QX Magazine

Now, many of today’s right-on revisionists claim Bowie as a Wilde-style gay martyr, but frankly, in the early 70s, everybody fucked anything that moved, in a pansexual frenzy of youthful hormones, and certainly not exclusively gay. If anything, he’s more tranny patron saint than butch or bitch. And please, never forget Bowie’s later gay denials. 

Rupert Everett as Oscar Wilde? Surely that’s duh-ream casting, darlings, don’t’cha think? If only! Yes, author David Hare superbly evokes two pivotal, Wildean life events - his imminent arrest at the Cadogan Hotel and his post-jail, brief reconciliation with Bosie in Naples – but the staging, guys, sucks worse than a failed lung transplant!

Hey guys, don’t ya just hate retrospective morality, the f*ckwit grafting of current, PC values to the past?

Guess what, boys - the poxy porn industry must be weeping in its grave! How cum?

Let’s get one thing straight, guys – Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin novels kick timid, heterosexual butt! Taut, shrewd studies of fascism and ethics debased by situationism, they’re literary gold, with the iconic, 1972 movie only slightly less so. So how come virtually every stage version sucks? Well, in two words, sweethearts, consummate evil, or rather, its absence!

Guess what, boys – there was a time when the very word ‘cabaret’ was spat with contempt, even at the height of Liza Minnelli mania! How come? Well, the movie, darlings, was released in 1972, only to encounter far more seductive competition – Ziggy (David Bowie) Stardust himself! Frankly, anyone under 40 puked at Liza’s back-dated bump ‘n’ grind, then exclusively seen as Judy Garland grandma garbage!

What makes French eroticism so dick-throbbingly memorable? Well, the sheer style, darlings; French couplings – whatever genders take part –have none of the Viz Comics squalor that typifies chav-tastic British shags!

What’s the biggest problem in showbiz? Easy-peezy, sweethearts- how the f*** do you top Liza Minelli’s Sally Bowles? Man, even she herself can’t, though me, I’d adore watching the mature, drug-fucked, David Gest-era Liza tackle the role!

Face it, some music barely deserves toilet love, as in immediate flushing! Ah, but Meltdown 2012, my dears, is an annual, priceless, sonic K-hole to be cherished at all costs.