And that’s what it’s been like, just recently. Like we’ve been getting the best view. It’s a feeling I get.
Anyway, I’m thinking, I’m a stupid cow. Call meself a photographer. Where’s my camera? When I start me classes, September, I could’ve bloody wowed them with fabulous shots of the end of the festival. But no, I was drinking brown booze with me tranny mate and fannying about on the hillside. I reckon I’ve got to get me act together.
When the fireworks were over Reet goes, shall we go dancing downstairs in CC’s. And I go, all right Reet.
It was down CC’s that I met Reet in the first place, back at the start of the summer. He came right through the crowd at me on Karaoke night. Giving us the gladeye. He thought I was a lad. It didn’t help when I said me name was Dan. Thought his luck was in. He bought me a drink. I drink Chocolate Vodkas. CVs I call them. They’re lovely. He was all togged up, tottering about, but there was no way I was mistaking him for a lass. You can always tell it’s him underneath all that shit. I’d never tell him that though, he’d be horrified. Anyway, I’d never go for a lass all dressed up like that. Not a lassy lass, if you see what I mean. Though Janice looked a bit straight. Especially at the end. Who was Janice’? Oh, well, ages ago.
The night of the fireworks then, we went swanning in past the bouncers and the place was completely packed. The lasses on the door made space for us though. Nice to see four brave strapping lasses on the door. In tuxes, too, looking great. I knew one of them, Daphne, lived in the same street all her life, near here, with her mother. Mother’s a dyke, too. They sing together on Karaoke night sometimes. Do ‘Wheel’s on Fire’ and bring the frigging house down. Everyone claps and shouts. All the dykes and gay boys want to be up there singing with their mams on Karaoke night. They’d love it. As if singing something daft together would make it all right. Like they were having their mam’s say it was all right. Daphne’s mam’s still quite fit, actually, for an old lass. Has a stick, tipped in gold.
“Tell me about it then,” Reet’s saying as we shove in to the bar. It’s heaving. You can tell it’s the end of the Festival. All of these lot’ll be gone by the end of the week. Then it’ll be a different story. This place will be down to the usual — bairns and pensioners. Club Fourteen-to-Seventy I call it. Most of them are bloody men, too. You’d think Reet’d be glad, but he’s bloody not. He kind of gazes round whichever place we go to and his eyes are out on fucking stalks, swivelling round. The talent. His verdict is usually: “Slim pickings.”And he looks all cross, as if it’s a personal insult.
Tonight at the bar he looks round and goes, “Slim pickings,” again, as if out of habit. And then he says, “Go on then. Tell us about last night.”
Oh, as if I’ve got anything new to tell.
I go, “Just let’s get our drinks and find a spot. I’m not shouting me business over this lot.”
“Aye, all right,” he nods and elbows his way right up to the bar.
And then he’s making cow eyes at that very young lad who serves on there. He’s really thin and pretty-slicked-down hair. Wears an Adidas T-shirt like he’s in Blur or something. And he’s always chewing gum and looking like he can smell shit. For the hell of it once, when we were standing on the edge of a dance floor together somewhere, I sidled up and asked, did he know they made chewing gum out of cow’s feet? And he just looked at me with his eyes all sly. The fucker said nowt. I could have slapped him. I bet he just couldn’t think of owt to say. I don’t know what his name is.
So there’s Reet batting his false eyelashes over the dripping wet bar at him. Then I notice the label hanging out of the back of his top. Something else he’s managed to nick from French Connection. Don’t ask me how he does it.
Turns out it’s a special Karaoke night tonight. Some bloke’s up on the stage, the little podium thing, fucking up that ‘Saturday Night’ song. Bloody Whigfield. He’s all long dark hair and a dippy smile and you can see he loves himself to bits. But he’s gone up there and he can’t sing a note cause his throat’s gone all hard and he wants to shit his pants and he hasn’t got the strength to climb down off the podium, never mind do the daft special dance he’s been practising all week in his bedroom. He can do the ‘da da da dee do da’ bits great though. But the DJ bloke stops him early and covers it over with some chat. The DJ bloke has pinched all his patter and mannerisms off Julian Clary. He’s in a kilt and everything and all of Julian’s make-up, but he’s looking a bit embarrassed and he’s stilted and less gobby than usual. Then I realize that’s because the real Julian Clary’s standing at the bar, surrounded by
