John Hurt, the widely-admired English actor who rose to fame playing flamboyant gay icon Quentin Crisp, has died aged 77.
There#’s a scene where he’s in the dock, wearing make up (no, not just stage, obviously). Made a hell of an impression if I can recall that all these years later. The character seemed to leap out of the screen*.
Oddly, I always thought he was Irish. Only English in the Peter O’Toole (who may actually have been born in England as well) sense, that the accent was trained.
*Scrolling down the article there’s a photo of it. But I remembered before scrolling down. And that photo does look very odd as well, that microphone is a bit modern for the time it is set isn’t it?
His most memorable dispatch from France came after an unidentified aircraft had aroused a fever of speculation by crashing and scattering grenades across the runway at Orly. For whom was this deadly cargo intended? Ottaway was sent to investigate, and came back with a crisp one-line telegram: “Grenade is French for pomegranate.”
And do note that Puerto Rico result. That Caribbean island remained under that American domination, that cruel capitalism and the chaos of markets. It was never enriched by the scientific planning of socialism. And living standards soared by a factor of 4 while those in Cuba stagnated for 5 decades. And the Cuban system justified itself by freeing Cuba from such American hegemony.
For that Fidel Castro should not be forgiven.
We also need to heed this lesson. Non-market economic systems do not work. We do only have that spectrum available to us, laissez faire all the way to social democracy. Socialism, not even once people, not even once.
Two years later he published The Unhappy Gays in which he argued that though homosexuals were “vile” they could be “cured”. In later life he seems to have moved on from this position, suggesting in an interview that, actually, homosexuals should be put to death, as recommended by the Old Testament.
Yes. Lots of fun:
Not that any of them really need a job because their father’s writing left the family extremely comfortable. The Left Behind series spawned a merchandise industry with CDs, DVDs, clothing, a board game in which players earn “redemption tokens” that can be cashed in for eternal life, and calendars that allow the chosen to count down the days until the rapture.
LaHaye was not thought to be using one of these calenders when he died from a stroke in hospital. Nor were there any reported sightings of his mortal remains lifting off into the sky.
In 2002 he recruited well-known fellow peers to appear in a fundraising West End revue. The End of Peer Show featured Lord Healey (obituary, Oct 5, 2015) in a false moustache, flat cap and brown mac reciting The Lion and Albert and the Marquess of Bath singing The Stately Homes of England.
Among the many extraordinary feats he achieved in his lifetime, the one which his fellow runners remember most fondly concerns his shoelaces. He learnt to tie them without stopping during a record breaking 350 mile run in 1987.
Attrell Cordes was born in 1970, in Jersey City, across the Hudson river from Manhattan. His early life was marred by misfortune — his father died from pneumonia and a third brother drowned at the age of two. Attrell and Jarrett were raised by their mother Janice, a follower of the American spiritualist and mystic Edgar Cayce, and stepfather George Brown, who had played drums in Kool & the Gang.
The brothers sang together in a church choir but by their teens they were hanging out on the street, on the periphery of a netherworld of crime and drugs. “I lived between the yuppies and the killers,” Attrell noted with impressive understatement. “When you’re 14, it’s hard to know how to deal with that sort of thing, but I saw myself slowly becoming an idiot, so I left.”
Two years later he conducted Kenneth McKellar, who came ninth in Luxembourg singing A Man Without Love. McKellar had been persuaded to perform in a kilt, but when the BBC collected feedback from around Europe they found an unexpected comment from Yugoslavia. They thought the entry had been OK, but they felt the lady who sang it looked “rather butch”.
That could well be one of those tales which has improved with the telling of it…..
I bumped into him at The Open at Sandwich a few years ago and noticed he was limping. He’d fallen in a ditch, he said. “Drink taken?” I asked. “Don’t be daft, man,” he said in that lovely Welsh lilt, “who falls in a ditch sober?”