The place, a deserted all night drinking hole. All that’s physical is a tall pub table with two stools. We imagine that above the bar hangs a tacky flashy sign, ‘The Royal Hotel. Play all night. Everyone’s a winner.’ The lights come up on the table as the juke box plays it’s final bars. The song ends dead, in anticipation.
A sub-urban tranny sits at the table drinking alone, reasonably composed. She looks to see if another song is coming on. She ain’t no showgirl. Her outfit is clean and flashy but nothing new or special. Her wig is cheap. She wears what she’s found that her pension can afford. But she looks good. It’s her Friday night out.
A man enters. Track pants and runners. Laces undone, they’ve recently been off. His surfy t-shirt is roughly tucked in. He’s pissed and untogether. He sees the tranny and tries to converse with her, invading her privacy, asking her questions he has no right to ask. “You’re tits real?”
He mumbles about cock and pussy and “fuckin, fuckin’ fuck ya”. She tries to ignore him and keeps her cool, although she’s a little pissed herself. He is teased by the idea of cock disguised as woman. Fucking with a man who’s not a man doesn’t make him a poof.
His abuse worsens on rejection. “Ya dog fucked black cunt.” She quietly curses him in lingo, still keeping her cool, she’s very much used to this. His return, “Go back to your own country ya black slut.” Calmly she has the final say, “Fuck off arsehole. Go fuck your pussy.” He mumbles further, realises that his night is over and staggers out.
She sits alone looking around for a distraction.
She scrambles in her purse, takes out a coin and goes to the jukebox and leans one armed against it in what will always remain of her woman’s masculinity. She inserts the coin and makes her selection.
As the rhythm of the song begins, red and and blue lights start flashing on the centre of the dancefloor. She returns to the darkness of her stool, her drinks and her smokes.
From behind and into the light, the singer walks. He wears black with fire at his heels and the song begins, sexily:
This track was recorded live, straight to mini disc. Credits: Peter Northcote (guitar), Leon Gaer (bass), Ian Bloxom (drums), Tim Bishop, Helen Anu & Sam Barsah (vocals). Nick Wishart (sound), mastered by Ted Rudduck.
All Rights Reserved
photo: ©Amanda James: Tim Bishop, Taboo Parlour.
placeholder: flashing lights by Iamjealousofyou.com CC2.0