Islands in 1989. We had dinner and he would emerge on deck without his wig. Up until then, I belived it was all his own.

Then, there were several occasions on children's TV. If you were short of a flamboyant guest on a kid's show, Gary would only be a call away. Can't think why? I worked with him at Disney and several times on What's Up Doc. He was always personally charming and mad as a hatstand.

Here's a link to a classic ep of What's Up Doc, featuring not only Gary, but Robbie Williams and Take That, but also an uncredited Chris Sievey (Frank Sidebottom) as a French tunnel digger, Simon Perry and myself as Pasty the worm, who looked a bit like an old boy's penis...

The final occasion was a Christmas Show in about '92. Gary had been booked to sing out with Rock n Roll Christmas with the whole cast and crew backing him. Being one of the show's 'characters", Colin, I was in the first row of backing vocalists right behind Gary.

A lot of the Christmas budget had been spent on a large Glitter Cannon to end with a bang and a flash. On the final chorus, Gary sings: It's Christmaaaaaaaaaaasssss! Throws his arms back and head back, opening his throat to the lighting rig. The cannon goes off and I watch, as if in slow motion as a one-centimetre square twinkles down from the ceiling and lodges itself in the back of GG's gullet.

Showman to the end, Gary disguised his retching and spluttering as a diplay of deep emotion and staggered off the stage in the manner of the late James Brown.

He was found in his dressing room five minutes later, wig off, alternately gasping from an oxygen tank (which toured with him by that time) and taking bites from a Mars Bar to dislodge the offending glitter. It is a ( late ) Dennis Hopperesque image which has remained with me and is my abiding picture of my once hero.

Imagine the favour he would have done to himself and his reputation if he'd allowed nature to take its course and had suffocated and died. Imagine the tabloid headlines:
GLITTER KILLED BY GLITTER.

Instead he suffered a severe bout of tinsellitis. Sorry, too many years with Basil, Boom, Boom.

The DOC never met Gary, although I am sure they would have hit it off with many similar interests. The congenital blond freak from the Institute of Gender Reassignment Studies in Munchengladbach has not been entirely back in his specimen jar.

For the past four years he has done a live science panto at The Brighton Dome, THE EVEN BIGGER BANG and will do two shpws again this year on Dec 3rd, before he takes up his role as Dr Fleshcreep in Chatham. In Brighton he has liebframilch on his rider and hot and cold running boys in his dressing room.

In Chatham, he will have a damp box with a cold water tap and outside lavatory. He was horrified by the lack of sailors on the street in this maritime town whose naval base was once overflowing with discharged seamen.

The Doc, who launched the careers of Stephen Mulhern, Holly Willoughby and Cheryl Tweedy on Ministry of Mayhem, fears that the glory days may be behind him.

A bit of Doc, with James late of Busted, then Son of Dork...where is he...? No, where are any of us...? except Willoughby and Mulhern, ITV's biggest stars!

He is , however working himself up for a BIG COMEBACK, so watch out next year when he will be touring!


Panto2010, originally uploaded by petercocks.

George Cocks Skatepark Film

CW Stoneking at the Astor

Andrew when he was a gigolo in Venice 1979.

Andrew Millington and I studied History of Art together at UEA.

In those days you could get a grant to go and see an exhibition abroad.

On this occasion we went to the Venice Carnivale. On another we went to Paris, bought berets and breton shirts, hired a filthy garret overlooking Notre Dame and lived on red wine and fags for two weeks.

How Bohemian.

I can't remember the exhibition we saw.

White Gucci Shoes & Old Friends

With the brains of a Saatchi and the legs of a Beyonce, Tam still dances up a storm at 50, in this photo taken by Marcel Duchamp

The bastard shoes in Hoxton St. Against Seasick Steve's advice I wore vertical stripes again, which show off the old tum-tum. The two specs thing is all the rage Hoxtonsides.

Close-Up of the bitches w/toothbrushes.

Christmas Club 85., originally uploaded by petercocks.

With old friends Andrew, Tammy, Sally in the snow in Wales '85.

Shared history usually makes for comfortable socialising as I went, with my dear wife-girlfriend-partner-fiancee to Andrew Millington and Tamara Ingram's glamorous joint 50th at Shoreditch Town Hall.

Andrew is a fellow Art-Historian and Boulevardier, while Tammy is the most powerful woman in advertising, combining the brains of both Saatchi's with the legs of the one and only Beyonce.

I had a little wardrobe trouble on the way.

I won a pair of white Gucci loafers playing poker against some comedy store comedians a couple of years back.
Another story, but they were the most humourless bunch of comics you could hope to meet. Especially when I took £300 off them with a full house.

I decided that a 50th birthday was the ideal occasion to wear what my wife calls my "Cunt Shoes" I wish she meant that they are the male equivalent of 'Fuck Me Heels" but she doesn't.

My feet were hot, as it had been sunny all day, so I decided to kick off the Gucci's in the car to allow the old dogs to bark.
Around the Whitechapel area, I decided to put the C-shoes back on again. Struggling in the footwell and trying to bend down over my incipient belly, I couldn't get the damn things near my sweaty feet which had also swollen in the heat.

Davina suggested we stop at Tesco Metro to get some baby powder. I told her that it was my feet that were the problem, not my arse. She would not let me shop in bare feet, so kindly went to get the powder herself.

She came back without powder. They didn't stock it. Instead she bought a bag of plain flour and, before thinking it through, I sprinkled it on my damp tootsies.
Reader: Flour + Water = Glue.
And although my feet weren't gushing, they were sticky enough to make a light paste.
I spent the next ten minutes scraping the dough from my feet with a car window scraper.
Arriving in Hoxton Square, I stepped into the street barefoot. By now I had lost my temper with the cunts and threw them down on the pavement, against a wall, and then impaled them on some railings with a view to stretching them. Aware that I was drawing a crowd with my behaviour and loud swearing, ever-resourceful Dav found a pack of three toothbrushes in the boot.

She levered them into the back of my shoe, like removing a bicycle tyre and finally wrestled the Italian beasts on to my feet. A foreign passer-by, believing they were watching a piece of performance art from the nearby Whitechapel Gallery, took the photo.

Hobbling to the town hall moments later, I found a shoe horn in the pocket of my jacket. It took nearly a whole bottle of pink champagne to restore my temper and allow me to properly celebrate my friends' combined 100years.

On the way home, I lost my iphone in Hoxton Sq. It was returned the following week by a kind Australian called Tim.

Faith in humanity restored.

Frank's Fantastic Sendoff.

FRANK SIDEBOTTOM'S STATE FUNERAL today at Castlefield Arena in Manchester. "The Hendersons will dance and sing as Sidebottom flies through the ring..."
If you can't make it...

Hermes, New Bond St. Window, Ginger fans

Other pics for Ginger Fans: to add to the diplay of Hermes Gingerness, two pics I snapped around town, the first a straw hatted gentleman at Charing Cross on his way to a festival, the second, Henry at the local skatepark. Great Fantas both. The Gingerist world view; hot-tempered, flamboyant, bloody-minded and highly sexed will be heavily represented in these pages.




They've seen the back of me at Heathrow Terminal 3. Bond Street relocates to Heathrow.

Hermes, New Bond St. Window, originally uploaded by petercocks.

Great news...or bad?

Good news for Hermes/Ginger/Furry fans. After the outcry in Mayfair when the windows were changed in Hermes Bond St, (and the life sized pictures of Rusty and I were taken down from around the door) the Fancy French Finery Co have given in to sheer weight of public pressure and have relocated the images. They will now appear at the flagship Hermes concession at Heathrow Terminal 3. Well-heeled travellers will now be inspired into a retail froth of last minute silk scarf buying...or will find one more good reason for leaving this blighted Isle when they see me and my ginger guard dog snarling at them from the window.
Good riddance, I say.

C.W Stoneking: 1920s Jungle Blues...Astor Videos

C.W. STONEKING LIVE, Love Me Or Die from b-uncut on Vimeo.

C.W. STONEKING LIVE - 'Don't Go Dancin Down the Darktown Strutter's Ball' from b-uncut on Vimeo.

Here are Lawrence Whiteley's atmospheric Videos of CW Stoneking at The Astor in Deal. Click They are really classy... worth a squizz...

CW Stoneking - Jungle Blues

C W Stoneking at The Astor, Deal.

C W Stoneking, originally uploaded by petercocks.

Seasick Steve's other mate, Australian cult blues artist CW Stoneking took a dog leg in his European tour and came to Deal a couple of weeks ago. The enterprising Smuggler, Will Greenham, stuck his neck out and booked CW on a Monday night and filled the Astor.
I mentioned to Steve that CW had gone down a storm...Seasick had played the BArbican with him earlier in the year. Steve shook his head. "Strange Guy," he said.
I don't think he was talking about me.

Seasick Steve 'n' Me

David Shrigley - Dead Cat. Tate Britain. Rude Brittania

Conrad Butlin.

Securitity at Andrew Lamberty's Shop, Pimlico Rd.

Seasick Steve 'n' Me, originally uploaded by petercocks. "Sorry Steve, we're fully booked. What about Feb?"

Reader, whadda week! Phew.

Following the runaway success of Private Widdle's first Social Club meeting (and my lurking grief from the untimely death of friend Frank Sidebottom) my old pal Seasick Steve was on the blower, trying to book in for the next Pte Widdle meeting (pencilled 2nd October, Astor Theatre, Deal 7.31 [sharp] ). I said I would meet with him at the BBC, where he was lounging around smoking and drinking red, waiting to be abused by Jonathan Ross.

Of course, I know Steve from my days with "Brian J and the Westerneers" when we used to play on the same bill in the CIU clubs along the Thames Estuary. Steve once invited us over to play in Tennesseee, but we could not afford the train fare to Wales. Of course, I know Jonathan Ross vaguely, too, having beaten him at arm wrestling at his more famous brother, Paul's, wedding.

It was fortunate for Steve (Sicky..or Steve or SSS, as I call him) that I was at the BBC on Thursday, promoting my daughter, Rusty O'Hara's, documentary idea for a pop talent show featuring stripping fourteen year olds. Sadly they didn't bite, but showed great interest in developing mine and Mark Billingham's new idea for a new kid's sitcom 'My Gay Grandad'.

"I think we're ready for our first gay kid's show," the producer said. "But can the grandad be from a minority?"

Apparently gayness alone doesn't cut it at the BBC any more, Grandad needs to have a gene pool from at least one sub-continent and, preferably, a missing limb. I will contact Richard Pryor's people: he's been dead for 5 years, too, so he should be a shoo-in

The other downer was that I had to blow Seasick (SSS) out for Oct 2nd as I am getting so much interest from other acts. I said I may get back to him for next winter's Private Widdle meeting but, let's face it...he only plays one or two strings whereas I have acts that can play the full six strings, and other instruments including the kazoo and ukelele.

He said he was playing a festival somewhere near Glastonbury. I will watch how well he does and proceed on that basis.

Later that evening I went to the Pimlico Road antique dealer's annual jolly with my London boyfriend/walker, Mr Sprake. We were allowed into Mr Andrew Lamberty's chic emporium: "I sell James Bond furniture to Blofelds". We gave the correct password and were ushered into the inner sanctum by the Top Models/Ukranian pornstars he employs as security.

Inside there were Blofelds, Blo-drys and Blo-jobs a go-go. Amongst them, Nicky Haslam and Viscount Linley (my old friend from retail) and Ms Anoushka Hempel. The place was crammed to botox-bursting point: my wrinkles disappeared just breathing the rareified air, and my gentleman's ball-purse looked like a six year old's party balloon (pink) on my release.

Amongst the party-titterati, I bumped into my old friend , male model, dicker and diver and man-about-shoreditch, Conrad Butlin (no relation). I had not seen Connie for fifteen years, but he looked great; gold-toothed and buff. Three bottles of Veuve Cliquot under (it was a hi-tone evening...what recession?) I rambled on to Conrad about our days down at Greenwich DHSS on the Enterprise Allowance Scheme (Maggie T's £40 quid a week beer allowance to do market stalls.) Conrad and I used to spend it in the pub and then buy silly things that didn't sell.

Into my second hour of rambling, Conrad looked over my shoulder (again) and insisted that he needed to 'mingle'. I assumed that this was cockerney rhyming slang for 'scoring pussy-cats'-which is the term I generally use. However, having reluctantly posed for a photograph, he took his similarly gold-toothed majordomo, who was on day -release from Belmarsh, and who had insisted on 'no publicity - no photos' and swanned off into the night.

See you in another 15, Conrad.

I took a rickshaw back to my brother's in top London suburb, Stockwell, where I slept off the excitement and, la manana, having feasted on eggs and bacon, locally and seasonally sourced from 'Sainsburys 24' in Clapham, I took in the Tate Britain show of 'Rude Brittania' the following morning.

I was blown away by a dead cat.

Paul Foot - Private Widdle, the morning after his first time.

Posing as Keeley Cheescake, Ellen the Spy seamlessly infiltrates Uncle Meat and the Highway C hildren. She sang two songs with them...when she didn't know the words to 'Let's Get Sticky' she was finally rumbled and poor Ms Cheescake was untied and rescued from the small lavatory at the Tom Thumb where she had been imprisoned.

Mr Foot takes the stage with Mr Varley

Ellen, foreign Spy.She goes to Dover from Margate on a 49cc moped every day. She interviews illegal immigrants in Russian, Serbo-Croat, Albanian or any other of the ten languages she speaks. She heckled Mr Foot with medieval slavic curses. It is clear from her seductive hairstyle and Marlene Dietrich cigarette that she is a RUSSIAN SPY!
Paul Foot, originally uploaded by petercocks. ...astonished by the sheer volume of balloons at The Tom Thumb.

The morning after his triumph up The Astor, Mr. Foot, who had been lodging with Will Greenham and the Smugglers ( in Olly's bed, where he found some chewing gum) made his way to Margate with the musicians. The Smugglers and associates were playing a free benefit at The Tom Thumb Theatre, the smallest theatre in the world of Margate.

Having been promised a father's day roast lunch, President Paul dined with his new friend, Will Varley in the Old Town.

I found them struggling uphill above the lido, their tubby bellies full of roast. I took Mr Foot to look at the Walpole Bay Hotel which boasts a gramophone and 78s in every room. He would like to stay there for his next visit, or even for a holiday. He enquired of the manageress, whether they had sepia porn channels or 'What the Butler Saw' machines in the rooms. They don't.

Back at the Tom Thumb, the afternoon's lineup included The Boxing Octopus, Uncle Meat and the Highway children and Will Varley and others.

Mr Foot did an impromptu set, featuring a (spoken) mime on the theme of antiques roadshow, involving a woden leg, heart attack and urinary disorders.. Paul correctly pointed out that mimes are very difficult to follow unless someone talks you through them. Which he did.

Afterwards, the Red Arrows kindly put on a display in support of The Tom Thumb and a spitfire flew past (my booking) in honour of Mr Paul Foot's triumphant weekend.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/petercocks/sets/72157624197683487/

Frank Sidebottom Obituary, The Guardian

Frank as Frank and Woody (Stephen Taylor Woodrow) as Freddie, Maidstone Studios c 1995.

Obituary : http://gu.com/p/2hpyc

A life in pictures: http://gu.com/p/2hpcj

The Private Widdle Social Club. Inaugural Meeting; Mr Foot's Royal visit to Deal.

Miss Pussy reduced the burly backstage boys to jelly with a glimpse of mangina, not shared by the audience...

Mr Paul Foot staked his claim and crowned himself new King of Deal (and Sandwich)

Ukelele Gangstas, frightened the horses with their talk of drive-by shootings: as hard-hitting and political as ever...


Hector, the Human Beatbox, a (not) surprise HIT of the evening.

Uncle Meat scared off the nans with their psycho-folk/punk...

Sara Pascoe charmed with a smile that concealed her dark centre...

Click to enlarge: photos © Peter Cocks and Laurence Burns

Private Widdle is delighted to announce that his first go up The Astor was a resounding success and, lubricated by Gadd's local ale, didn't hurt a bit.

The event sold out by close of play on Friday and tickets were changing hands around Union Street market on Saturday for as much as £11.50.

The talent came from far and wide...some from as far as Walmer, but Sara Pascoe and Mr Paul Foot even made it from Lon-Don, the big place at the very, very end of the seafront.

Uncle Meat and her Highway Children were reputed to have driven their magical bus from a place called Man-Chester, but few locals were convinced of the existence of such a place and thought they may have crawled out from under a stone, such was the state of their dishevellement on arrival.

Mr Paul Foot, or President Paul as he likes to be styled, arrived on the 3.14 (pm) from St Pancreas via Ashfag International and Ramsgatte. He was dressed, ready for semi-showbusiness, in his trademark grey leather bomber jacket, floral tie, pale grey hi-waisted (lightweight) gigging pants and silver brogues. He was met at Deal Station by Volvo limousine where the driver put his shopping trolley in the shooting brake.

The Deal Kazoo and Comb and Paper orchestra, who had been booked for his arrival, were still relaxing in The Railway Arms. They considered him a Lon-Don showbiz fop who would arrive fashionably late at 3.16. (am)

They were wrong.

Mr Foot is a punctual man.

Missing the reception committee, and having complained in a thespian fashion all the way on the 100 yard drive to theatre, Mr Foot was somewhat mollified by a visit to Deal's dedicated Golliwog shop, Mummery and Fudger. Mr Foot produced his own Golly from the shopping trolley and enquired of the lady manageress (Mrs.) whether she had another in his size.

Unfortunately, she only had the medium size in stock (Paul is a large Golly) at £12.99. She offered no trade discount.

Unable to buy a Golly in the correct size, Mr Foot was amused by the enamel golly badges available at Mummery and Fudger, particularly the Sikh Golly Badges and the Golly Robber and Golly Policeman.

The manageress, although denied a sale, was flattered by the visit of such a celebrity from Lon-Don and voiced her approval that Paul really understood Gollies. He even travels with his own.

"We get a lot of complaints," she said. "From middle class gaymen and lesbianists who troop down from Lon-Don in their chiffon scarves and comfortable shoes banging on about my Gollies not being correct, or something. They don't even live here," she said. I don't think she was talking about the Gollies by this point. She ignored the fact that second home-owning inverts, provide the much-needed pink finance that enables the smart end of the High Street to flourish with fish, cakey, caffe lattes and spray-free vegetables.

Mr Foot, although uncomfortable with the gushing endorsement from the lady, nodded his tacit agreement.

"In Deal, we call a Golly a Golly," she said. "I was born here. I've lived here all my life. A hundred years," as if qualifying her ownership and authority on Gollies, life, and Deal.

Back at the theatre, having discussed the running order at length for two minutes, written it down on a digestive biscuit (locally sourced, seasonal), Mr Paul Foot greeted the rest of the company: Paul Hendy, TV personality (Wheel of Fortune) author (Diary of a C-List Celeb) and pantomime mogul. Plus, Miss Pussy d'Amour; The Ukelele Gangstas; Will Greenham, the Smuggler's records impresario; Sara Pascoe (a friend of Mr Foot) and Jonathan the Piano - though strange, not a stranger, simply a friend who he had not yet met.

Pre-theatre supper was at Yon-Sea, a crumbling, Georgian money pit (owned by the author) on the High Street. Dinner was a local Deal speciality; Chilli-con-carne with fava beans and potatoes that had been baked - in the local style - in their skins. The meat was locally sourced from Rook's and the potatoes local from Sainsburys. All the assembled acts, now happily fed and belching the local chili sauce (Somerfield) returned for the theatre in a state of almost near excitement.

Sound checks done, a forty five minute call was given backstage, by me. Perhaps a little early, but I was nearly excited.

"Forty five minutes, boys and girls," I squeaked. "Overtures and beginners, please." I have no idea what it means, but I enjoyed the strange words tumbling from my mouth.

The lights were dimmed and , at 7.15, (pm) a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule, a platoon of local nans, all with their hair done, elbowed in and nabbed the best tables. A multiple 'nan event' was unexpected and not really caterered for by the Management (Paul and Me.) Special seats were reserved at ringside for local dignitaries and celebrities including Lord Justin de Villeneuve, the man who invented Twiggy and his lovely designer wife, Professor Sue Timney.

Also at ringside, freshly returned from filming with Matt Damon and Clint Eastwood and from having given her magnificent 'Helen' at the RSC and being David Tennant's mum in the 'Dr Who Hamlet', Penny Downie (Jr.) added fragrance and beauty to the assembly. Penny, a veteran of 'Prisoner Cell Block H' - and quite a honey - hotly followed by Deal's sapphic enclave, was not averse to throwing in the odd Australian heckle, much welcomed by Mr Foot who is a master of running with the off-the-cuff remark.

Local artist and family man, Mr Paul Claydon, gave Mr Foot his most challenging of heckles. Quoting the 'Sexual Pistols' he shouted 'Bollocks' quite a lot and enjoyed a two-way riff with Mr Foot. His lovely wife, 'Black' Dalziel Douglas, local entrepreneur and family woman was in the bar, with me, hiding and discussing the lighting.

Glamorous Lon-Don antiquarian, Mr Stephen Sprake and his delightful wife, Paul, added glamour and antiquarianism to the front row.

Mr Mark Hutchinson, Lon-Don PR supremo and fluffer to both Nigella Lawson and JK Rowling, was also at ringside, clearly on the lookout for more divas to fluff.

Did he find any?

Safe to say, the open spot was dominated by a blonde diva from the Belgian Congo, Miss Karin Jamotte, whose post-modernist, abstract interpretation of 'How Much is That Doggy in the Window?' had the crowd baying for more.

The other acts?

Reader, I am not a critic - and far too closely involved with Private Widdle to offer a dipassionate and objective viewpoint. However, I think it went jolly well, and the fat Sunday papers the following morning probably tell you all you need to know about property prices on the South Coast. I didn't read them, I never read notices.

One review, however, did sneak its way through to me via he-male, and I reprint it here in full in its original font and funky colourway:

I came to the cabaret evening yesterday, Saturday 19th June and while the entertainment was acceptable I am not sure the same can be said for compliance with the regulations regarding public safety.

I would be very interested to know how many people were allowed into the hall as compared to the numbers it is licensed for. Most village halls have a notice quite prominently displayed stating the capacity - I could find nothing on display last night. It certainly seemed very overcrowded with very little room available between tables and at least one of the fire exits blocked by the seating arrangements. I imagine a fire safety officer entering the main hall last night would have been very troubled by what he saw.

I wish the theatre well, it is really good to see it back in use and much improved and I hope it has a great future, professionally run and in compliance with all appropriate regulations.

Trevor Skelton
18a Harold Road
Deal
KENT CT14 6QH

I would call that a RAVE review of 'acceptable entertainment', but I was tempted to tell him and his beige slacks to fuck right off and not come back, as a mark of respect for his free-wheeling, hippy world view. However, The Astor were on the phone to Mr. Hendy and myself by 6.00 (am) the following morning to call together another meeting of Private Widdle's Social Club in the near future. Proposed date. October 2nd. 2010. (Doors,7.30 (pm) )

As they say down here," Watch this space." Usually when they are trying to park their car outside the Golly Shop.

Coming soon: The Morning After Private Widdle's First Time...plus more Social Club-related pictures.

This article did not appear in the Deal Mercury.

Frank Sidebottom as Chris the Gimp on Endurance UK

SIDEBOTTOM UNMASKED

A Chris-Eye view of Tara King after one of the gimp's more successful attempts at undressing her...Click on picture to augment.

SIDEBOTTOM UNMASKED, originally uploaded by petercocks.

I trawled my archive for a picture of Chris Sievey, Frank Sidebottom, without the head. The best I could find was Chris in my German helmet and leather shorts, covered in tattoos. The real, wheelbarrow tattoo was under his boots.

In the show, he emerged from a box and then spent the whole time on his hands and knees, stroking and licking Tara's leg or trying to squeeze her bosoms.

It wasn't a bad job in semi-showbiz, but the money wasn't great...about £20 per show, but that was all he could afford once he'd spent the rest on beer, snails and nose candy.

In the clip, Chris is seen stroking Tara while we feed the contestorants Knicker, Knacker, Knocker Glory...a confection made from fried worms, liquidised pig testicle and cream.

We were doing this disgusting schtick in 1998, years before 'I'm a Celebrity...' and when Ant and Dec were still called PJ and Duncan. I believe that we were also the first show to ritually humiliate losing contestants, telling them to "GO HOME!", rather than blow smoke up their arses, ask what a lovely day they'd had and send them home with a consolation prize.

Other Endurance specialities were the Pubic Chair, Bollock Beer and The Vindaloo Hat.

The studio smelt of vomit after every show.