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