There's a smashing eminently readable blogger in North Wales called John Gray and on television there's a comedian called Alan Carr. Both deserve the approbation contained in the label "The Chatty Man". Recently John was accused of being rather "feminine" in his "Going Gently" blog which attracts a lot of female followers from around the world. In his defence, he referred to some of his male followers - including yours truly whom he described as being "blokey". I took that as a compliment. However, the truth will out and I have a confession to make... I'm actually a transvestite.
Take last Saturday. We returned from Hull City's nil-nil draw with Queens Park Rangers and I felt like going out to celebrate.
After showering, shaving my legs and plucking my eyebrows, I delved into my "alternative" wardrobe. Where had Shirley hidden my sheer twelve denier silk tights that I bought in Hong Kong? And yes there was my brand new Aidan Mattox "cold shoulder" dress in bottle green sequins. It was the very first time I'd be wearing it down at the pub.
Carefully, I donned my "Always" Raquel Welch ash blonde wig, pinning it back invisibly. I applied "Polytex" concealer liberally, eye shadow sheen and bronze red lipstick. Looking in the mirror, I thought - "What a doll!" My efforts and investment had all been worthwhile. Finally my patent leather Jimmy Choo stilettos and a couple of ripe grapefruit down my top and I was ready for some fun.
At the pub and as usual, no one recognised me as Yorkshire Pudding. It was all "Ooo! Angela you do look nice!" and "Haven't seen you in a long while Angela!" etc.. Standing at the bar waiting for my fifth pint of bitter, Leeds Mick squeezed my right buttock and called me "darling" so I whacked him as hard as I could with my Coccinelle designer handbag. "Jesus! What the bloody hell did you do that for?" he complained after staggering back on his heels and collapsing to the floor in a heap. I stood above him with one heel on his chest and whispered malevolently, "Just because!" Other regulars guffawed with delight.
Standing in the men's urinal, I relieved myself rather awkwardly before adjusting my latest pair of grapefruit in the cracked mirror. A tattooed biker whose lavatory visit co-incided with mine looked visibly shocked. I wandered back into the lounge bar where I overheard a couple of feline women referring to me as "blokey". The bitches!
It's not easy being a transvestite. You have to remember to keep your legs together when sitting down and all manner of smelly men will try to hit on you only to be terribly disappointed by a well-aimed knee. Debenhams department stores are also not keen on transvestites using the ladies' changing rooms.
So that's it. The truth is out there now but hey this is 2011 isn't it? We're allowed to be who we want to be. Just don't tell my imam. He'd never let me in the mosque again if he knew.
