The night is called L’Italia s’è Festa. It’s in Cannon Street at The Steel Yard. DJs always have crazy ideas. One of them once had me dancing as a vampire in a shower of blood wearing a string vest. I still exist in some people’s imaginations as the guy who says “yes” to weird stuff.
Hopefully this night will be in my autobiography as the thing I was doing just before the call came.
Dancing Unicorns. That’s the entirety of the idea. Two eight foot tall plastic inflatable unicorn suits. Each has a fan to keep it inflated. They are hotter than the fires of hell.
“Who do I know who will do this with me for three hours on a Sunday night,” Siwan asked herself. Then my phone rang.
I’ve got the pink one. Right now I’m on a break. I haven’t got a change of clothes and I’m made out of water. I had to take the whole thing off. It’s soaking. I’m halfway through.
—
Promoters etc are all lovely and understand the need for regular breaks which is a relief. It’s all nineties Italian pop, and everyone but the unicorns know all the tracks. It’s quite strange bopping along to the childhood tunes of another world. People generally seem pleased to see us, but it’s very hard to see anything through the little window we have particularly since it tends to steam up almost immediately. I spend most of the time not even trying to look at things. Just planting and bouncing up and down. The arms are heavy. It’s a workout.
—
And relax. Gonna lie in tomorrow. That was knackering. I used to do party starting in drag in a club in Tower Bridge back in my twenties and I could go all night. By the time ten came I knew I wasn’t gonna get changed and go dancing. Straight home and into bed. Magic unicorn has used his daily magic supply up. Recharge time.
AlBarclay 