Scout Durwood at the Edinburgh Festival - Part 1

Alisande Orme’s Diary

Friday, 6^th August 2010: Opening Night

I’ve been friends with first time Edinburgh festival performer Scout Durwood for four years now. During the time I’ve known her she’s go-go danced in sleazy cocktail bars, interned at a feminist magazine captained by a frighteningly verbal alcoholic editor, campaigned for the rights of rape victims, and spent time in a dungeon to research her latest one-woman show Hi, How Can I Help You? but I’ve never known her to be quite as nervous as this.

Scout arrived in Edinburgh from New York two days before her opening with Lucile Scott, her director, and two other performers who’s she sharing a house that estate agents might politely describe as ‘bijou’ with. One housemate almost didn’t make it in to the country, having previously overstayed a tourist visa by over a year. When she did make it in, Visa Girl (as she’ll hence forward be know) immediately began celebrating with Scotland’s finest (whiskey and men) throwing her housemates aflutter by disappearing for two days. It’s never undramatic with actors.

Café Renroc, 91 Montgomery Street, where Hi, Can I Help You? will run until August 29^th is the cutest little venue in Edinburgh, it even has a gallery space. However, it’s littleness mean that the hula hoop routine -an essential part of the show, where one sex worker really gets to strut her stuff- has had to be reworked at the last minute. We’ve spent two days publicising the show (read: flyering and flirting with American tourists), and are now keeping our fingers crossed that people will actually come along.

“It could be worse,” we tell each other after watching the news coverage of Charles Taylor’s trial for war crimes. “We could be Naomi Campbell’s wig.”

Saturday, 7^th August 2010

With opening night- in a not empty venue!- over Scout, Lucile and I (having taken on the unofficial role of den mother, vodka pourer and force feeder in the wee Edinburgh house) have all calmed down immensely. Even Visa Girl stayed in last night.

Café Renroc, we have decided, is perfect for Scout’s show as a noisier bar, where people are dropping in and out all the time, might disrupt the flow of the performance in a piece like this, which comprises acting, singing and dancing. They, we feel, suit improv acts or stand-up comics better as they give them the chance to show off.

The afternoon is marked out by a ‘Meet The Press’ event which La Durwood assures us went really, really well. We hope so, because apart from the flyering and relying on people who’ve seen the show to spread the word, we’re kind of at a loss of what to do, bar accosting members of the TV production teams who trawl the festival for hot new talent outside their hotel rooms.

Diva’s own interview with her, in which she discusses how best to conduct research in a ‘House of Domination’ can be found here:

www.divamag.co.uk/diva/article.asp?AID=7172

I’ll post any other links as I get them.

Sunday, 8^th August 2010

Word of mouth and a calm demeanour, it seems, might be the key. Having had a fairly good turn out on Friday, Renroc surprised us with an almost totally packed audience on Saturday! And they liked the show! Exclamation marks and double whiskeys all round!!!

We celebrated this upturn in events with fish and chips and a trip around some of the city’s finer LGBTQ bars. I’m not naming names- can’t remember any- but I would ask lesbians of Edinburgh this, particularly on behalf of Scout and Lucile, who as New York lezzes aren’t used to being chatted up by straight men in gay bars: Where are all the girls, and bois, and dykes? Want some. Also- the eternal question- why doesn’t saying “No thanks, I’m a dyke?” make me these men reconsider their (ahem) affections, especially when you’re in a lesbian bar when you say it? Hate boys.

We’re also massively uplifted by the interview with Sarah Millican that appeared in The Guardian today. Millican we learn only sold five tickets to her Edinburgh show, but went onto win the award for Best Newcomer by the end of the month. With that in mind, we went out to do more flyering.

Follow Scout on Twitter twitter.com/ladyscoutington

Myspace myspace.com/scoutdurwood

Because according to The Mirror, Cross-Dresser = Killer

Has anyone read The Daily Mirror recently? No? Well, I don’t blame you, normally I wouldn’t either. But recently there was a rather interesting article on Raoul Moat, the gunman who killed himself and shot three others over a period of seven days. With a history of violence, steroid abuse and an eighteen week sentence for assaulting a relative, he was indisputably dangerous. Within three days of his release he had shot his ex-girlfriend’s new partner and a police constable. Clearly, the man was volatile and twisted – that cannot be contested.

The Daily Mirror reported as much. The article condemns him as ‘a living monster’ who, according to a previous partner, ‘made her life hell with a string of beatings that almost killed her, a vicious rape and mental torture during jealous rages fueled by a cocktail of steroid drugs.’ Fine. Dandy. I’m not going to argue with that. Why would I? I have no doubts that she’s telling the truth. The man sounds absolutely horrific; every inch the maniac that the article portrays him as.

What I am going to argue with is this: “Marissa Reid, 32, told of the killer’s kinky cross-dressing… he made her life hell with beatings, rape and mental torture.”

I’m sorry, but what? What, pray tell, does cross-dressing have to do with killing? The two don’t belong in the same sentence! Here was a sick, twisted and evil man who ruthlessly abused his partners before proceeding to shoot three people in cold blood. He was a demented, vile individual and I’m glad he’s gone. But the fact that he cross-dressed, that he “[dressed] up in [his ex-partner’s] clothes and make-up, even parading around in a mini-skirt… loved trying on [her] skirts, dresses and even [her] thongs” is utterly inconsequential. It is a tiny, insignificant fact about a malicious murderer and bears about as much relevance to his actions as the fact he has blue eyes.

What exactly are they trying to say? That cross-dressing has a direct correlation with homicidal tendencies? That his fondness for woman’s clothing was a sign of his mental instability? Because that’s what it seems like to me. And, of course, that’s absolute rubbish. It’s merely statistics: there’s a section of people that enjoy cross-dressing, and a section of people that enjoy killing. Despite the thankfully minute proportion of the latter, the two groups will, at some point, inevitably and tragically overlap, thus opening the floodgates for the bigots and zealots who declaim different as dangerous. Of course, it’s not true. I’m willing to bet a whole lot of money that there are more killers and madmen who write with their left hands than cross-dress. Are we then to assume that being left-handed is a mark of the liable killer? That all left-handers are prone to sudden and bloody murderous riots? No, of course not, because that would be stupid. We ditched the theory that the left hand was a sign of evil when we moved away from the repression of the Victorian era, and I think it’s high time that The Mirror did the same.

(The article in question can be found here).

My so-called life as an intern for DIVA

Usually the Transport For London website is a convenient tool for planning bike routes around London, but today, on my first day as an intern I found myself riding in ever widening circles around the Holloway Road trying to follow the omissive directions I'd found online. The site said fifteen minutes from A to B, so I gave myself thirty, and forty-five minutes later I was muttering obscenities loud enough to startle pedestrians, doing giant U-turns in the middle of busy roads and zooming through red lights. It was already ten minutes past ten in the morning and despite the relaxed hours kept my magazine journalists, I knew I was pushing it.

The thing is, I've just returned from Canada where I became very used to cycling on the right hand side and being able to SEE street signs because they were on posts on the corner of the street, not TACKED TO THE SIDE OF A BUILDING or strung up against some railings being rapidly overtaken by The Bush. So maybe it wasn't all TFL's fault, but couple their failure to mention CRUCIAL TURNINGS in the journey description plus London's medieval layout - I'm not a local, in case you were wondering - and you've got yourself a stereotype: sweaty, bedraggled, be-dreadlocked, arms festooned with ragged festival wristbands, I struggle in to the office wearing a purple tank top and bright yellow trainers half an hour late. My heart is pounding, my shirt's stuck to my back and suddenly I'm aware that I am dressed like a courier.

Despite having worked in the DIVA offices before, I paused for a moment wondering if I might be subject to the evil stares of well-dressed queers, but within an hour of arriving at my desk my fears are abated as all editorial eyes scrutinise a heart-warming calendar - available NOW for 2010! - depicting lesbians from New Zealand posing with their pooches. Flicking through it I notice there's a sad truth to the myth of the lesbian urge to merge. The two women on the front cover look like kissing cousins. It's not all glamour at DIVA though, my next task involves doing research on how to get out of it. If only the editor knew how much I've been practicing for this moment for the best part of my adult life.
- The Intern