Life & Society
Julian's Week
Published 04 October 2007
Shall I go starkers for my final scene? Paul O'Grady howled with laughter at the prospect
You must be careful what you wish for. Two weeks ago I daydreamed in this column about starring in a musical. Silly me. By the time you read this I shall have started my run in Cabaret in London’s glittering West End. I am the MC. A singing role, they tell me. There must be some mistake. I suspect there was something about my participation in Strictly Come Dancing a couple of years ago that has made my agent think I can take on any challenge that comes my way.
Cabaret Strictly Come Dancing Dancing? Novel writing? Musical theatre? Bring it on. Who knows where it will end? Someone stop her before she puts me up to be the next James Bond. When I said I was "versatile" I wasn't referring to my career. Still, it's too late now.
I've been turning up to rehearsals nevertheless, mostly out of curiosity. Everyone else is really good. I explained to our director that they are "luvvies" and I am a "turn". In other words they are all fabulous, trained musical theatre actors and I am more your burlesque act. There's nothing we can do about that.
He twitched a bit, I noticed. I said to my mother, "I think he's worried that I'm going to turn it into The Julian Clary Show."
"Yes," she murmured. "We all are . . ."
Despite these obstacles the show's coming together nicely. Our choreographer is a colourful Brazilian (aren't they all?) and yesterday he instructed the ensemble to dance a number "as if you just had two lines of coke". They nodded sagely. It seemed to do the trick, though. They've danced with admirable vim and vigour since.
But a big question mark hangs over whether or not I go starkers for the final scene. Paul O’Grady howled with laughter at the prospect. “Mind you,” he said, when he could speak again, “it won’t be the first time you’ve bared your arse in the West End.”
The nerve. Jasper Conran asked if I'd be having a surgical lift before opening night. "It might be wise," he said solemnly.
But what should I do? Nudity is central to what theatrical types call "the piece". Should I demonstrate my artistic integrity at the risk of turning what is intended to be a poignant tableau into a scene from a Carry On film?
"What we don't want," said the director, glancing at my nether regions accusingly, "is for people to laugh just because they're seeing Julian Clary's bum."
"Well, quite," I said. "But think of the hen nights we'd attract." "Let's sleep on it," he said, looking a little pale.
My bare buttocks, it seems, might provoke a number of unpredictable responses from the general public. (Well, tell me something I don't know.) Those St John Ambulance people had better be standing by, prepared for anything from fainting to vomiting.
So I’m going to leave the decision until opening night (an unfortunate expression, in this instance).
In case I decide to go with the full flesh reveal, I've taken to examining my posterior in a full-length mirror every night to see if it's fit for consumption, as it were. Given my age I think it's reasonably perky, although I'm unhappy with a small blemish on the right cheek.
All I can say is, if I do go commando, spare a thought for my make-up artist. She entered this business dreaming of painting Angelina Jolie's lips. Instead, she finds herself on her hands and knees, smothering my bum with Factor 5.
Still, between you and me, she's lucky to be working. I'll say no more.
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