All Balls and Glitter (13 page)

My credit card was maxed beyond belief, but I never minded debt. Somehow, I always knew I’d be able to pay it back some day.

After
La Cage
finished, I had a brief run in
Me and My Girl
in Melbourne, where my lifelong hatred of hospitals began.

When I turned up at the theatre one afternoon, I was told that an actor friend, Robert Berry, couldn’t make the matinee because he had been attacked with a crowbar and badly beaten up. I went to visit him in hospital, but was so horrified by the state of him that I fainted, hit my head on a trolley and had to be revived. I didn’t cope well with the experience at all.

A few weeks later, after the show had moved to Sydney, we were at the Taxi Club, where we always went after work, and I was just starting my first pint when someone started talking about
Robert’s injuries. All the memories came flooding back and I was out cold again! That time, I hit my head on a silver ashtray that ran the length of the bar, and was knocked unconscious. When I came to, the bouncers accused me of being drunk and threw me down the stairs and out of the club.

Fortunately, my friend Lesley was there and she took me to the hospital to get my head wound seen to. I still get the feeling I’m going to pass out whenever I am visiting a medical centre of any description.

Lesley and I were great friends, but we had a secret casual fling going on as well. She was so much fun to be around, and had a laugh that would make hyenas recoil in horror. I loved her laughter and still do. We have always tried to keep in touch, reminiscing about the past and the absolutely mad times we shared.

We once talked about having a child together, but dismissed it due to the fact that I wasn’t ready to settle down in that sort of way. I couldn’t imagine how I could possibly support the idea either financially or emotionally.

It was while I was in
Me and My Girl
that I became the victim of a fantastic prank. I went to a dinner party at a mate’s house and we had a lovely meal, a few glasses of wine, loads of laughs, and then I left and went home: a normal night as far as I was concerned. Two weeks later, a photo appeared on my dressing-room mirror, in full view of the cast. It was a picture of me, completely stark bollock naked, lying on a sofa. It was ghastly.

‘I don’t remember that,’ was my first thought. Apparently, after the main course at this dinner party, I’d got up from the table, sat on the couch, and fallen fast asleep. While I was snoozing, the other guests undressed me, laid me out, took photos and clothed me again. I woke up and had dessert and thought I’d just nodded off for a few seconds.

I’d had no idea what had really happened until the incriminating photo arrived.

As my twenty-first birthday loomed, in 1986, I decided to show Ballarat a really good time. I hired a bus to take all my Sydney and Melbourne friends to a fancy-dress party at our house on Ditchfield Road. The cast of
Me and My Girl
and
La Cage aux Folles
piled on to the bus in Melbourne for the two-hour journey, and we drank fluffy ducks (advocaat, vodka and lemonade) all the way there. Magatha has always complained that he in fact walked the distance to Ballarat: with no seat for him on the bus, he was put in charge of mixing the drinks and spent the entire journey handing out cocktails, pacing up and down the aisle. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.

I had opted for a country-and-western theme, but everyone got a bit confused. Half the family, including my Uncle George and Auntie Shirley and most of the Lancaster clan, came in Victorian dress from Sovereign Hill, wearing bizarre top hats and great long skirts. I had been imagining checked shirts and jeans!

As it was January, which is summer in Australia, it was a beautiful, hot, sunny day. Dad put hay bales around the tennis court and even constructed an outside toilet out of more bales. The family put flags everywhere and had a huge barbecue going. They had gone to so much trouble.

The party was packed with people and Ballarat had never seen the like. There were folk from all walks of life. Ronne Arnold, who at the time was probably the only black American in the country besides Marcia Hines, was there, so everyone was gawping at him. There was a real transsexual called Corinne, who had boobs, but hadn’t had the chop. She’s so gorgeous, you’d never know she used to be a bloke. We drank shedloads of champagne and things got quite silly. At one point, I looked up and Ronne Arnold was giving my dad a piggyback around the paddock, then they both collapsed in a heap in the long grass and screamed with laughter.

The people of Ballarat weren’t used to these outrageous theatrical types, but everyone got into the swing of things. It was insane.

At the time, I was sharing a flat with a friend whom we affectionately called Chelsea Bun. He owned a pink Volkswagen. He was a nurse by day and a drag queen by night, and he was hilarious to live with. Together, we did a
Dreamgirls
routine at the bash, which went down a storm with everyone.

It was one of the best parties I’ve ever had and people still talk about it to this day. It was magnificent.

In the evening, we went to a nightclub and I left all my twenty-first-birthday presents on the bus, in the luggage compartment. I remembered just in time, and as the bus drove off, it was pursued by a gaggle of bizarrely dressed queens on foot. Luckily, we managed to catch up with it and get all the gifts back.

Not long after my birthday, I made one of my perhaps more questionable artistic decisions by agreeing to appear in an advertisement. Yes, I was Australia’s original Kentucky Fried Chicken nugget boy – now there’s a title!

The ad was for drive-in KFC stores. I’d auditioned with a load of mates. The producers just wanted someone mad who could leap about a bit and do the splits: enter yours truly. The strange thing was that I couldn’t even drive – but I got the lead male role anyway. Megan Shapcott was the leading lady. I’d known her for a while through the business – we used to call her Strapcock for a laugh – but this was the first time we’d been the ‘stars’ together in such a big push.

I had to sit in this Volkswagen convertible and act as though I was driving, and the production crew wheeled me in as I pretended to steer. Then I jumped out of the car and sang something like: ‘I said, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, Kentucky nuggets. With or without sauce? I’m asking you: when you taste Kentucky nuggets, what do you do?” You go, “Nah, nah …”’ Then Megan and I had to feed each other nuggets while we danced.

We began filming at six in the morning. It can get swelteringly hot in Australia, which is why they start shoots so early there. This day was no exception. I break sweat just doing a
plié
, so I
was surrounded by make-up artists who were all trying to cool me down. I was also constantly eating Kentucky Fried Chicken. I had to dance my way around the set, looking lovely with all these nuggets. The amount of fried chicken we ate that day was truly disgusting.

In 1987, I moved to Sydney and took a part in a show called
Olympus on My Mind
, which was an absolute disaster. It was on at the Footbridge Theatre. I was playing a tap-dancing poof in a pink toga and roman sandals, which doubled up as tap shoes.

On the Thursday night before we opened, we had a special gay preview and all these drag queens turned up. There was a massive storm howling around the venue as we were getting ready in the wings. Five minutes before curtain up, the whole roof caved in.

All the water that had been building up outside cascaded down on to these drag queens and everyone was running about panicking. No one was seriously hurt, thankfully, but what a sight for sore eyes. I peeped out through the curtain and the whole audience was saturated and shrieking. I’ve never seen so many screaming queens.

Needless to say, on that occasion, the show didn’t go on. Perhaps it was an omen. When it did open, on 30 October 1987, it only lasted two weeks because it was so terrible.

I loved Sydney and that whole era. I was surrounded by opulent, beautiful people and was doing fabulous things – partying, waterskiing, taking wonderful trips. There are huge public gardens in the city where they have open-air concerts, so we would take a BBQ chook and some champagne and go to the opera in the park.

I was carefree and it seemed I was going to be young forever. Now I’m old. At least, compared to the dancers I work with, I’m ancient.

One night, my friend Gerard Symonds and I went out for dinner dressed as women. Gerard and I had met in
West Side Story
and become close mates. He was roughly the same height as me, so we were the two 6-foot-plus boys who matched each other and
were often cast in shows together. Even in the West End of London, we were always after the same jobs and frequently followed each other into roles.

It was our mutual pal John Eva’s fortieth birthday party. I always called John ‘Mag’s mum’, as he and Magatha were very close. Mag’s mum looked after us both, handing out advice in troubled times and teaching us a sense of responsibility, like the day I smashed a Waterford crystal brandy glass he owned and he made me write a A$80 ($37) cheque for its replacement. I adored him and we still keep in touch today.

That evening, Gerard donned a white tunic dress, with a black belt and cinched-in waist, and I put on my only frock, the green one that Lavish always wore. It took us hours to get ready, because we stuck on false nails, plucked our eyebrows, had very close shaves, applied the make-up and then carefully fixed our wigs. Walking up Oxford Street in Sydney, we got quite a few wolf whistles, so we must have looked good. (Either that or it was abuse. We chose to see the positive side!)

We found a table in this lovely Italian restaurant and Gerard, stupidly, ordered a spag bol. He was a bit nervous about being in drag in public and we were both smoking as we sat waiting for our food. Gerard was telling me a story with a cigarette in his hand and forgot he was wearing inch-long synthetic nails. His fag burnt down to his fake talon and, suddenly, it caught fire. He started waving his hands around wildly and yelping. I was shrieking with laughter because he looked so hysterical and panic-stricken.

He managed to extinguish the small blaze – and then he spilt spaghetti bolognese all the way down his white frock. We went to the ladies’ loo so he could take off the dress and wash it, but of course he had to walk back out in wet clothes. Gerard’s a little bit taller than me and didn’t make, how shall I say, the prettiest woman, so the sight of him that night was truly unforgettable. I have never laughed so much in my life.

After dinner, we went to our old haunt the Taxi Club, which had poker machines, low lighting and a very smoky atmosphere. Loads of trannies used to go there and get picked up by straight guys. It gained its name for the simple reason that quite a few taxi drivers were regulars.

In truth, it was the sort of bar where your shoes stuck to the floor, but it was open until 7 a.m., which suited us night owls. A lot of theatre people used it because it served food and drink so late. The club delicacy was a ‘lamb burger’, which comprised slices of lamb, mint sauce and mashed potato in a burger bun. They were delicious, actually, and very cheap. Gerard and I sat there in drag, sipping our gin and tonics, while several guys sidled over and tried to pick us up.

By the time I got home, I was busting for the toilet. I had three pairs of tights on, and a dance support to hold everything in place, so to go to the loo while I was out was a logistical nightmare. Instead, I waited until I got home – which was a mistake. I put the key in the door and promptly pissed myself. There I stood in my frock, on the doorstep, wetting myself, only to have my landlord and housemate, Charles, open the door and see the whole thing. Honestly, what that tired green dress hasn’t been through could be written on a postage stamp.

On another occasion, in Brisbane, I lost my whole thumbnail when I was in drag one night. I got home and started ripping off my false talons, and forgot that I’d superglued the thumb one on. I pulled so hard, I wrenched my entire nail off.

It didn’t grow back for about six months and even then only half a nail grew. I went to my doctor and said, ‘You need to do something about this. I need a prosthetic nail. I can’t go through life without a thumbnail.’

The doctor looked at me and then, patiently, explained, ‘We don’t do prosthetic nails. Just try leaving it for another six months and see what happens.’

Of course, it grew back.

It was around this time that certain experiences with my old flatmate Cecily put me off driving for life. Every time we went out in the car together, it seemed that there was a dramatic event. On one occasion, we had a head-on crash. We were the innocent party: the other car, a Mini, turned over before our eyes. Its driver was completely at fault. Luckily, there were no serious injuries, only a bit of whiplash. The girl who climbed out of the vehicle in front, which was on its roof, was remarkably unscathed. Our bonnet was up to our faces and her car was upside down, with wheels spinning and smoke everywhere, but we were all OK.

The most horrific incident was when our car fatally hit someone in Port Melbourne. We were on our way to meet my boyfriend Mark Gogoll and a few other chums for dinner. The night had closed in and it was a wet and dark evening. We came away from the house and pulled up at a set of traffic lights. After we crossed the intersection, this guy, who was absolutely hammered and carrying six tinnies under his arm, walked straight out in front of our car. We didn’t even see him. There was nothing Cecily could have done. His head came through my side of the windscreen, he flipped over the top of the car (ten feet, according to an eyewitness at the trial that later followed) and we immediately pulled up a little further down the road in total shock.

Cecily called out from behind the steering wheel, ‘What the hell was that?’

I replied, ‘I think it was a person,’ and looked back to see if I could spot anything.

We walked to the scene and saw this poor fellow lying face down in the middle of the road. It was just awful. Ces was a complete mess. Crowds of people began to gather around the body.