NEWSLETTER

Echo & The Bunnymen In Drag
I was leaving Portland’s premier venue, Louis La Bambas, when the saxophonist from local cabaret-rock act Danse Combo muttered some cheeky little remark to me. I dropped the nut on him, knocking his two front teeth out and leaving him unable to play his instrument, for which I am eternally ashamed (and was sued). I got 86’d from the club for that bit of drunken unmanageability, and the consequence was that I couldn’t enter the venue where all the best new bands performed. This was in the 80s, and I had just watched Bow Wow Wow there. I was seriously distressed at the time, and ruminated about what I would do in the future.

Anyway, it had just been announced that Echo & the Bunnymen were playing, and having followed the development of Ian McCulloch’s writing talent, I was absolutely determined that come hell or high water, I would somehow be there.

Brenda French, the lead singer from Anglo-American ska band the Dots, devised this harebrained scheme wherein I’d go dressed in drag. I’d use her fake ID (drinking age is 21 over there, and we were both kids) to gain entry. She spent the whole afternoon getting everything just right: The spiky wig, the makeup, and the mandatory suspenders. I felt a right twat and was beginning to think that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

Wasn’t I amazed then when I swanned straight through the door of La Bambas, and with Tony, the venue owner who had barred me, on the desk? There I was, talking out the side of my neck to Brenda on my left as we took in Echo & the Bunnymen. I felt the hairs on my neck stand up as I came to realise that Tony was standing on my right, and giving my androgynous self the once over.

All presenter photos by Patrick O’Dell. Styling by Sara McCormack. Vanessa: Trasteverine dress, vintage necklace.

“Shit!” I thought, looking for a means of escape.

“Would you like to come downstairs for a little marching powder?” he inquired tentatively, raising an eyebrow and gesticulating with an index finger across one nostril.

By this time I was increasing in confidence. I decided there and then to capitalize on it.

“Why yes,” I replied, giving him my most demure look and Southern-belle accent. (I’m from Glasgow, so God only knows how strange it sounded.)

I snorted the lot in one whiff and deposited his £100 bill in my bra strap. My drug of choice, unbeknownst to him, was MORE, and I definitely had the lion’s share that night. I waltzed back up the stairs as I patted his arse promisingly.

Well, the nonverbal communication from Brenda when I got back upstairs was almost as loud as the band as she inquired, “What the fuck?” with staring eyes. I told her, and she fell about the place in stitches.

Later on, as the club emptied out onto the pavement, Brenda and I made our grand exit. Tony was sitting at the door bidding everyone farewell. As I passed him I looked down to my left, batting the false eyebrows, pulling off the wig…

“Magic night, Tony!” I said, in the thickest hairy-arsed Glaswegian that I could muster, looking him right in the eye.

“And cheers for the nosebag and the c-note,” I said, waving the money in his face. His jaw fell like a turd hitting the porcelain.

HARRY MULLIGAN


Levellers Up My Ass
I used to date a girl who loved that terrible faux-crusty folk indie band the Levellers.

“Battle Of The Beanfield” was one of their biggest hits. Their fans were all rich white kids with dreadlocks who lived in caravans for a couple of years after leaving university, before settling down to work in Dad’s bank or open up their own “weird cutlery and candles” stall in Camden market. Absolute cunts.

It was Christmas day and, for my sins, I’d bought her their singles compilation Hear Nothing, See Nothing, Do Something.

I regretted doing this after she’d played the fucking thing three times in a row while we ate our vegan Christmas dinner. I pleaded with her not to play it over and over, but this just made her determination to play it even stronger.

On literally the seventh round of the CD coming to an end, I told her that if she played it again I would “stick that fucking CD up my ass because it’s shite.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, she pressed play one more time. I grabbed the CD player, took the disc, pulled down my pants, and wedged the Levellers’ greatest hits right up my jacksie.

I was pretty drunk at the time, so when I started dancing around the room in vengeful glee, I tripped over the coffee table and fell, right on my ass, breaking and smashing the CD into the delicate walls of my anal cavity.

Have you ever smashed a CD? The pieces are very small and jagged. I spent the remainder of Christmas day in Accident & Emergency, having the splinters plucked out of my hairy asshole while my girlfriend sat next to me crying.

DARREN O’BRIEN


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