Note: This post will go into quite some detail about a grilled chicken meal which had the potential to ruin the night I am about to describe. Rest assured, while the story about the grilled chicken is true it’s inclusion in this piece is purely metaphorical.
Since getting my autism diagnosis my mental state has been a bit fucking ropey as my foul mouthed granny would say. This was all compounded last week when on the back end of some head coldy nonsense I had a major case of autism burnout1. It’s good I can now identify what it is. It’s good I knew I needed to sleep. It’s bad I lost an entire weekend. I hear the Fallout TV show is quite good and I could have watched that. But no, I just slept.
Last night (Tuesday 30th April 2024) was the night of How Av Yow Bin Dragged Up? A drag night at Arena Theatre which I’ve been trying to attend since it started two years ago. However, I’ve failed because… well, autism. I realise that now. If it’s not some form of burnout it’s just the fact that I fear having to talk to people I don’t know2. And as my granny has already said, I’ve been a bit fucking ropey.
However, last night I’d agreed to go to the event with Rob Kemp. You call some people diamonds but they’re not diamonds, they’re simply compressed carbon. Rob Kemp on the other hand is a diamond. If I knew him when I proposed to my now wife I would have brought him along and stuck him on her finger3. So the desire to see Rob Kemp overshadowed my fear at talking to strangers and desire to sleep.
We started the night in a gastro pub where I was served the disappointing grilled chicken. Now I’m not Salt Bae4 but I’d have thought if you were serving chicken you’d wait for it to grow from chick to chicken. I had a grilled chick. It must have barely had time to tap itself out of the egg and admire the world before it was murdered, put on my plate and drizzled in a nondescript sauce. Normally, disappointing portions5 would ruin my night. But I was with the best type of compressed carbon Rob Kemp. A human whose aura usurps overly undersized poultry and dead mayonnaise6. So I could overlook such culinary crimes and we continued on to The Arena Theatre in time for a drag show.
I’ve never been to a drag show before. It’s one of the reasons I’d been trying to get to this one for two years. I’ll be honest I didn’t know what to expect. What do drag artists do? Do they just stand there looking fabulous? Do they take the piss out of the fat, 51 year old in the front row7 in the Dickies top8?
What I saw was some well worked jokes, great dancing with added lip syncing and then some amazing singing. Miss Sundi, who presents the night, is someone I’d met briefly once before but never seen them perform. She9 is incredibly tall and incredibly thin. But this delicate frame hides a voice which can crush concrete back to its constituent powder. And sitting there, I remember thinking, “I really miss seeing a live singer.” It’s about live musical performances you don’t get with pre-recorded stuff. I think10 it’s to do with how harmonics bounce off the walls and echo back. And I think it’s that which gives me the tingle down my spine11. Whatever it was it felt good and it reminded me of things I missed and really should get out of my way and go and see more often.
Then on came Gina Tonic12. Just like Miss Sundi she looked fabulous. I can only assume both of them started getting ready some point in February to be ready in time for this gig. As someone who bemoans having to iron a shirt for a poetry slam13 I can only imagine the horrors I’d be in for if I wanted to do drag. Then Gina sang and I thought, “Dave, why haven’t you come to these nights before?” Gina has one of those voices which goes from light, delicate “oh Gina you need a hug” to vibrato laden, Sharon Jones esque hollars that say, “oh maybe we need to get out of your way while you take over the world.”
Right, we need to discuss something now. I know it feels like we’re doing a bit of a sideways move but it’s relevant… in much the same way as when I went on about the chicken earlier. We need to discuss musicals.
I hate musicals.
There I’ve said it.
Now, that’s not really true. I love Rocky Horror and during the pandemic someone let me have their Disney + account details so I could watch Hamilton on there. And I loved that. So like with most things I don’t hate musicals. I just hate the musicals I got shown in my formative years. Which were mainly things like Starlight Express and Cats. Andrew Lloyd Webber basically. And fuck that guy. Rocky on rollerskates is not something we need. Especially when you misjudge what made the first Rocky14 film so good.
I mention this because it was obvious the songs being sung were from musicals. Yet, I enjoyed them. I enjoyed the rendition of them. I enjoyed the performance. And I shouldn’t have because I hate musicals.
So it turns out I don’t hate musicals.
Fuck. I’m going to have no money left by the end of the year am I? I’m going to be watching Les Mis in New York and London. I’ll travel to Berlin to watch Little Shop of Horrors because they have part of the original set. My end of year Spotify round up is going to say, “We don’t know what happened Dave but we think you got hacked in May 2024 because that was quite a shift from Pantera.”
At the end of the show Gina said, “If anyone wants a picture taking just say.” You bet your arse I wanted a picture taking but, of course, that would mean talking to a stranger and I don’t want to do that. I also suspected that if Miss Sundi, me and Gina had a photo together it would look a bit like this.
But with more sequins and the one in the middle would look a bit rougher.
Then Gina came over. Oh no, human interaction. She thought she knew me and I suggested that maybe we’d met on the poetry circuit. We swapped Instagram follows and she said she’s be in touch.
Oh, that wasn’t too bad actually. I’ve found this. Sometimes I can chat to a stranger and it’s fine. It’s definitely not all strangers but with some I’m okay. I don’t know why. But it felt okay. It felt… good. And that was one of the messages of the night. At the present moment there are numerous attacks on anyone even attempting to tweak these ridiculous gender roles society has created. Not only was this a night of supreme talent it was a night which said, “You’re okay being you.” Later that evening Rob Kemp was talking about Ru Paul’s Drag Race and he said, “There’s often a bit where Ru Paul will tell people, ‘get out of your own way.’”
And yeah, that was a message I got from those performances as well.
So I can ask for a photo, right?
No.
Ronnie Barker, Dave… you’d look like Ronnie Barker.
Autism burnout is the realisation that your brain stayed in the hotel room of your mind about a month ago and set a bomb under the bed. Then, because you’re not treating them very well, the cleaning staff of your mind didn’t hoover under the bed so never saw the suspicious package of wires, batteries and plastic explosives. Burnout occurs when the bomb goes off. Fortunately no one is injured but as you’re picking through the rubble the cleaning staff are all standing there saying, “We’re not cleaning this up.” and you’ve found out they’ve just unionised and you have accept that your mistreatment and pursuit of rampant Capitalism has caused you to be a victim in a world in which you thought you were immune.
This is a surprisingly accurate description and I’m quite chuffed with it.
Another fun side of autism is not just the inability to do small talk but the pain which comes with trying. I’m 51. Since being a kid small talk has been physically painful and emotionally draining.
Okay, that sounds wrong.
My forearms are far too hairy to attempt his signature move. “Excuse me, waiter… is this a forearm hair in my £300 steak?” “Yes, yes it is and at no extra cost.” © Connie Booth - Fawlty Towers. Fuck John Cleese.
Steady on Reverend.
I should discuss the use of the adjective “dead” here. I’m referring of course to the taste. Consider those tangy orange fizzy drinks to be “alive” and water to be “dead” and that’s how I’m using the phrase here. I’m not suggesting the mayo was a living creature which you could hunt in the Mayo Forests of Southern France and me, as a mayo expert, prefers my mayo to be still wriggling when I dip my chips into it. You’ll also notice I’ve gone into quite a thing about “dead” mayo but not mentioned the phrase “overly undersized” at all. Hey, that’s how I roll, fucking deal with it.
Yes, I sat at the front. There was a series of complex maths going on with my varifocals, distances and how much I wanted to admire the fabulousness and before I really thought about it I found I was sitting at the front.
Steady on Reverend
While writing this I’ve been thinking a lot about pronouns. I really hope I’ve got this right but if I haven’t I’ll happily correct. I might not be a good ally but I want to be the best ally I can be.
I’m no expert in these things but I’ve heard experts say these things.
Honestly, if there was a way to see a band without anyone else being in the room I’d happily do it. I suppose you can but you’re mainly seeing shit bands which probably negates the reasons you’ve gone there in the first place.
I’ve spent some of this morning Googling drag artist’s names and they are wonderful. If you haven’t done it I recommend stop reading this waffle and do that.
It is often noted in poetry circles that unironed shirts are fine for open mic or even closing 20 minute sets at coffee shops on a Tuesday night but poetry slam Gods demand an ironed shirt. If the slam takes place on a Saturday then you also need to polish your shoes. However, is a slam takes place at a music festival, in a tent, next to the main stage with a PA you couldn’t amplify a fart through then go up there in whatever you want. No one cares.
If you haven’t seen the first Rocky film because you’ve only seen the later ones or haven’t seen it recently and think Rocky is like Rocky 4 then I urge you to rewatch the original Rocky. It’s basically, and I shit you not, a Mike Leigh film.