� In this diary, I record my life as a transvestite. Perhaps it will help somebody else, who finds their lifestyle doesn't quite match that endorsed by the 'tranny mafia'. Well, I've been there... and survived. The debriefing starts here.
�loves: All kinds of stuff that society thinks I shouldn't.
Lots of tranny fiction makes use of halloween as a plot device. Apparently, it's a good night for normally secretive males to dress up and go out on the town. In the USA, anyway. That comes but once a year... but you can get your cross-dressing kicks at other times, courtesy of The Rocky Horror Show. The stage musical dates back to 1973, but if they're not touring anywhere that's handy for you, there's always the 1975 movie, still screened from time to time in university towns.
If you don't know about the show, you should understand that it has a cult following. Rowdy audience participation is the norm, and many dress like the characters in the show, which demands a very camp burlesque... or for those who are feeling shy, at least a blood-spattered lab coat. A chance to go out, brazenly displaying stocking and suspenders? Well, it'd be rude to turn that down, wouldn't it? And to quote a central character, "I'm just a sweet transvestite..."
Going to see the stage show was my friend Hugh's idea, and he kindly offered to drive, so that was nice. Just one disappointment: he turned up sporting an indifferent 'student' look, despite the fact that he knew that the rest of us had gone to the trouble of putting together film-themed costumes. Lucy and I wore the outfits that Riff Raff and Magenta are seen in, in the finale of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The ones you see in this clip:
Our other accomplice for the night was Peter, who had dressed like Frankenfurter, in a basque, fishnets and a tiny pair of black underpants, plus high-heeled boots... pretty scary really, but he certainly had cojones. Well... that was obvious in every sense.
Now the next problem (if we ignore the aggressive, erratic driving) was Hugh's parking strategy. He opted to use the South Bank TV Centre car park.
Now, I don't know London very well, but the clue is in the name, surely. 'South Bank'... as in the wrong side of the River Thames. Theatreland is distinctly north, in the vicinity of Leicester Square.
So we had to walk along the South Bank, and cross the bridge that leads into the concourse at Charing Cross station (which is quite a busy one) and then northwards, skirting Trafalgar Square, to reach the venue. About twenty minutes' walk, I suppose.
In uber-drag.
Gulp.
No problem for Hugh, of course... mister thoughtless.
Not far into our trek, Peter had abuse shouted at him by some black teenagers, loitering by the waterfront. It began with "Ya batty man!" which you may recognise as a Jamaican insult for a gay male. I can't say I've ever really understood the need to be nasty to gays. Is it really all done just in case your friends would otherwise think you're sympathetic to them, and therefore more likely to be gay? How stupid is that? I don't understand much of the Jamaican patois, but I can figure out enough of it to know that 'Beenie Man' was at least grossly irresponsible in his choice of lyrics in his 2004 hate song 'Batty Man Fi Dead'. I can remember when reggae was about peace, rather than about gutting gays like a fish, gouging out their eyes, shooting them in the forehead with a Glock pistol... and so on. Lovely!
Peter was the focus of their attention, and he endured it well. I, too, was wearing stockings and a suspender belt - as was Lucy, but of course that's 'okay'. We each sported a home-made quilted gold jerkin with huge black shoulder pads, closely matching the ones in the film. Lucy even had Magenta's zigzag white streak sprayed in her hair. In short, we were dressed like freaks. Peter's much bolder outfit diverted any nastiness away from us, but equally, he wouldn't have embarked upon that long walk without Lucy and I beside him. Safety in numbers, I suppose.
So what do you do, wandering around in little besides lingerie, in a capital city, before the sun has gone down?
You brass it out. Don't acknowledge your detractors at all. Treat the whole business as if it's all going to plan: a joke that the thugs just aren't in on.
And, truly, the clothes do make the man... if you let them. It could have been an undignified scuttle, being followed and harrangued by some homophobic bullies who didn't understand what they were seeing. Instead, it was a piece of spontaneous theatre overspill.
I was Riff Raff, and I held my head high. I played my role properly, with a Sardonic Richard O'Brien sneer. I was the heartless baddie who was destined to shoot my master and his henchmen, and taken control of the mission. I had "a laser capable of emitting a beam of pure anti-matter." (Mine was a water pistol, but that's not the point.)
The thugs lost interest, and returned to the more important task of loitering. We crossed the bridge, confusing some office workers but also encountering some people who realised what we were up to. Two said "Enjoy the show!"
Eventually, we reached the theatre, only just in time before curtain-up. The place was packed, and we were among the last to take our seats. For all his faults, Hugh had got us very good ones - almost at the front - and because of the costumes, we were cheered and clapped by the rest of the audience.
Nicholas Parsons, better known for 'Just a Minute' on Radio 4 (or Anglia Television's 'Sale of the Century' if you want to show your age) played the role of the narrator. He was actually very good; better than Charles Gray in the film, because he responded to the audience so well. It was a fantastic show, building further upon the well-known jokes in the film. And the girl who played Janet had a very, very, very nice bum. Let's hear it for professional dancers... and stage shows that are conducted almost entirely in lingerie!
It was a great night out. But upon leaving the theatre we took a taxi back to the car park. Running the gauntlet once had been enough. Clothes may make the man, but they don't make him stupid.
