Tuesday, May 6, 2008


If there was any faggot I wanted to be when I was a teenager (besides Brett Anderson who was an outright fauxmo and therefore doesn't cut it), it was David McAlmont. In all of his Shirley Bassey singing glory, David McAlmont was a delirious combination of melted steel and caked on honey. I was somewhat afraid of him, he provoked the same terrifying desire in me as Joan Crawford; he's the last word in refinement but probably wouldn't hesitate to clock you if you mispronounce his name.

I met him once, along with Brett's old pal Bernard Butler, at a record signing in Manchester, when they reformed the band in 2002. I took one (of my seven) younger sisters with me and they were all about her. Sad to be upstaged by a four year old in front of Brit-pop icons.

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