Soon, Brendan Murphy, his manager and former boyfriend, started looking after my work too, so the three of us spent a lot of time together.
We really hit it off at that first meeting - this bloke was simply the most entertaining and potty-mouthed person I'd ever met and he really loved strong women. He toured the drag circuit and hosted regular evenings at the Vauxhall Tavern, a legendary gay pub just a mile from where we were sitting in a swanky restaurant. Who was this Paul O'Grady? When we got chatting he revealed his current job was dressing up as a foul-mouthed Liverpudian barmaid called Lily Savage, loosely based on his Aunty Chris. I read the name card, and it meant nothing. We met in the early '90's at a fund-raising dinner when I was seated next to a glamourous forty-something bloke I'd never heard of, who was wearing an immaculate suit. He was a special friend during a difficult time in my life. Someone who elevated drag into an art form, equally at home chatting to royalty as supermarket workers. And now he's dead we've lost a National Treasure. He tirelessly fought for gay rights and was passionate about animals.
His autobiographies were hysterically funny, painting a warts-and-all portrait of a tough life growing up in working-class Liverpool. The real Paul O'Grady preferred to sip at a glass of cider when others were downing champagne by the bucket-load. Out of character, on a night out in smart clothes, he was softly spoken and never wanted to be the centre of attention. Dressed in a towering blonde wig, corset and suspenders as Lily Savage, Paul was fearless, reducing celebrities and film stars to quivering wrecks with his sharp wit and lightning retorts. The two personalities existed side by side. In private, he was the kindest, most modest and quietly spoken person you could meet. Paul O'Grady was a brilliant wit whose withering one-liners were the filthiest on television.
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