Its 9:00 on a Saturday night and I’m staring myself down in
the mirror, a whipping of silvery blue against my cheek, a bangle remnant of
the early 2000s, and the plainest white tee shirt I could find. Queen blaring
through the speakers as I pat the beat of “we will rock you” against any
surface I can find. I crown myself with an inflatable crown (which I looked
almost too perfect in) and switch from stoic rocker to a sassier Avril Lavigne
tune, giving it an enthusiasm that might be considered “a bit much” in most
other situations. Complete with a black and blue wig loaned from a friend who
used to have issues with her hair. It looked perfect and slapped me in the face
every time I moved, but it would do.
So I turn up at the event, dressed in my britpop attire and
lashings of silver jewellery, before being confronted with my rivals. There was
a Latina drag queen who I mistook for Egyptian on the night, and a young skinny
black guy in a cap. The entrance stamps me through and we get ushered to the DJ
booth for a proper sign in. There stood Wanda, the local drag queen whom I
never expected to be a reoccurring character in my life, in a glitterbomb 80s
one-piece gown thing and a foot tall wig. She smiled warmly and herded the
ragtag gaggle of contestants towards the VIP corner, where her henchman, a
third year uni student and Rosies worker, gathered us free drinks and the
reality began to sink in.
I hadn’t made it this far last time. I watched my
rivals move to whatever was playing, it wasn’t too bad. Was it? My stomach was
filled with free liquor and uncertainty, not quite fear. Did I choose good
songs for the vibe? Or could I get a more bombastic response from a Janelle
Monae song or something by the Vegaboys? No. it would be fine. People would be
too drunk to care anyway. If I couldn’t recall half the terrible karaoke that
happens at my weekly karaoke night, then no ones gonna remember a mediocre
lipsync from that one nightclub that one time.
Wanda announced the 5 minute warning for contestants, and I
sip my cocktail clean, sliding the inflatable crown from my bag yet leaving the
wig as a big finale. Queen first. Wig later. As I blow it up, I clock a glimmer
of concern dance through the other competitors eyes, not quite fear from the
queen, but “oh shoot, he’s got more tricks than I realised”, the black guy on
the other hand looked like a train had just zoomed past and caught him off
guard. Finally the hostess returns and announces the event, demonstrating the
rules with her mute rendition of “I cant sing live,” and throwing in a few
quips about Cheryl Cole. The Arabian went first, the violin intros to Toxic by
Britney spears filling the room and a fairly simple beginning happened. Okay. I
can handle this. she even stops “singing” when she turns around sometimes,
that’s gotta be worth a point deduction. I thought. Then halfway through the
song she tears off her black wraparound dress thing and reveals a sequinned red
number, before doing at least a dosen pole dancing moves I could never have the
core/upper body strength for. Fuck, I curse mentally. Fuck fuckity fuckwits.
Well even if she’s gonna destroy me I’ll at least give her a fight.
The violins faded and I was called up using my full name.
for some reason being “Matthew” feels slightly more jarring than “Matt”. I
enter in my jacket with my inflatable crown, and begin to drum to the iconic
beat. The lyrics came, and I have never been luckier to pick up the background
radiation of my brothers elocution lessons. I noiselessly shouted the lyrics,
throwing my hands up into rocker signs and nodded along with as much charisma
as I could muster, sometimes throwing in claps for good measure. By the final
verse of “somebody better put you back into your place” I had no choice. I had
to sell the show. I tossed my crown into the crowd with a flourish into the
abyss and began air guitaring. People loved free stuff from the stage, right?
The 3rd contestant went, the young black man. He
acted to Chris Brown, at one point leaving the stage to try and pull. I smirked
in relief. At least I’d make round two hopefully. Although to be fair he did
manage to dance with a pretty girl for a couple of minutes so the trade off was
understandable. Wanda announced the people who stayed for round 2, which were
me and Diana the arabian, before lovingly despatching the young wannabe rapper
with a quip about maybe having his friends take him to cruise (a lesser, slightly
chavvier nightclub and Rosies’ rival.) before setting Diana up again, freshly
changed, into a Ru Paul’s drag race song that made me sigh in angst, but also
slight relief.
Her second performance was slipping a bit, no gymnastics and
a song that barely vibed with the room. Did she strike out with her first song?
Maybe I did stand a chance, I drunkenly thought, still glowing from the power
of the performance. I could see how famous people could get addicted to it in
the right light. Hero worship makes a great pick me up. I was hungry for round
two, for a rematch. Lets see what I could do.
My name was shouted once more, and I put the wig on from
behind my back gracelessly, taking Wanda by genuine surprise. “you look like my
sister” she gasped legitimately. I translated that as successfully looking like
an angsty 2000s pop punk teen girl*. The first few notes kicked off and I fully
went for it, getting rewarded for my flirty winks and gestures out to the
audience by a roar of approving cheers and participation. I threw in a few
interesting hip moves that I’m sure sober Matt should never witness, ever,
followed by a chin framing motion and a finger wiggle that as I listen to the
song while writing this I am discovering has been trained into my subconscious.
Curiously, it the more “laddy” guys who seemed to be the most enthusiastic
about the song.
The final scores came up and Wanda prepared to measure it by
applause. I threw in a tongue in cheek line about having student loans to pay.
There was a roar for Diana and whimper for me, then a roar for both that
completely scrambled the data. I arched an eyebrow. Maybe I could walk home
with the money. “since the cheers seem to be incredibly similar, lets take it
to our volunteer judges who aren’t payed by stonegate (the business that paid
everyones bills). The microphone went to the DJ booth, with a plucky young
rugby lad behind it and a stand in DJ. Both in Xfactor style, dramatically
paused. “Diana” the first one admitted. “now remember, if (rugby player) says
Diana she goes to the final, if he says Matthew then we need a tiebreaker.”
My
eyes lit up at that sentence. Please
please please please please I begged mentally. Rugby made a pained
expression. Maybe we were going to have an unplanned tiebreaker, that would
have tipped the scale surely. “Diana” he gasped. I clapped and settled. a close
second. I could live with that. I received a runner up kopperberg on Wanda’s
tab, and her private admission that she preferred my act. I barely cared, I was
drunk and riding the highs of performance all the way to my local bar before
home before 1am.
*Within two hairflicks I discarded the wig and continued.
Those things are a liability.
