Up in the morning and into costume. This is just stuff I had lying around. I had to be there at ten. I assembled it at nine.
Regency frock coat from Lou’s opera work. Ditto topper. Indian silk waistcoat courtesy of Emma’s dad. Tails trousers from my uncle Peter and I had to cinch the straps to the utmost because I had no braces and they’re big. The shoes are my least favourite pair of Gucci from my uncle. They’re out of shot. I have theories as to whose eBay the other pair of Guccis went on. If they ever show up in a forgotten corner of my flat along with various other comics and things that have quietly vanished over the years, I will feel naughty for thinking it.
The mask isn’t mine.
Captain Fantastic is a children’s entertainer. I have no idea how he does it, the energy and noise and control. I helped him unload his gazebos. “We met last year,” I tell him. “I don’t remember.” “You wouldn’t. I was Hello Kitty.” We get talking about the artist involved here. I tell him she likes to use me for things where I am in a mascot head. “You’re her muse,” concludes Captain Fantastic. And leaves me with that. Ha. I’m certainly glad to be part of the art, it has never been anything other than delightful collaborating with her. This one is just a birthday party though. Her daughter is seven. She likes birds.
So yeah I had a rubber pigeon head on. It is designed for children. The eye holes are in my neck. Either the pigeon is looking up in the air and has a human chin, or I am completely and utterly fucking blind. Not just mascot blind. I can handle that. I’ve danced as a unicorn in a club full of coked up Germans enough times that I don’t mind the world being reduced to a slot. But this one? You can see people’s shoes. I’m mostly doing echo location.
“Carry my pram up,” one of the mothers demands of us. Sara has to stay on the door so it’s me. She’s used to service and I AM a pigeon butler so its time to pull my weight. “How can you see through the mask?” That’s one of the kids. I’m not really in the mood to pretend to be a pigeon right now carrying this pram on my own up a narrow flight of stairs blind. “I literally can’t see anything,” I tell him. “I’m part pigeon part bat.”
There’s no hole in the top of it, and pigeon butler talks. If you talk in a rubber mask, it heats up really fast. Three times over a few hours I have to take it off, turn it inside out, and towel off the accumulated sweat. When I get my envelope of cash I feel like I’ve earned it. They’re out of a cash point, but one of the fifties is stuck to its neighbour with what is certainly a bit of dried blood. This city, I tell you, the coke and the ket situation is awful. We are in the middle of an epidemic. Yuk.
Still, pigeons deal in filth. Pigeon butler gets dirty money. He can still spend it on crisps.
I left in character. Bought a Big Issue for a tenner from a nice young guy whose pitch I had been queering. And off I went. Job done. Pigeon Butler.
“Mother, father, I’m going to be an actor!”
Ah shucks. It’s great fun.
AlBarclay 