Friday, 1st July, 2005

I'm Not A Girl (etc)

Writing about yourself is tough isn't it? Just this very second, I'm sat here staring at a blank document, trying to come up with some replacement text for the front page of my other website. I used to have a rather well-considered 'about-me' page (well, I thought it was anyway), but that, like so many other things, disappeared in the Great Server Crash of May 2005.

It's a process of walking a tightrope between, on the one side, a screaming noobie (all "Hi! Welcome to my website!"), and on the other, an aloof pretentiousness that's guaranteed to get the response of "Who the fuck does she think she is?"

...

On a related theme, I was flicking my way through this the other day, courtesy of a link from Peter, and it occurred to me that Dear GOD, I might be in there

Before I met Kath, I'd rather rashly put a profile on Yahoo Personals — and I should really, really get round to taking it off.

...

Actually...

...d'ya know what, I think I might just leave it inactive, thankyouverymuch

I feel dirty

You don't strike me as the kinda gal who cares what people thinks anyway

Oh, but I am. Very much. All this devil-may-care-attitude is just a front

loved the Doctor Dances video you made, is it on this new site?

Sure it is: The Dalek Dances

Running Out Of Steam

Do you know what the biggest problem about having a weblog is? I mean, this only applies if you're not someone like Tom Coates who seems to have blogage leaking from his very soul, but personally, sometimes I look around my studio — at the piles of unfinished jobs, the thing needing posting, the invoices needed writing — and I think to myself, just why do I waste so much of my time writing this crap?

And it's usually, when I start thinking that, that I start getting all paranoid about what to write, how to write, and when to shut up.

And inevitably, the blog-dread starts to flood my brain ... "What if I never think of anything else ever to write about, ever again?!"

Funnily enough, it's usually round about times like those, that things like this pop into my head...

A Collection of Memories, Relating to All The Embarrassing Times I've Been Out Dressed In Lancaster

tranny story memories

Tennis Skirt

My mother used to have a little pleated white skirt that I guess she used to wear whilst playing tennis.

I say "used to have", because, well, I nicked it.

In my third year of university (the year I did fuck all apart from be assistant editor of the Students' Union Newspaper and generally piss a whole year up the wall), it was the one skirt that I had.

So inevitably, when I decided to go out dressed in Lancaster, I went out in it.

The shame is dripping from my brow as I recall what must have been a ludicrous image of a semi-made-up-bloke walking past McDonalds in a pair of black heels, a grey jumper and a tennis skirt.

The funny thing is I can only remember that particular moment. Not why I went out, or any of the time between South Road (where I was living) and getting to wherever I was going (which, I'm guessing, was The Yorkshire House)

All I can remember is being outside McDonalds.

And maybe that's enough, yes?

Losing a Heel

If you're ever in Lancaster (for whatever reason) and you're walking up Penny Street, you might notice a pub called "LA One" (or something)

It wasn't always called that — for a while it was called something even more pretentious. But before that it was The King Eddie.

I used to work there — from 1991 to 1992 — and that New Year's Eve, the landlady decided to have a fancy dress party...

For the uninitiated, the words "fancy dress party" are the same thing to a closeted TV as the words "deep-fried Mars bar" are to a fat Northerner.

There are three things I remember from that night:

1. The landlady sat on the stairs sewing more lace than is humanly possible onto my French Maid's outfit.

2. Some randy old bald guy sticking his hand up my skirt.

3. Walking back up towards Primrose Street, past the back of the town hall, and getting a heel stuck in that fucking grating.

The Yorkshire House

Cal would kill me if she knew about this...

I have, in my time, worked in a fair few bars. Most noticeably, I've worked in every single bar on Lancaster University's campus (with the exception of Fylde — ironically, the bar steward at the time didn't like men working in his bar)

But I've also worked a few in town: The Eddie, The Merchants (once), The Horse and Farrier (no really), the Sugarhouse, and The Yorkshire House.

The thing about me working in The Yorkshire House though, is that I wasn't really supposed to — the landlady had gone away, and the guy who was replacing her had taken a bit of *ahem* a shine to me. So I did a few stints behind the bar.

What I find cringeworthy about that, is that I really truly thought I passed in those days.

Considering that now, with 15 years of practice behind me, I still don't think I pass, just how terrible must I have looked?

Bowland

Jim Bowen (whose house you can throw rocks at if you time it carefully on the train from Wennington to Carnforth — watch out for the "Bully" stained glass window, that's 50 points) once got booed off stage at Bowland College. Chances are that he wouldn't these days — at least not for the same "you're a sexist muppet" reasons.

I however, had more of a lukewarm reception.

In my early-twenties naivety, I assumed that to be a good transvestite, I had to have the showgirl-performance skills of a drag queen. And so I jumped at the chance to compere a talent show during their Extrav one year.

Yeah, I was young...

(Bowland College, incidently, officially hate me — I annexed part of their accommodation buildings to form part of my Media Empire in 1992. But that's another story)

Radio Bailrigg

(Or "Bailrigg FM" as it likes to call itself these days)

In my second year of University, I lived on campus in what used to be Pendle College. Me and a few friends used to ring up the student radio station every night a do stupid voices for them — from our point of view we were winding them up, but they seemed to think they had some comedy material on their hands.

This was just after I'd plumped on the name "Siobhan", and that's what I assumed as a character.

One night, we decided to drop in on them and scare the shit out of them, so I dragged myself up in a ballgown that (at the time) I thought was rather attractive, and wandered up campus in it.

Note to Kath: One of these days, I'm going to dive into the attic and see if I can dig that dress out, and you can see for yourself just how fucking hideous it is.

Girl in a Tux

Have I ever mentioned that I used to be the Editor of the Students' Union Newspaper at Lancaster University?

I used to worry about revealing that about myself, but I figure it's OK — even if you were a student there and you went to look at the board that records all the SU Officers from the past it would be OK — I'm not on it.

(I did bad things and got kicked out)

But anyway, just after the thrills and heartaches of the elections, I decided to go to the annual Graduation Ball in a ballgown (the same awful one I mentioned above).

But not to be outdone, the outgoing Editor decided she would up-me by one by wearing a tux.

She looked shit — I looked great. That's all you need to know

What's You're Name?!

The only other old story involving me being out and about dressed is one that I've told before, but let's see if I can tell it better...

I lived (as I said) in Pendle College, in a corridor full of some really nice guys. There was one guy (isn't there always?) who was, well, quite frankly a bit of a twat

He got himself a bit of a reputation around the college for being a bit "full of himself" — a bit "goes after anything in a skirt" if you know what I mean.

Of course, being students and what-have-you, we wanted to test this second premise out: "Would he really go for anything in a skirt?!"

In steps Graham...

"Here's a thought, why don't I pretend to be a friend of Melita come across from Ireland for the weekend, and we'll see if he tries it on on me"

(Melita was an Irish friend. I still think that's a great name)

This whole thing might demonstrate to you the sheer arrogance and delusion that I had about myself at the time — that I could perceive that someone I saw on a regular, day-to-day basis wouldn't recognise me in a dress...

Some of the girls made me up, while the boys took Martin (cos that was his name) over to the bar to get him a bit pissed.

For some reason, I've got it in my head that I was wearing that awful dress — but I couldn't have been, seeing as it was only given to me the following summer (and actually, that applies to that story about Bailrigg FM too )

But whatever I was wearing, I remember walking across the Pendle courtyard, and someone suddenly asked "hold on a minute — what's your name?"

I knew it had to be Irish. And the first thing that came into my head was the name of someone I used to know. "Siobhan Curran".

Before, when I've told this story, I've made insinuations that I used to have a crush on Siobhan — that's not entirely true. What is true is that Siobhan was an exceptionally gorgeous woman. No denying that — but I've been racking my brain recently, and I can't ever remember actually fancying her.

I think I used to sit next to her in the Orchestra I was in when I used to play the viola — before I started playing the Double Bass.

But because I'm nothing if not an internet-geek, I did a look-up on her a while back. She's married, and so she's not Siobhan Curran any more.

...

Sorry, straying from the point. Looking back on the night with a slightly more objective (ie. a non-effervescent-trannie) view on it, Martin twigged straight away. Having said that, it was only when some random chav pulled off my wig that he realised who I actually was.

...

I'm deeply ashamed of that story — the rest are just random acts of self-delusions — because I was using my transvestism for one of the reasons that a lot of blokes have a problem with us. I was trying to trick Martin — not to get into bed with him, but to show him up. Which is probably as bad.

But then again, if it wasn't for that little episode, I wouldn't have had the hilarity of the past 13 years of "No, not 'Sai-oh-bahan, Shi-vawn"

That's not bad honey — in fact, I'll still argue that it's the times when we turn round to people and say "I'm a bloke" that we get a little bit further down the road to respect

I'm a great fan of using the boy's toilets — partly out of radicalism, partly out of pure belidgerence. One half of me thinks "You know, I probabl shouldn't use the girls' toilets — after all, just because I'm wearign a skirt it doesn't mean I can invade their space" — and the other half of me thinks "Hey, wouldn't it be fun to scare the shit out of the guys in the male toilets?!" (Which it invariably does )

In other news, I've just had a chopped chilie on cheese-on-toast, and I've rubbed my eyes.

Ow

Didn't have the guts to hit "POST"

Dear Tom, I am a coward.

Hope the eye's OK now..

Well, it was, until I looked at "This site"

I'm Blind! Blind I tell you!

I didn't realise that B1FF was a trannie