This one's going out to Mel in Percy Street (or wherever). A big Bowie shaped shout out. I've got the hangover from hell (otherwise known as the eighties). Yes, something very strange happened in God's own city this week...
It started off on Sunday night in McMillans...Lenny on the door in a dashing pink top, meeting and greeting. I think the Muscatelli sisters were in a cage dancing but I was too drunk to tell...or care. The highlight was everyone on the dancefloor for Ain't Nobody. Bless Chaka Khan...and Brenda King for that matter.
So, of course after a wonderful night, we nursed our hangover in The Tabac. All day. Over the same pot of tea, virtually. Maybe Mark Jones had a coffee. But Elaine definitely got her finger stuck in the coffee grinder and Rita definitely humiliated at least four of us. A short trip down Bold Street and we were soon back up the hill in time to throw some new drag on and head to The Ev for a few quiet drinks and to slag off whoever wasn't sitting with us in the Tabac that day. Or one of Tom's girlfriends. Same difference.
Same again Tuesday. Maybe there was some drama/crisis/Jazz went mad in the Kwiky nonsense in between. It's a blur. By Wednesday we were bright, perky and shjushed up enough to take ourselves to Gay Town. Otherwise known as Jody's. Sol danced like...no one else we'd ever known. Carlo took the piss out of...everyone . And Bammer and Sebonga stepped up to...the podium. Us girls? We "walked like a man". With Divine of course. No, we didn't go over to the dark side! We are fag hags and staying that way.
A Thursday afternoon spent in Miss Selfridge. Mel got away with bringing back a ten year old dress (which was their own fault for dragging out again this season) and we were ready to hit The Mardi. Fashionably late of course. Or was it because Sol and Mel couldn't work the living room door? That or Tom had cooked Spam again...
At the Mardi we spied McCulloch having a heated debate in the corner with Wylie. Who cares who was in The Criucial Three? They're playing Love is a Wonderful Colour and we've got to dance. Last in. Last out. And we climbed the hill, humming Nina Simone and stopping only to get some pakoras and we're still only at the top of Bold Street. Fancy coming back to mine, Dollface?
So, now it's Friday night and that was the week that was. This is the God's honest version of how Liverpool looks at the moment. Have I forgotten anything? You tell me.
N.B. Names have remained the same to protect the guilty.
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2 comments:
Oh. My. God. I love this sooo much, I could cry (in fact, I probably am crying - or that just might be last night's mascara still rivuleting down my face). Talk about 'thank you for the days'! People often say that they wouldn't go back; if going back looks and feels like this, I'm happy to go there every (other) day-ish.
I'd forgotten about that bloody dress (must try that one in Jolly's of Milsom Street later on), but it seems that everything else had been patiently sitting in the mind-wardrobe for all these years, and every single memory is now delighted to be dragged (literally?) down today's catwalk. And in your hands, they look extremely stylish (probably far more so than they ever did way back when ...).
Effing fabulous, Dollface. I'm hugely jealous, of course ...
(now that's what I call throwing down a gauntlet)
xxx
Er ...
Um ...
Er, hello ...
I was just wondering (shifts from foot to foot uneasily)
Er ... What do you do for fun?
I mean, not an attack slug in site ... No three headed dachshunds with extendable necks ...
Yours ... Puzzled ...
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