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| Sacha Baron Cohen as Brüno |
You see, for this British female thirtysomething, being a Germanic gay male fashion guru feels like old times. Specifically, it feels like the years from 2001-2006, when I moonlighted as “Dear Wolfgang”, the author of an advice column in the British newspaper The Independent on Sunday. As a chiselled, beret-wearing chap, I/Wolfgang readily answered such reader queries as: what to do about prominent nipples? What should a vegetarian do with an inherited fur coat? What should a biker do about blocked pores? And where to find a traditional yukata in London?
It was high camp, high drama, and fun to write. Here’s how it started: a new editor arrived at the paper, and decided my classic shopping column needed a little something extra. After I mooted a transformation into “Dear Pierre”, a French fashionista, my editor decided we should go even more Wallpaper*, and “Dear Wolfgang”, a style guru from Bavaria, was born. A man would allow for no “Dear Jean” emotional problems (thank goodness) and a German was deemed to be straighter with his advice, although straight was not how one would come to describe Wolfgang. Part of his appeal was his camp approach combined with a devoted Puritanism when it came to the religion of style.
Back in those heady days, political correctness was something to be challenged rather than adopted, and so “Dear Wolfgang” first appeared in the paper with the somewhat suggestive title: “Duane’s is huge and shiny – so why isn’t mine?” (The object in question was an American refrigerator.)
Although I never got quite as much into character as Baron Cohen (no wings and g-strings for me; reality was more like a cramped study), I soon grew to understand Wolfgang, who offered no-nonsense advice with an acid tongue and skin as thin as a butterfly wing.
I gave my alter-ego a shot-putting sister called Helga who had a long standing devotion to the Bay City Rollers, Strongbow cider and knickerbockers; a glamorous neighbour called Mrs C, who floated diaphanously around in satin with an early-morning martini; and a boyfriend called Duane Read who lived in Florida and was a driving instructor. By the time my dear, dyslexic Wolfgang realised that Duane was a driving, not diving, teacher, love could not destroy what was theirs on Miami Beach where – I hope – they still live.
So when the identity of Baron Cohen’s latest creation hit the media, I was hit by a wave of déjà vu. I have no idea whether or not the comic ever read “Dear Wolfgang”, and I have not yet seen the film – my inner Wolfgang won’t let me accept invitations to a screening – so I can’t tell if there are any similarities in our creations. However, I can tell you tight leather, hats and waxing all appeared in the early Noughties with Wolfgang.
The truth is, the opportunity was mine to miss: had I thought more about it, I could have made more of a character out of Wolfie, written a book and created an alter-ego to descend on to the art galleries of London; a JT Leroy who would then go home, take off the leather and become Beatrice again. Maybe a calendar and a mug collection could have followed, providing me with some extra income; maybe even a pheromone-fuelled fragrance?
In this vein, while I wish Baron Cohen every success and many BAFTA nominations, I would also like to propose a sequel: “Brüno and Wolfgang”. The fashion world would never be the same.
