Put It To Julian …
“You’re a very spiritual person aren’t you?”
Clary is astonished: “Me?!”
“In your own way I think you are”
“Okaaay,” he says warily, “everyone likes to think they’re spiritual”
It’s a surreal moment. Known for his wit, and waspishness, Clary looks somewhat fazed during his question and answer session when a woman in the audience commandeers the roving microphone to “give him some advice.”
He listens to the animal healer, then pulls a face and grins hugely, “Oh, this is a scream. Are you going to tell me she’s going to get something wrong?”
She tells him repeatedly that in two years time he can expect his little dog, Valerie, to have a problem with her back left leg. She further expounds that she never charges a fee; that all genuine healers don’t charge. Clary promises that he’s taking her seriously. At the end of all this she wriggles in her seat and demonstrates that she has only one leg. I wonder if this is some kind of bizarre form of psychological projection onto Valerie.
He goes on to tell us that after his partner Christopher died, Clary took himself off to a spirit lodge in Hemel Hempstead which “turned out to be a garden shed. There were about twenty of us there. We paid about 25 quid each to go in and there were a lot of pale, sad looking women and we had to sit quietly in the dark and told not to make any noise.”
“The psychic came out and said he would channel. The first voice was a 12 year old boy, ‘Charlie’. The next voice was Kenneth Williams, ‘Oh ‘ello’. The psychic stood in front of my face saying ‘It’s Christopher. Thank you for looking after me.’ But, in the car, I thought 25 quid, ‘Oh ‘ello.’ And I wish to this day I’d stood up and said, 'Shut up you silly old fool' - but .. I’ll keep an eye on her left leg.”
Some people complain on their way out that the steward should have taken the mike away from her. He didn’t cut her off; the professional on stage has control.
Julian arrived in Truro with his dog and his producer, Marc Sinden, and ordered Champagne to celebrate his arrival in the West Country. He says in the eighties he cultivated an image of being demanding, insisting for a time that he wouldn’t travel in a maroon car, and he was indulged.
Relaxed and confident on stage, he’s attracted an audience of over 700 tonight, with everyone keen to hear about his transition from shy schoolboy to huge TV star, with a good helping of smut. Laughter is long and loud at the smut but there are many quiet moments when he talks about his life. Some people go as far as muttering that they hadn’t expected to hear him talk about himself, and didn’t want to, so I guess they were hoping for a whole evening of smut, seasoned with a few salacious or vicious bits of celebrity tittle tattle.
Clary has come to talk about his autobiography and quips that there is a sequel: ‘Further up my passage.’ He’s in introspective mood, thinking about his past, says his policeman father and probation officer mother gave him “a strong sense of right and wrong,” and he runs through a chronological account of his early years. He was beaten at St Benedict’s, his strict Catholic school, by a monk and says he always tells this story when he’s being interviewed; that journalists love it.
That school bred in him the motivation of his entire life; the desire to shock, and to demystify the mechanics of gay sex. For a moment he looks shy, a little vulnerable and, consequently, quite cute, as he says he is associated with ‘fisting’ because of remark he made about Norman Lamont,
“But, you know, I’ve never felt the need to go in for that,” and he demonstrates the correct shape of the hand for this activity – making a duck’s bill with it.
“I don’t know why fisting is thought of as a gay activity either. All you need is a hand and an arse and you’re laughing.” And, of course, the audience are. Don’t the Brits just love toilet humour?
He reels off a list of sexual partners but is self-deprecating about heterosexual love, saying he had a girlfriend for two years and that negotiating the female body must be similar to learning to fly a helicopter, that there are too many erogenous zones, and that such a great deal of foreplay is necessary one has to continue ‘ad nauseam.’ He looks weary at the memory.
One woman in the audience received a Valentine’s card from Clary when she was 10 and when he hears this he quips, “It never came to anything.” He’s incredulous that she should have come to live in Cornwall. Ever the city boy.
When he’s asked whether he will ever enter into a civil partnership he says he’s with a charming chap, but “I don’t know, I’m too fickle really.” He adds,
“I’ve been to one gay wedding which I thought would be a laugh but it was terribly moving.”
It seems that the desire to shock has passed and he appears before us tonight dressed in a blue suit looking neat and smart. It’s not a performance but more of an informal chat,
“I’m not a natural extrovert; I’m an introvert pretending to be an extrovert and the reason for all that make-up was as a sort of armour. Now I’m daring myself to come on stage without all that.”
Now he’s taken to writing more; beyond the gags,
“I always thought I’d write more and talk less and a just over a year ago, I was fed up.”
He bought a little house and has written a novel about a hugely well endowed skinhead rent boy which will be out in August 2007. He loves crime fiction and when told to write about what he enjoyed he combined two delights; murder and a “huge donger.”
Julian Clary writes a column for the New Statesman and his autobiography is currently available.
“You’re a very spiritual person aren’t you?”
Clary is astonished: “Me?!”
“In your own way I think you are”
“Okaaay,” he says warily, “everyone likes to think they’re spiritual”
It’s a surreal moment. Known for his wit, and waspishness, Clary looks somewhat fazed during his question and answer session when a woman in the audience commandeers the roving microphone to “give him some advice.”
He listens to the animal healer, then pulls a face and grins hugely, “Oh, this is a scream. Are you going to tell me she’s going to get something wrong?”
She tells him repeatedly that in two years time he can expect his little dog, Valerie, to have a problem with her back left leg. She further expounds that she never charges a fee; that all genuine healers don’t charge. Clary promises that he’s taking her seriously. At the end of all this she wriggles in her seat and demonstrates that she has only one leg. I wonder if this is some kind of bizarre form of psychological projection onto Valerie.
He goes on to tell us that after his partner Christopher died, Clary took himself off to a spirit lodge in Hemel Hempstead which “turned out to be a garden shed. There were about twenty of us there. We paid about 25 quid each to go in and there were a lot of pale, sad looking women and we had to sit quietly in the dark and told not to make any noise.”
“The psychic came out and said he would channel. The first voice was a 12 year old boy, ‘Charlie’. The next voice was Kenneth Williams, ‘Oh ‘ello’. The psychic stood in front of my face saying ‘It’s Christopher. Thank you for looking after me.’ But, in the car, I thought 25 quid, ‘Oh ‘ello.’ And I wish to this day I’d stood up and said, 'Shut up you silly old fool' - but .. I’ll keep an eye on her left leg.”
Some people complain on their way out that the steward should have taken the mike away from her. He didn’t cut her off; the professional on stage has control.
Julian arrived in Truro with his dog and his producer, Marc Sinden, and ordered Champagne to celebrate his arrival in the West Country. He says in the eighties he cultivated an image of being demanding, insisting for a time that he wouldn’t travel in a maroon car, and he was indulged.
Relaxed and confident on stage, he’s attracted an audience of over 700 tonight, with everyone keen to hear about his transition from shy schoolboy to huge TV star, with a good helping of smut. Laughter is long and loud at the smut but there are many quiet moments when he talks about his life. Some people go as far as muttering that they hadn’t expected to hear him talk about himself, and didn’t want to, so I guess they were hoping for a whole evening of smut, seasoned with a few salacious or vicious bits of celebrity tittle tattle.
Clary has come to talk about his autobiography and quips that there is a sequel: ‘Further up my passage.’ He’s in introspective mood, thinking about his past, says his policeman father and probation officer mother gave him “a strong sense of right and wrong,” and he runs through a chronological account of his early years. He was beaten at St Benedict’s, his strict Catholic school, by a monk and says he always tells this story when he’s being interviewed; that journalists love it.
That school bred in him the motivation of his entire life; the desire to shock, and to demystify the mechanics of gay sex. For a moment he looks shy, a little vulnerable and, consequently, quite cute, as he says he is associated with ‘fisting’ because of remark he made about Norman Lamont,
“But, you know, I’ve never felt the need to go in for that,” and he demonstrates the correct shape of the hand for this activity – making a duck’s bill with it.
“I don’t know why fisting is thought of as a gay activity either. All you need is a hand and an arse and you’re laughing.” And, of course, the audience are. Don’t the Brits just love toilet humour?
He reels off a list of sexual partners but is self-deprecating about heterosexual love, saying he had a girlfriend for two years and that negotiating the female body must be similar to learning to fly a helicopter, that there are too many erogenous zones, and that such a great deal of foreplay is necessary one has to continue ‘ad nauseam.’ He looks weary at the memory.
One woman in the audience received a Valentine’s card from Clary when she was 10 and when he hears this he quips, “It never came to anything.” He’s incredulous that she should have come to live in Cornwall. Ever the city boy.
When he’s asked whether he will ever enter into a civil partnership he says he’s with a charming chap, but “I don’t know, I’m too fickle really.” He adds,
“I’ve been to one gay wedding which I thought would be a laugh but it was terribly moving.”
It seems that the desire to shock has passed and he appears before us tonight dressed in a blue suit looking neat and smart. It’s not a performance but more of an informal chat,
“I’m not a natural extrovert; I’m an introvert pretending to be an extrovert and the reason for all that make-up was as a sort of armour. Now I’m daring myself to come on stage without all that.”
Now he’s taken to writing more; beyond the gags,
“I always thought I’d write more and talk less and a just over a year ago, I was fed up.”
He bought a little house and has written a novel about a hugely well endowed skinhead rent boy which will be out in August 2007. He loves crime fiction and when told to write about what he enjoyed he combined two delights; murder and a “huge donger.”
Julian Clary writes a column for the New Statesman and his autobiography is currently available.
Comments
After his infamous Norman Lamont comment he had a breakdown and therapy. When I see him on tv now he seems a sharper character, as if he knows himself better.
He's still funny though. (Not like post therapy John Cleese!)