When You’re A Boy
After last week’s hen night/day/extravaganza where all participants in the day trip to a shooting range were given stick-on moustaches, mine actually looked like it belonged on my top lip. In minutes my demeanour changed, and I started to walk like a man, talk like a man, my son. It occurred to me: I’m a good boy, I am. I suppose what I’m doing here is my annual Halloween post, because when I look back I’ve often opted to be a bloke. One year I’m Blackadder, the next I’m Zombie Rod Hull (complete with dead Emu), the next I’m Prince in his Purple Rain period. This year, at the annual Halloween Party of Legend, I’m dressing as a bloke but I won’t divulge as many of my co-halloweenies read the Misssives and these things are always best revealed on the night. But would I have liked to be a bloke? Hmmm…I think not. Here are my reasons: 1. Recent readers will have read that my Mum wanted to call me Kenny. No rock stars are called Kenny. And before someone phones in, you can’t count Kenny Loggins. He only did Footloose and that was ages ago.
So I’ll maybe not save up for the op and get my eye laser treatment instead of an expensive and painful trip to GirlstoBoys R Us.
And there’s always Halloween to indulge the inner geezer.
By the way, thanks for voting for me in the The Blogger’s Choice Awards. It ended today. I made a wee bit of a dent. The Misssives finished in 18th place for the Best Blog About Stuff category, which is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick and I believe I’m the only blog from the UK to make it that high, but don’t quote me. I know for sure I’m the No1. Transvestite blogger. Special thanks to those who commented- some of them words made me weep a bit. And if you’re sitting there going, “Aw man, I didn’t vote, I feel like such an utter git!,” then you can vote for me in the 2009 awards which start today. And those of you who voted for me originally can vote again. Chin, chin!
Hardcore Hens
Then what? Well the bride-to-be has got her work cut out. There is a fine tradition of ridiculousness in the hen nights of yore. The Hen tomorrow has got some crackers to live up to.
Firstly my own. I dunno, you make one casual comment and all hell breaks loose. My casual comment was in response to a male friend asking if he could come on the hen night.
Word spreads. “We can get to both Hen and Stag Night if we get ourselves some frocks,” goes the rumour. I never meant the remark to be taken seriously but in the time-space between the word spreading and the actual night, a great deal of money has been spent, a bin bag full of man-hair has been removed, other hair has been tonged and backcombed and make up has been applied by the shovel full. The effort! The attention to detail! The weirdness! About ten men are ranging in looks from teenage starlet to retired headmistress on a night out. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, eat your heart out. After I picked myself up the floor from laughing so much, I wondered, what would have happened if my response to the question had been “The only way you’ll get to come along is if you get yourself a ticket to an Amsterdam clinic and get yourself a lady-flower ”.
Second only to that was Auntie Kezza’s hen night. Now Kezza used to work with Meeester in Social Work for the Elderly. Between them, they’ve stories that make you blanche. Poo stories, wee stories, naked old men stories. Meeester says he has an idea for Kezza’s hen night. An idea so repellent, I ask him to reconsider. “Nah, don’t worry…Kezza will love it”. The two of them have had to adopt a cavalier attitude to bodily functions to get them through the working day. It’ll be fine. Cue Kezza’s Hen Night where a mix of Aunties, Mums workmates and friends are in an upmarket Chinese restaurant. Plates are being cleared away, when there is the noise of metal clanging against metal and a little bit of a commotion. Some of us look round to see an elderly man in zimmer-frame manage to negotiate the last stair. He is wearing a dirty overcoat, flat cap, cookie duster grey moustache, and a (full) catheter bag is strapped to the walking frame.
Within seconds he has set down a ghetto blaster and pressed play. Tom Jones’s “What’s New Pussycat”blares out and the geriatric burlesque floor show begins. The coat comes off, the long johns are brown-stained, and the catheter bag is hoisted and jet of pale yellow liquid pours forth, straight into the mouth of Kezza like she’s on holiday in Torremolinos. It is wine. She just knows it is.
How far did Meeester take the floor show? I can’t remember. I think I blacked out.
