I almost went dancing last night. I haven't been out in public shakin' ma booty for quite some time now. I think the last time was a few weekends ago when I woke up the following morning with clothes pegs in my bag and pockets. Explain that one if you can. Anyway, after doing my final 3 hour stint at the Museum, I kissed good bye to Sheila and her curly moustached cronies and was handed a wad of cash, more cash for 5 1/2 days work than I've probably ever seen in my life. I was gutted to leave and had grown quite attached to the headset I donned i order to have a go at typing logically but I'm pretty sure they were glad to see the back of Miss Fee and her anti social behaviour. Anyway, with this money, I knew it was party time. Almost. I scoffed a huge pizza in the company of Lil Red, savouring every delicious mouthful of stuffed crust and headed to the bars. We had no posse in tow. Not for want of trying but alas, all was busy in the world of my gays and tokens. So it was just me, Lil Red, a packet of cheap menthols and a few pints of lager. We seemed to be followed around by the butchest straight girl in history who hollers across bars at you as though she's a possesive ex girlfriend but that's her idea of friendly. Personally I'd say it was just plain rude and vile but that's only my opinion, oh yeah and that of the whole of Aberdeen. 4 pints later I was pretty wasted. It doesn;t take much for that to happen and having observed and bitched about every person who crossed our paths (why is the ratio of semi-goodlooking to full on uggers so high in favour of uggers by the way?) we felt the need to dance. The same thing happens every time we go out together. Nothing suffices. The Priory was way too busy but I do love how I get ID-ed everytime, especially when I'm with my younger counterparts who they let walk on in. I'm 23, they think I look 17. I'm very excited. Then we tried Esko Bar which had more staff than customers so once again we went to OUT. It's always shit on a Thursday. It's shit at the best of times but Thursdays are just stupid. After nearly wrestling with the lesbian door person to get in for free, we coughed up the whole £2 each and burst through the door to be greeted by not one single person we knew. In a scene this small, this is very surprising. Even the Boy George wannabe had opted for Fat Friends on the telly rather than go out and swan around the club waiting to be mocked. As soon as we walked in I knew that a dance was out of the question. It was all that nasty cover versions that you may hear at a family holiday park, sung by people who sing off key as people plunk around on electronic keyboards for background music. It's so very wrong. I don;t understand why a DJ would play a cover version of Shakira when she has a perfectly good dance mix of her own. If only she knew the things people do to her music. She'd probably be pleased. Anyway, just when we were away to give up hope, and just as we'd finished watching the sleazy older poofs who dress up as kids, the familiar beat of my new favourite song came on. It seems to be about the only definite floor filler in that place, the one song that guarantees all them queers will be up dancing like twats and lip syncing along. It's Dolly Parton. The dance mix. For anyone who has been in a UK gay club this ummer, it''s probably all they have heard. It's quite wonderful and I mean that, really I do. I dragged Lil Red up to dance but really I would have danced on my own even if she hadn;t accompanied me and the only other lady I dance alone for is Britney. that's how much I like the song. Once it was over, once Dolly drew to a close and the poofs quit with the line dancing, we headed home. My need to dance was not really satisfied but one dance to Dolly is better than a night of dancing to the likes of Samantha Mumba and Christina Milian believe me. The walk home always seems to take forever, as do I telling a really quite short story, and I'm surprised that I didn;t get my gay face punched in by one middle aged stupidly dressed twat. He was looking at us, like he was going to try and pick us up with u line of 'i really fancy you, how's about it' so before he could opened his mouth, I looked him up and down, waved my hand dismissively at him and said something along the lines of "a body warmer, tapered jeans and brown boots? I don't think so." he just stared at me, as though I was Julian Clary or something and I tossed my smoky locks and moved on. It wasn't a particularly clever or funny thing to say but I just got kinda pissed with the usual ugly fuckers who think they are smooth and think that you should be honoured to have them winking at you and tugging on your shirt. And the way they chase you up the road thinking that 'fuck' and 'off' means 'please come home with me so I can suck your cheesey dick'. It's a grotesque display of inhumanity. It makes me want to hurl acrid bile on their checked YSL shirts but I left all the vomiting till I got home where I puked in the sink, accidently, and spent a good ten minutes pulling bits of pepper and mushroom from the blocked plughole before transporting the rest of it to the toilet where it could be safely flushed away. I'm horrid. I know.