Diary of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo

I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else

Name:Miss Fee


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The Outsider - A Camus

Choke - C Palahnuik


Thursday, March 27

I was in Butlins last night. Well maybe I wasn’t but it sure as hell felt like I was. For anyone lucky enough to be blissfully unaware of what Butlins actually is, it’s one of these annoyingly cheery holiday camps where you go with your family and partake in all manners of activities with the staff who act as though everyday is a talent contest. Basically, it’s loud, it’s brash and it’s full of staff who should be in a pantomime. Of course I have never personally been to Butlins because the showy, fake-fun holiday has never been my family’s idea of entertainment but hell, I’ve watched the Docu-Soaps and Hi-de-hi as religiously as the next sad twat so hey.

Anyway, it was opening night in Chicago Rock Café/Jumpin Jacks, a live entertainment venue, and for some reason my work decided that we would step out of our red tee shirts for an evening, slip into something a bit too spangly and head for Hen Night Central. There were so many false grins surrounding me I was sure I was in a Belgian porno and every second chick shasaying around in chuff length skirts did nothing to dispel this feeling. At the table, amongst the silverware was a number of instruments with which we were expected to make as much noise as possible and ‘really go wild’ with. Having seen the whistles and horns being recycled from one table to another I opted for the plastic maracas, one of which even rattled its way to my bag. I think the fact that we were encouraged to take these as we left made my sly attempt of stealing look rather pathetic and about as rebellious as Charlotte Church saying ‘Fuck’. Anyway, I was just getting accustomed to the rabble of Sharon and her band of drunken women who were celebrating more than just a birthday, and was just tucking into my fish cakes (always a lesbo) with about as much decorum as bulimic on a binge when we were incited into a 60 second count down by the sleazy DJ. All of a sudden the staff as good as dropped pints where they were standing, grabbed the nearest vacant chair, or failing that then simply the nearest chair, clambered up with fat knees a trembling and burst into some wildly over the top rendition of Born to Hand Jive, Baby. Even the management with their broad suits and long faces joined in and swung their arms like a non swimmer in the deep end. It was something else. This is maybe an everyday occurrence everywhere else but here in Aberdeen where waitresses find it hard to even curl a lip at you, nevermind climb on your table and stick their heels in your beef patty, it was quite a spectacle. Our waitress, Helen, had transformed from the bird who served us our nachos with a glimmer of enthusiasm to crazed woman who’s flailing was so extravagant she almost lost a tit. I struggled on with my fishy treat, trying not to let the heaving breasts of female and male staff members alike put me off but not no avail. After the sight and smell of sweaty pits in my face I really didn’t want to imagine their fingers in my food.

I wondered if I would ever be able to work in such a place that demands you climb on chairs and whoop like you’ve never whopped before. I couldn’t. Not because I think it’s the stupidest thing I have seen but because I’d have as much self confidence jumping around on a stool as I would in lycra. Clearly the insipid insect who had somehow managed to get her stiff frame onto the bar was feeling the same. Despite the fact this was definitely not a place I would chose to go to on a Saturday night ever again, it did at least make for a vaguely entertaining work night out. With everything that’s going on around you, the huge TV with ‘classic funny’ moments (though clearly Sleazy DJ had the job of selecting these and the amount of ‘humour’ actually contained was debatable) the staff auditioning for a part as the Dame in the latest panto and the clientele being as varied as my wardrobe, there was always at least plenty to talk about with people who have little in common aside from the fact that wear matching tee shirts and badges a few days of the week. Most commendable of all was the massive TV screen clip of the Kylie/Geri kiss which was lengthier (still tongueless) than I remember. So, if you really must go to Chicago Rock Café, make sure you are well lubricated in more ways than one and you wont be disappointed when the staff ‘stud’ (using the term very loosely) mixes more than a cocktail on your lap. Off now to lie in a darkened room to try and stop the re-occurring flashbacks of Patrick Swayze in high waisted ski pants complete with mullet back flipping with all his might while performing a Chippendales routine with s fat bloater.

It’s now 5 days since I actually wrote this blog entryand in this time, despite my abhorence for such a vile, bright and gobby place, I have found myself making plans to return. Tonight. I am going to see The One and Only, Mr Chesney Hawkes. It’s a good enough reason as any to forget how much you hate a place and put on your dancing sneakers and down some vodka and get your fat ass on the dancefloor. I am simply moistening pants just thinking about it. If I manage to contain myself in front of the King of Our Parties, I will be back tomorrow, bright as fog, to recall the horrendous details of floppy side shaded hair and stubborn teenage acne on a forty year old man. I know the anticipation may be simply too much for you to handle but please try and refrain from doing anything silly in my absence as I need all the readers I can get. And if you need anything to help keep you going till I return to impart some amazingly unfunny stories upon you, just bring up a mental image of the J Bo air-guitaring to Chesney as I guarantee it’s all she is gonna do tonight and every other night as long as she lives.

She really is the one and only.