Julian Clary

The Joy of Mincing

Weymouth Pavilion

MINCING on stage in more sequins than a whole series of Strictly, Julian seemed somewhat surprised to receive such a warm hand on his entrance .

“Oh, thank you. Such a delight to be in Weymouth,” he gushed. “Where were we last night? Guildford? Lincoln? What a ****hole.”

The camp comedian and renowned homosexual, as he likes to refer to himself throughout the two hours, sets the filth bar very high, very early, with an invitation to his workshop for a certain sexual practice to be held after the show at the Preston Beach Road car park.

Well, you can’t fault him for his local knowledge and research. (Did you go, by the way? Must have just missed you…)

What follows is a delightful, touching, often hilarious, frequently sordid, ramble through Julian’s three decades of fame and notoriety and his current, albeit unlikely, success as a children’s author.

Say ahh to his memories of the late Fanny the Wonder Dog and chuckle at her hapless replacement, the talentless Valerie. “Like a canine Claire Sweeney,” he cattily remarks.

Woop at his heroic rescue of Dame Joan Collins, drowning in her own South of France swimming pool. “Giving her mouth-to-mouth was like licking the bowl of a day-old casserole.”

Understand his reluctance to do much telly these days: “They hire me to be controversial and edgy, and when I am they get all upset”. Hands up if you remember the Norman Lamont hoo-haa.

Tut at his embarrassing accident as he met Her Madge after a Royal Variety Show, and what with him stood between Jennifer Lopez and Frankie Dettori too.

And cry with shame at his micturitionary lunch date with Janet Street Porter at his favourite London restaurant The Squat and Gobble en route the Buckingham Palace, only to be refused his MBE.

He has since made himself an MBE: Mincer of the British Empire. He was nicknamed Mincer Clary at his Catholic primary school, St Nancy’s of the Probably Theatrical, he informs us

Yes, all very vulgar and at times gross, but such is his endearing and warm personality and almost regal stage presence, Julian can get away with, and always does, just about everything.

“We’ve been touring since April, all the way to November,” he reminds his stagehand stooge, Bertha the lesbian.

“I might just not bother with the last few. Send Boy George on instead. No one will notice,” he quips.

Julian’s soothing voice is like that of a maiden aunt who has had one too many sherries and will often let out an indiscreet remark, much to the amusement of a packed Pavilion, particularly the lady of a certain age beside me who squawked like a trapped seagull throughout the entire performance.

Not so much a national treasure, more a national knick-knack, gawdy and battered but full of memories.

Long may he continue to mince.