RIP Mr Christmas

I live in Amsterdam. My first real contact with showbusiness, real raw unadulterated showbusiness, came through the Christmas Twins. I’d celebrated my 21st birthday a few days before, and a short walk from the houseboat, where I lived on the Amstel river, was the Backstage coffeeshop. 

Unlike the coffeeshops Amsterdam is famous for, this one sold no weed or hash. Instead it was run by two outrageous Micnac Indians from Boston. They were twins born one minute before and one minute after midnight in 1931. Inseparable their entire lives they had performed in over 40 countries as dancers and singers.

Anyone who passed by or stepped in the door was greeted by a usually correct guess at their astrological sign. Then followed an in-depth analysis of your personality, focusing on your strengths illustrated by your perceived weaknesses. They called me Wonderboy and they made me feel great! I wasn’t the only one. I used to love the way they greeted people, taking them from stranger to eager participant in their own analysis in mere minutes.

The Twins attracted many performers for an informal coffee and apple pie. But the relationship with their neighbour Merrit exploded like fireworks at a millenium. Oil and water, chalk and cheese reactivity on everything from heels and glitter to who’s hot and who’s not. Or simply a smouldering from yesterday fanned into conflagration with the inevitable tucker and bitch and slammed doors reverberating down the street.

Brilliant spectator sport, arguing queens. Lots of show and definitely the business. The seediness, backstabbing and gossip just exhilarating. And surely Shakespeare met this madness. Greg and Gary are now reunited in spirit. I feel blessed to have known them. Gary often had me recite Sonnet 27:

Q27

WEary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired, 

But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.

For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) 

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, 

Looking on darkness which the blind do see.

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight 

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.