The media tributes to Paul O'Grady (and his alter-ego Lily Savage) strip him of his politics and smooth away the sharp edges that enhanced his greatness.
Thank you for this. If you go to social media you’ll see lots of us gays, dykes, queers and assorted sexual misfits who were there with Paul/Lilly (and the many other splendid drag stars of the London gay scene) retelling our memories of him.
They were a big part of our lives then, at a harsh and frightening time. They entertained us, the emboldened us, and more than anything they helped us realise our self-worth.
From Lilly’s public rise came a whole host of other queer performers, who unlike their predecessors were not ashamed nor needed to be, of being gay or lesbian.
I was sad when Lilly disappeared, but Paul kept that sharp wit honed, and Lilly was never far from his surface because in reality Lilly was Paul, just in a different guise.
Today many of us Royal Vauxhall Tavern (RVT) oldies are shedding a tear for not just Paul/Lilly, but for ourselves, because this moment truly marks an end to an era; of activism, of camaraderie, or riotous rebellious joy. I’m sure the RVT will be a sad but raucous place this weekend, as St Lilly-Paul is given a fond and likely furious remembrance.
My memories of Lilly-Paul of an entertainer ever ready to muck in, delivering stonking performances at many, many early AIDS benefits, being brash and rude and angry from a tiny stage in Vauxhall, and through it all giving us the energy to go on in harsh times.
Oh, and once being so crap at fire eating that they nearly set the pub on fire, which left the audience in stitches.
God rest you Paul, thank you Lilly, you were the best of us.
And thank you for writing such a great piece. I’m sure Paul would have approved of it wholeheartedly; although Lilly might have given you a raised eye brow and a wicked word.
As an Australian, I only knew him from the Battersea dogs TV show - I'm going to have to read his autobiography. I'm sure I would have loved Lily Savage
I have Murdoch to thank (god, that was the textual equivalent of gargling sand) for introducing me to Lily Savage on Foxtel Australia in the pre-ad honeymoon period (2004?) before suckers like me got rumbled by the four asses of the aFOXalypse into paying to watch free-to-air cast-offs 'My Favourite Martian', 'My Mother the Car', and 'My Friend Flicka' between iintensely irritating three-ad blocks.
* clicks 'Fuck the Merde-ocracy', selects 'Rim Rupert with a Strimmer', spends the money on meth *
By 2015, enraging 11-ad henges were the norm as I watched my mother the mug stump up the monthly oof to Rupe because it was "easier than cancelling".
This may explain the six lawnmowers, three wheelbarrows, eleventy-hundred buckets & occasional lumps of ironmongery half-buried by triffids, rhododendrons or similar -- you know the sort of garden-y things that can swallow a Victa 2-stroke whole -- scattered about the property.
Because, as everyone knows, it's easier to keep replacing expensive bits of kit than to put them back in the shed.
Also, she has eight half-dead vacuum cleaners on display in the Museum of Obsolescence, Art & Rising Damp.
Coves of a whimsical bent might call it a garage, if pressed.
When she's brown bread, it'll be called the Steptoe Wife garage sale I want nothing to do with.
Thank you for this. If you go to social media you’ll see lots of us gays, dykes, queers and assorted sexual misfits who were there with Paul/Lilly (and the many other splendid drag stars of the London gay scene) retelling our memories of him.
They were a big part of our lives then, at a harsh and frightening time. They entertained us, the emboldened us, and more than anything they helped us realise our self-worth.
From Lilly’s public rise came a whole host of other queer performers, who unlike their predecessors were not ashamed nor needed to be, of being gay or lesbian.
I was sad when Lilly disappeared, but Paul kept that sharp wit honed, and Lilly was never far from his surface because in reality Lilly was Paul, just in a different guise.
Today many of us Royal Vauxhall Tavern (RVT) oldies are shedding a tear for not just Paul/Lilly, but for ourselves, because this moment truly marks an end to an era; of activism, of camaraderie, or riotous rebellious joy. I’m sure the RVT will be a sad but raucous place this weekend, as St Lilly-Paul is given a fond and likely furious remembrance.
My memories of Lilly-Paul of an entertainer ever ready to muck in, delivering stonking performances at many, many early AIDS benefits, being brash and rude and angry from a tiny stage in Vauxhall, and through it all giving us the energy to go on in harsh times.
Oh, and once being so crap at fire eating that they nearly set the pub on fire, which left the audience in stitches.
God rest you Paul, thank you Lilly, you were the best of us.
Thank you so much for sharing your memories here x
And thank you for writing such a great piece. I’m sure Paul would have approved of it wholeheartedly; although Lilly might have given you a raised eye brow and a wicked word.
As an Australian, I only knew him from the Battersea dogs TV show - I'm going to have to read his autobiography. I'm sure I would have loved Lily Savage
There are lots of Lily Savage clips on YouTube (including full shows). Definitely read his memoirs; they are fantastic.
Really enjoyed this Mic. Found it quite moving. x
Thank you.
Great article, Mic. Really right in the mode O’Grady’d loved.
Thanks, Robin.
I have Murdoch to thank (god, that was the textual equivalent of gargling sand) for introducing me to Lily Savage on Foxtel Australia in the pre-ad honeymoon period (2004?) before suckers like me got rumbled by the four asses of the aFOXalypse into paying to watch free-to-air cast-offs 'My Favourite Martian', 'My Mother the Car', and 'My Friend Flicka' between iintensely irritating three-ad blocks.
* clicks 'Fuck the Merde-ocracy', selects 'Rim Rupert with a Strimmer', spends the money on meth *
By 2015, enraging 11-ad henges were the norm as I watched my mother the mug stump up the monthly oof to Rupe because it was "easier than cancelling".
This may explain the six lawnmowers, three wheelbarrows, eleventy-hundred buckets & occasional lumps of ironmongery half-buried by triffids, rhododendrons or similar -- you know the sort of garden-y things that can swallow a Victa 2-stroke whole -- scattered about the property.
Because, as everyone knows, it's easier to keep replacing expensive bits of kit than to put them back in the shed.
Also, she has eight half-dead vacuum cleaners on display in the Museum of Obsolescence, Art & Rising Damp.
Coves of a whimsical bent might call it a garage, if pressed.
When she's brown bread, it'll be called the Steptoe Wife garage sale I want nothing to do with.
Might weave that into her eulogy, actually.
Sidebar: I do love a tongue with a tang.
Yours is particularly piquant.
The better for it, me.
x