Maria! Maria!

For the last week and a half I have swung calamitously from one hangover to another via extreme excesses of alcohol and absences of sleep. It all began last Wednesday with a trip to London. Half cut before we arrived we quickly checked in, dumped our bags and headed into Soho. A bottle of wine in the first bar, an early meal and another bottle of wine in the next, two killer cocktails each in the next and then beer with Christian before jumping on the tube and going to the Brits.

Sadly (ahem?) we missed U2 because we were late and drunk and really needed a wee. We did however see Duffy - who was very small and very far away despite her quite large head, Girls Aloud - great stage show, shame about the music and Take That - although technically I did not see them because I was refueling on white wine and trying to convince the bar lady that she should take my five pound note even though it was now cleft in twain.
I nearly wet myself when Estelle and The Ting Tings came on together (secretly I am a thirteen year old girl) and the Pet Shop Boys were very exciting and quite brilliant.

After the show finishes we trollopsed down the stairs and straight to the tube. I seem to remember getting off at Piccadilly Circus but I can't be completely sure. I do remember going to one of my favourite bars - The Friendly Society - and was pleased to see that they had been partially re-vamped. Many of the Barbie dolls had been removed as had the fur on the wall of the grotto and the ceiling is now adorned with a large selection of Trolls.

I do not remember what we drunk there but I do remember that when we were asked to leave (the bar was closing - it was nothing personal) we still had a drink each in our hands. This is when Maria came to the rescue. Maria told me that she had owned the bar since it opened - strange because of all the random nights that I have spent in there I had never seen her.

Whilst socialising with the adorable and slightly curious Maria we were introduced to two chaps (I think one of them works there and the other is a DJ but for all I know they were Russian political activists with a penchant for sea horse meat - I was so drunk by this point.) These chaps then led us across Soho on a magical mystery tour and took us to another bar where I think I danced a little bit and I may have had another drink but that escapes me - which is exactly what we did soon afterwards. 

We discreetly did one and headed off toward Trafalgar Square, down the Strand and to a club which Chris had sorted out guest list places at. Heaven - as I'm sure you can guess by the name - is a gay club. Normally. Last Wednesday night however it was more of a black R&B club. So we went to be frisked, wandered through the metal detector doorway to ensure that we had no weapons (I'm gonna stab you man!) and I think Chris discussed the guest list. The rest of my time in there was a bit of a whirl. I vaguely remember pushing my way through a very packed bar area, I actually do remember dancing badly in one of the bars and apparently Chris gave me some money to buy another drink which I found in my pocket the next morning. We didn't stay there long for some reason. We left through the brick lined arches narrowly avoiding a bitch fight which was about to break out between a couple of young ladies and at this point I don't remember much at all - the lions in Trafalgar Square - being cold - a book shop on Charing Cross road? And then it was morning! Ta da!

Samantha from Burnley

When we first moved to Preston we went to Chris's chairman's house for drinks one evening. He lives in a lovely house overlooking Stanley Park in Blackpool. As we were leaving one of his neighbours was shouting coo-ee and doing high kicks in the front garden. Turns out that this bloke was otherwise known as Betty Legs Diamond and was the headline act at Funny Girls in Blackpool. Chris's chairman tried to reciprocate and made a valiant effort to high kick back at him but when you're in your mid sixties and you've had half a bottle of red wine this can appear quite graceless. Betty put me in mind of a transvestite I met two August bank holiday's ago called Samantha from Burnley. Samantha from Burnley was a bus driver during the week and came down to Manchester at weekends to get all trashed up and drink pints of bitter.

I love trannies - not drag queens, just trannies - especially the ones who look like they've just come off the building site and put a frock on for the night. The librarian ones you see standing quietly in the corner on a Wednesday night on canal street talking to the teacher ones - all tweed skirts and cheap pearls. The cocky ones who've gone a shade mad with their human hair wigs and plumped for a shade of maroon that will show off their glittering cleavage enhancer and the married ones who are out for the night with their ever so understanding wives.

I can't imagine wanting to dress up like that - either as a lifestyle thing like a transvestite or as an entertainment thing like a drag queen. I did once wear a skirt on my head though when I was five years old.