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.