On the second food foray I found graffiti, cranes and signs for the PMS Security company (snigger). Pretty area, if you like that sort of thing (I do). The sky was very blue, the buildings had the usual weird charm of an area in gentrification; stencils, murals, odd artworks, shiny bits.
Back at the centre,the drag king workshop was delayed, so I went and started the attack on the art wall and accidentally drew a giant! drag king before realising someone else might want some space. Ho-hum, he got improved later, so I guess he wasn't too much of an intrusion ...
The Drag King workshop got under way with help from one of the German drag Boy Band-ers, Tom-Cat from Bridport (who knew such things happened there?) and the very welcome Yas (former finalist in the Drag catergory of Ms Lesbian UK!). Had a good time chatting to Yas and her partner about stuff; less fun with the little baby-non/dykes going on abut finding dressing up as a man liberating. In my own persona (there was that little frisson as I introduced myself as "Jeremy" -- but another person in the group was "Frank", so...) I can swagger, fight, get riotous drunk and make inappropriate passes -- this is not stuff that you have to dress up as a boy to do. Plus, I don't much like it when guys act like this, so why should I?
Fortunately it all went more glam/actorly, less deep/empowering with the arrival of the Rubens sisters, who effortlessly morphed into a lost Marx Brother and Kevin Smith without even tying their tits down with cling film. Daftness ensued. I fetched up in a plaid shirt and a goatee looking babybear gay -- appropriate enough, surrounded by girls dressed as frat boys and petite thugs, but my good sense prevailed and I managed to de-bloke before I ended up in front of a camera. Just as well, it looked more disturbing than nice.
Left my "cheekie chappie thing" behind to sneak into the back of the self-publishing panel, where I finally got to see Red (of finger_bang distro) as in, "you must meet Red," but my natural impatience with panels and too much Irn Bru meant I left early and didn't get to talk to her. So I still must meet Red. If I ever stop being so bloody standoffish.
Snuck off for films and poetry, reckoning it would be peaceful (which it was -- an exotic snake-dance and a lovely Canadian poet) before staggering out to play "you'd really like" with honeypears and her mates. Unfortunately, I took no notes. If anyone can remember the name of that outsider artist who wears her felt-tips slung like bandilleros and draws huge felt-tip nudes of people in natural settings, do let me know, eh? I also had a GOOD IDEA at that moment, though I'll want to give it a week's settle before I think whether to pursue it.
Linus was the last of the day, and good as ever; Tammy happy over snarling guitars, bangy beat, happy-sad songs. I put on lipstick in the dark at the back of the room, drinking beer, watching people dance, richocheting between genders.
And then we had to run for our train. Would have had to run for our train if it hadn't been 50 minutes late.
(The journey home was an ugly reminder of how many gruesome noisy shouting stinking drunk fuckwits there are out there waiting to invade your personal space and distract you when you ought to be doing useful things like snacking on zabaglione and reading Earthquake Weather by Tim Powers.)