I’m al­ways in the pink for a party of note

Weekend Argus (Saturday Edition) - - NEWS - BAR­BEL ADAMS

THE GI­ANT wed­ding cake bumped into me and I stag­gered a few steps be­fore com­ing to a stop and re­ar­rang­ing my dog col­lar.

I went slightly red in the face and pre­pared to shout at the pink, green and white mon­stros­ity for tak­ing lib­er­ties with a man of the cloth, es­pe­cially one slightly past his prime. Then I spot­ted a pair of laugh­ing eyes glint­ing deep in the card­board con­coc­tion and I re­lented. “Bless you my child!” I said in­stead. The wed­ding cake laughed and tot­tered off to join a fel­low dressed in black leather with “The Best Man” writ­ten in pink on his chest.

It was over five years ago and I had just en­tered the Cas­tle in Cape Town for the an­nual Mother City Queer Project bash. I sport a halo of white hair, spec­ta­cles and a Lenin-style beard, so I looked the part of a high Church of Eng­land semi-holy one.

Trou­ble was I was ac­com­pa­nied by my wild, slightly younger, artist brother Goodie Adams, and he cer­tainly didn’t fit the bill, de­spite the dark suit and spot­less dog col­lar. It was the rav­aged, red eyes and the Sa­tanic leer that gave the game away.

Later on in the night, af­ter he had dis­ap­peared sev­eral times, I had to phys­i­cally drag him away from a dis­con­certed bevy of young women dressed in ex­ceed­ingly skimpy wed­ding dresses af­ter he had told them he wanted to “of­fi­ci­ate” at the “pro­ceed­ings”.

On any other night he would have prob­a­bly been at­tacked but the MCQP event is justly fa­mous for its peace­ful vibe.

A bit later he waded into a room full of young men dressed in what looked like out­size tin­sel-trimmed nap­pies, all gy­rat­ing to the best of Abba.

My next MCQP was in tents in the city cen­tre on a very windy night. I can’t re­mem­ber the theme but there were lot of peo­ple wear­ing very lit­tle. I was do­ing the twist in the crowd with Jay West but I had to stop sev­eral times and apol­o­gise to three young women painted gold be­cause my el­bows kept mak­ing con­tact with as­sorted parts of their gilded bod­ies.

Then I went to one dressed in what I thought was a clas­si­cal In­di­ana Jones out­fit. One young whip­per­snap­per ac­quain­tance said I looked more like Oom Schalk Lourens of Her­man Charles Bos­man fame, than the young ad­ven­turer.

De­spite this trau­matic en­counter, a cou­ple of years later I was back, this time wear­ing a glit­ter­ing blue top hat, and in the com­pany of daugh­ters Gnomes Adams and Kara Adams, and friends. They soon si­dled off and I joined jour­nal­ist and an­ar­chist ex­traor­di­naire, Terri Vee, and his gang. This event went down at the Bis­cuit Mill, pure rock and roll.

I sipped on some­thing Terri Vee gave me and soon found my­self in the retro tent, life and soul­ing, un­til my dodgy knee went. I then re­tired to the side, al­ter­nately grin­ning and winc­ing. Later the girls helped me as I shuf­fled to the Old Blue, but these events be­ing what they are, I didn’t feel bad about it all. In fact, I felt like rocker James Brown limp­ing off stage af­ter a very suc­cess­ful night.

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