Gay & Lesbian

On a Gay Girlie Night™ certain things must happen: 1) One must attend an event which is gay and/or girlie. 2) One must clothe oneself in the kinds of delightfully experimental fashion styles to which flatmates or boyfriends will say: ‘Why are you wearing waders/knickerbockers/a monocle?’ But to which gay girls will say: ‘How deliciously avant-garde and brave, I love the lesbo highwayman thing.’ 3) One must guzzle gay drinks like cocktails, or pink fizzy drinks that only gays or girls would drink. 4) One must bring a plethora of tasty gossip morsels to the circle of Gayness, which should include Cock Chat and Mean Things (eg. the continuing adventures of The Girl That Smells at Work).

Rockabaret – a dressy-up cabaret night – sounded gay and girlie beyond all sense. So one blustery Saturday evening Belinda, Delia, Pearl and I trek over to the Cobden Club (in west London: garraggh) bedecked in hats, frocks and pointless shoes. Inside, they are playing things like ‘Love Cats’ and ‘Personal Jesus’ while an assortment of theatrical nu-goths stare at each other through 18 layers of greasepaint. We have cocktails and a quick squiz around. Feature continues

Me: ‘(Eyeballing false hair worn in bizarre costume party way by certain parties): It’s very “wiggy”, isn’t it?’

Delia: ‘(Narrowing her shoe designer eyes at the shiny red things near her velvety slippers) Yes and it’s also very “those shoes are from New Look”.’

Pearl: ‘MY DRESS IS FROM NEW LOOK!’

Belinda: ‘It’s lovely.’

After a visit from the cigarette girl (super-long French fags smoked in an aristocratic style, if you will), a touch of tottery disco dancing and some light chit chat, our feet hurt and we need to sit down and discuss the girlie gossip which has been fizzing up over the week and also point at people.

The tables are occupied by trannies in net gloves and boys dressed as Pierrot, so downstairs to the bar we go and settle on the minimalist sofa, ordering a succession of purple hazes (vodka, champagne, purple stuff) and dishes of salty almonds. A drunken hooray Henry (actual name, Paul; face, red) sits himself down.

‘I shust need to know what goesh on up there,’ he says, gesturing at the ceiling and my electric blue millinery. We try and explain the concept before giving up and returning to a problematic scenario involving some Scottish twins, a boiled egg and a Norwegian girl called Lola.

People keep reminding us about the cabaret so occasionally we drag ourselves away from the cocktail list and go upstairs to watch a girl being a fish en pointe, two coy misses getting their tits out or an acrobat woman hanging off some cloth before someone goes, ‘I could murder a whiskey sour’ and we go back down again, cackling.

Luckily, before the gayness descends into a mush of salted almonds and Crème de Mure, Delia’s mobile rings.

‘Booty call,’ she booms, slamming her phone shut, draining her glass and bouffing her hair. ‘We’re going to a party in Highgate.’ We sail out of the swing doors. But behind us there is a sound. Deep toned. Primal. We pause and turn as one lipstick-coated unit.

‘Arrrghwaaaiiiit!’ It is red-faced Paul. He is running towards us, shirt open, hairy chest bared. ‘Warrghh look at me laydeeeys – sshsburlessssque!’ he calls.

We run away laughing. Later in someone’s lounge we bogle to bad chart hits round an ashtray-strewn coffee table.

‘Cheers,’ we say, spilling off-licence shiraz. ‘Here’s to the gay girls!’