In a cocktail bar below one of Dalston’s many taco restaurants in east London, onstage in a pair of Texan flag boxers, cropped vest and a cowboy hat, I was dancing to country music in a way I hoped the audience might receive as vaguely imitative of a burlesque act, just two thoughts looping through my brain: 1) will this ever end? And 2), in the words of the Talking Heads: “How did I get here?”
My friend Kate runs the night. It’s called “Like a Virgin” and there’s only one rule for those who agree to perform: you have to do something you’ve never done before onstage. Though I missed its first few iterations, I’d gathered a good deal of second-hand information about these nights. I knew the bar had a dark pink, ruffled fabric ceiling (like the inside of a vagina, a friend suggested) and that the spicy margaritas packed a punch. I’d heard about past acts – glamorous flamenco routines, fledgling stand-up skits, drag duets comprising so many elements they sounded like complete miniature plays. I watched priceless footage of a mutual best friend, Ben, gliding about the stage on roller skates, wearing a human-sized banana costume he’d made himself, singing “Figaro!”, and, as if that were not enough, with remarkable dexterity managing to strip beneath his constrictive banana armour. Ben passed away shortly after that night, and now each performer is awarded a Banana of Courage at the end of their act, in remembrance of Ben.
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