Over
Christmas my fascination piqued. There was a free TV show I’d see drifting
around online a bit. Drag acts dressing as terrifying monsters and other things
that go bump in the night. I binged the entire 3 seasons in one sitting over
the course of a week, loving all the campy over the top, almost buffy-ish
aesthetic choices. There was a tongue in cheek to it, especially given the
henchmen of the hosts. The boulet brothers, statuesque drag queens, always had
a topless brooding figure behind them, and an scrappy Asian man in his
underwear for any practical needs (ie to play a zombie victim within a sketch.)
Prior to
this, my opinions on drag were very hot and cold. I used to pride myself in
disliking all that superficial stuff and the hot pink bitchy aesthetic, but
slowly, via meeting drag acts that were actually talented and much more
practical, with comedy being the focus of UK queens, unlike their American
counterparts. My opinion dripped like a sand timer until I disagreed with my
past self. That seems to be a reoccurring theme of university.
Anyway cut
to a week ago. I hurdle my wedges into a backpack and take to the train
station, squealing metal rushing me to Manchester, old smokey’s slightly more
punk rock sister. Naturally I go to Affleck’s palace to kill some time,
exploring the spicier options. Everything from fur coats to healing crystals
(which I’m sure have a very mixed success rate, but everyone needs a placebo.)
£20 pounds
of drinks and roaming left and I end up in the queue for dragula’s show.
Ironically not in canal street, but quite fittingly in a bar called rebellion.
I queue up and get in conversation with a 16 year old girl in a drawn on
moustache, chatting there for an hour about everything from our favourite act
to how relieved I am to have escaped the education system. Slowly the queue
starts becoming more bizarre, split 50/50 between people in painfully normal
clothing, and people in a carnival of glitterbeards, wigs, unusual face paint
and clothing only just made suitable despite its more sexual connotations.
Another one
I found myself magnetised to was a blonde figure, 5”4, glitterbearded and
dressed in a way that almost resembled a Rockstar from the mid 2000s, some mash
up of Gerard Way, P!nk , and a new romantic from the 80s. I learned that this
figure was called Felix Cited, and after sighing at tragedy of that pun, met
their spouse, a perfectly ordinary looking dude in a denim jacket. They seemed
as baffled as I was.
We enter the
party, me having made friends with a handful of strangers, and of course I
followed my curiousity. I cant resist. I start with the creature in the
sundress, roughly 5”10 with flowing hair, a shaggy beard, and a face of make
up. They had an ethereal energy, drifty yet certain about things. Like
something that would help you in a forest at night, some forest sprite. I sort
myself out, going to the bathroom and exploring the bar area. There were 8 foot
Amazonian women and 5 foot cowboys in a strenciled on moustache. They seemed to
surround me, kinksters, genderfucks, and Halloween costume enthusiasts spilling
from all angles. I felt safe, yet completely out of my depth. I found a series
of vaguely trustworthy looking people and asked for advice. “stay out of
spitting distance of the stage” offered one of the amazonians and her harnessed
companion.
I switched
shoes, rare to be a man in heels and still not the most attention getting
person in the room, but half the room was in some variation of genderfuck so me
in my wedges wouldn’t even register on the radar.
The show
began and two figures, ballpark renditions of womanhood in white contact lenses
emerged, speaking crisply to the crowd. To my surprise they brought Ian, the
plucky assistant, in his harness and jockstrap. They announced a series of music
renditions, the most haunting being Evah Destruction in full mad clown makeup,
scuttling to a song called “the laughing track” by crooger, at roughly 5 miles
her hour. Mimeing deranged laughter and casting a victimising daggered finger
as she chuckled at the audience. At some point there was silly string. I now
understood the warning. God help what the audience would be covered in by the
end of the show.
Another act
I particularly liked involved Victoria Elizabeth Black, dressed like a
Victorian morgue worker. She dissected a plastic and paper mache corpse, taking
out organs as props and at one point riding against it to a rock song. I slowly
discovered that this collection of plastic and paint was about to get more
action than I was within this evening.
At the break
I met more of the audience, asking about the figure beside me. he wore netting,
features sharpened with make up to look bloodied and emphasised, and a crown
with a hand crawling from it. A drag king inspired by Landon Cider’s victory …
I assumed. “wow how did you get the
chest so realistic?” I asked, my sceptical eye cast over it to find evidence it
was a prop. I was told later that I was dealing with an authentic male person,
and that those pecs through the netting were in fact real. A flush of mild
embarrassment took over me, explaining away my behaviour with the truth to
receive pragmatism and a “well I was going for that look” kind of response that
made my close inspection seen considerably less creepy than without the
context.
By the end
of the night I was intoxicated by the audience. Everyone seemed to have so much
richer a story to them that night. One notable creature was a 6 foot man
covered in latex clothing. Despite his costume, his face seemed trustworthy. I
spoke to him for a while before being introduced to his lovely wife, and their
friend. “are those … real?” I enquired, seeing a chest that defied all laws of
physics. She smiled at me sincerely, “nope, inflatable. Touch them!” she
offered eagerly. I jabbed at what was essentially a set of balloons, before she
began to market her crafting skills to me. “I love to work with latex” she
responded.
I got my
photos, and left. I was restless. I wanted to party, to meet more unusual
specimens … but I thought I had a 9AM the day after. I withdrew from the party
and hoddled to the train station. I was gutted to discover the 9AM I was on a
quest to get to, had been cancelled. My brain weighed up the lost potential
against the success of the party. I added “go back to Manchester” back on my bucket list
