Just a sweet transvestite

Since getting the man who onced swiveled his hips in a patent leather hotpants/vest set, proclaiming his Transylvanian heritage (among other personal details) in rock opera, to sign my map of London (“I hope you find your way,” Curry breathed in that delicious, British accenty way. “I will now,” I replied coyly) a day hasn’t passed without me breaking into growling renditions of “I Can Make you a Man” or punching the air with my fist while shrieking “Hot Patootie- Bless my Soul!”

Which explains why I was more than a little disturbed to come across this post about a couple of bullying Spamalot spectators who apparently harassed another member of the audience with homophobic slurs during the entr'acte of the musical. The post also directs readers to string of comments on the initial event.

Several commenters question the likelihood that bottom-dwellers of the gay-bashing stripe would crawl out from under their rocks to attend a musical with clear homoerotic overtones. The irony of the situation is lost on no one. Particularly when the star of the show is best known for portraying a transvestite with a penchant for leather and blond men. I'm curious to know how Tim Curry, Britain's maddest cross-dressing scientist to date, would react upon learning of the absurd hatred transpiring at his show.

Last fall, my dear friend and equally-obsessed fan of Sir Curry, Rita-Marie, booked us seats for the bawdy Python musical in antici...pation of my visit. I could barely sit still through the 7 hour bus ride from Gallieni, across the Channel, to The City, wistfully envisioning an older, more refined Tim Curry as a defective King Arthur. Racing from Victoria Coach Station to Leicester Square’s Palace Theatre, we met up with fellow Spam fan Marie, and charged up the royal red carpeted spiral steps to our balcony seats.

And then there was Curry. In full regalia, an adorable mead-belly gracing his midsection, he galloped sternly across the stage, coconut-clapping man-servant/horse in tow, infamous eyebrows arched in quizzical perfection. The audience couldn’t help itself - neither could we - and immediately burst into adulatory applause, hooting and raising plastic pints in tribute to the legendary performer. Later, when Curry pumped his hips atop his Round Table, inquiring of his “Laker Girls,” “Who’s the King?”, the crowd lost it completely, clapping in (Anglo-standard) unison and whooping the mock pom-pom girls along.

Never before in a theatre have I felt so entirely enveloped by consummate gaiety and rowdy fun; la Comédie Française it ain't. This crowd was here to laugh, jeer, and root, and by all accounts they got their fill! (I suppose that's what the Guardian blogger was referring to when he branded the Spamalot audience as blokeish. Suits me and my girls pretty well.)

After the show we haunted the dressing room exit, giddily awaiting the departure of our object of adoration... and barely recognized him when he pushed through the heavy metal doors. The man, our Tim Curry, creator of Frank N. Furter, ultimate nogoodnik in “Annie”, and now Lord of Camelot, was eye-to-eye with Rita-Marie. Missing several beats as our confusion turned to astonishment then embarassed recognition, we eventually came back to our star-struck senses and yelped a plea for an autograph.

Being the silly cheapskate that I am (in the world’s most expensive metropole), I had refused to fork over the monetary equivalent of 3 Parisian meals for a Spamalot program, and was left with nothing upon which to frame Curry’s autograph appropriately! Ack! Ack! In a panic, I rifled through the contents of my bottomless purse and, growing increasingly desperate, as Mr. Curry had nearly finished signing both Rita-Marie’s and her pal’s programs, I shoved my London map in front of his grinning visage and, with a demented giggle, requested a signature. He graciously obliged, expressing his sincerest hopes of me reaching my destination and I, in turn, indicated that with his autograph gracing my map, I certainly would.

The night before I had to re-board the bus from hell back to Paris, we wandered hungrily through Soho, in search of a recommended curry restaurant. Several wrong turns, returns, and backturns later, we found our dining holy grail (we’ve all got one these days, haven’t we?). Rita-Marie joked that my sojourn in London opened and closed with C(c)urry. I, with a mouthful of chingri malai and mint sauce, remarked that the next time around we’d use my map.

Happy Birthday, Rita-Marie! Until we carouse over the clipboard of fun again...

Photo courtesy of BBC Images