Last weekend saw the funeral, not so much of an actor, as of a Great British institution. John Inman had a certain way about him – anyone that was fortunate enough to meet him agreed. He was often no more than a contact in my Nokia, but whenever we did meet he would typically respond to the fact that I always got him mixed up with Larry Grayson by subtly ignoring me. That was John all over: a private man with discretion by the cartload.
I first met John as a contestant on The Generation Game. With his kooky catchphrases, burlesque asides and anorexic Scottish hostess, Isla St Clair, you can imagine how horrified I was (my old school pal Chopper told me we were off to see Torvill and Dean!). However, within seconds of meeting him I was completely at ease, and I dare say it was that inaugural experience in showbiz that enabled me to understand gay people.
Of course, back then people thought “PC” was what The Village People wore to the beach. There was none of this exhibitionist moustachioed techno-ribaldry. We didn’t need Clause 28 in those days. If Uncle Cyril went to the bathroom with a box of Kleenex when Jimmy Osmond came on the telly, people just made polite conversation. It was an altogether more stoic, more chivalrous, more “in” time. I guess people like Uncle Cyril (not my uncle, I’m employing a gay stereotype here) were happy to be “different”, without the need to ram their “issues” down people’s throats.
Ditto dear old Johnny. As a journalist it’s a central tenet of my profession to be objective. And yet – through no want of trying! – I have resoundingly failed to dig up a scrap of dirt on John’s private life. For example, there is no evidence that he ever wore a stiletto heel offstage. Inners was so discreet, even innocent, about the term “homosexuality” that he thought Boy George was one of the Famous Five. But then of course John was a performer in that decidedly old-fashioned vaudevillian-family-values kind of way. When John used to “roll out the barrel” it wasn’t gay slang for an “erotic” cabaret show involving colonic irrigation.
Unlike his troupe of faithful fans I didn’t follow Johnny’s career that closely. Having said that if Grace Bros. ever happened to be on the box I wouldn’t switch it off. Of course, that’s not to take anything away from John, who thanks to his relentless on-screen mincing around in a department store helped to inspire a generation of digital shopping channels. He wasn’t just an actor, John was a brand, and if only he’d been twenty years younger he could have cleaned up in everything from brake fluid to crotchless underwear.
For me, this is the most important moral lesson of John’s untimely passing: brand awareness. Know your market and milk it for all it’s worth. But John refused. I received a phone call from him once claiming not to know who I was, and demanding that I stopped pestering him with crank calls (I’d been trying to persuade him to play the lead in a musical I’d written about Oscar Wilde, “What A Gay Day For Libel”). In an effort to placate him I pretended to be Danny La Rue, and during the intimate moments of lacklustre impersonation that ensued, it suddenly dawned on me that Johnny was living beyond his time. He didn’t want to be a gay icon; he didn’t want to “represent” homosexuals; he didn’t want to have some ghastly perfume bearing his seal bussed into Boots for OAPs to fritter away their pensions on; and he certainly didn’t want to revive his career with the lead in “What A Gay Day For Libel” (sadly he made the wrong decision there).
He may not have been on the Right Path, but John wanted to live in a world where each and every one of us, from vaudevillian comic to asylum seeker (subject to proper completion of the relevant paperwork), is able to say confidently, “I’m free!”. Tragically, Dame Inman didn’t get the chance to inhabit such a world. But it’s thanks to John’s unique theatricality and dignified offstage comportment that we can declare with pride: John, one day we will all be free.
***** Jeremy would like to give a big thank you to everyone who took part in The Last Post’s recent competition. Judging by the fervour with which you approached this single issue, the Right Path Party looks set to consign the manifestos of its rival parties to the recycling bin. The lucky winners will be selected on Friday 31 March, so there’s still enough time to get your entries in (please include an email address – there are five copies of Jeremy's acclaimed autobiography, “Lines Crossed”, to be won). *****
(Originally published 27 March 2007)
No comments:
Post a Comment