Majestic Mutterings
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Life's a drag
I’m not sure when I first learnt about drag as in the ‘women’s clothes as worn by a man, usually a transvestite’ sense so eloquently put by the Oxford English Dictionary Third Edition 1992. Maybe this is hardly surprising given that ‘drag’ has 33 different meanings listed, the cross dressing one swinging in at 30, beaten by such winning drags as 6 (to prolong or be prolonged tediously and unnecessarily) and 18 (a sporting coach with seats inside and out, usually drawn by four horses). So many drags, so little time! And anyway, I was far too busy customising clothes to worry about what things meant. In retrospect, however, it appears that I may have been dragging it without even realising it….
One of my earliest memories – and I know I’m not remotely alone in this – is that I loved getting dressed up. What’s possibly a little more unique is that this mainly coincided with me trying to attain the look of my favourite character in whichever TV programme I was viewing at the time. Each of whom was male – cartoon, real, puppet, whatever. My parents regularly trot out the tales of my desperately getting into costumes usually created by my own fair hand only to be finally togged up as the closing credits rolled. In tears as my wonderful Superman outfit was wasted. He’d flown off until next week leaving me to twiddle my cape in front of the adverts. I had greater success as Tarzan, it being a lot easier to strip down to a brown customised PE skirt complete with rubber dagger. And I had a proper life changing experience when I received a proper official Captain Scarlet outfit one Xmas. A two minute clothing change with everything in place. No more trying to recreate shiny red boots with electrical tape around the sandals! Miraculous!!!
Even when the telly was out of bounds (or maybe just off as these were those dark ages of just-a-few-hours-a-day-programmes-on-three-channels) my favourite activities when not playing football involved making ‘things’ to put on. Mens’ uniforms almost solely. Drawing buttons, colouring them in gold, cutting out and sticking them down the front of my blue jumper (with selotape). I became that policeman. And my favourite – putting tinfoil all over Grandads bowler hat, adding stray feathers from an old boa of Granny’s, tinfoil waistcoat, red jumper and hobby-horse. Jo was a member of the Household Cavalry, make no mistake.
So what of now? I loved it a few years ago when Miss Joyride dolled me up as a foxy blonde with big hair and frock. It felt wonderful. But I also felt like a boy in drag. Which wasn’t a bad thing, it just proved my preference for blokes clobber!
So at Sirens or Fruit I’ll a be a Gangster rather than a Moll. Always James Bond, never Pussy Galore. Can’t wait for a cavalry night so I can whip out the tinfoil though……
xxxHRH
# posted by Queen Josephine : 9:46 AM