They emerged, that day, with the first few flakes of snow. Drifting in as if from nowhere. A scarcely believable sight for a pair of Aussies a long way from home.
A chicken. A pig. And one enormously uddered cow. They marched into the pub and no one seemed to notice as they strode to the bar to partake in some pints. The pig bought the first round and could barely contain his laughter as he watched the cow slip an extra long udder into the chicken’s beer.
A choking chicken. A sniggering pig. And a cow reciting a carefully rehearsed “pull the udder one” routine. Yet still no interest from the punters in the pub.
It was, after all, a bit early for such shenanigans. It was only Boxing Day day. Boxing Day night was yet to fall, and it would be hours before the town would become a veritable menagerie of all God’s creatures. And so much more than even He could have ever imagined.
It was a night that my partner, Deb, and I had long awaited. The biggest night of the year for the northern England town of Wigan and doubtlessly one of the best attended and most public costume parties in the world.
Our costumes were pre-selected by Deb’s ever well meaning relatives. Her very own Wigan peers. They had chosen medieval to be our theme and we were transformed with the trappings of Kings, Queens, Princesses and Knights. There was even a mercifully warm puffy velvet hat for me.
Night befell us. Our group arrived at the aptly named King Street, the main field of folly for Wigan’s most fearless Warriors. Assembled behind our King, atop His street, we surveyed all that lay below.
For a moment, it seemed like just another night on the town. Wigan girls, long legged and fishnetted, blonde and brunetted, chattered their way up the street of ice. Closer inspection revealed far too much makeup and a little too much facial hair. Even for Wigan girls. These were the inevitable cross dressers. Ever an easy costume for any guy with a sister. And evidence, as ever, that dressing up is always easier for men. Even when they dress up as women.
Transgendered, both genders engendered on us endless enthusiasm for the evening. I started to feel right in my flowing robes and tasseled hat. It was time to hit the pubs.
Our first stop was ‘arry’s Bar and it certainly seemed to be full of them. ‘arrys that is. Plain clothed and more plainly faced, the ‘arrys sat at their pews peering over their pints. Bitter. These un’appy ‘arrys were without Wigan’s welcoming ways and I even fancied they fancied undressing a few fancy dressers. So we drank fast and moved on.
Prince’s and the Vic were both venues more worthy of our royal patronage. Elvises’ too. Elvises everywhere in fact. Along with Homers, Marges, Barts, Lisas and but one Maggie. Of the Thatcher variety. With a grinning rubbery head just begging to be punched in.
The karaoke bars were crammed with carollers. ‘Twas indeed the season and all of Christmas had gathered to be jolly. Though, I defy anyone to “wish it could be Christmas everyday” after seeing it sung through the eyehole of a demented melting snowman. Father Christmas himself looked no better, too drunk to walk, being dragged along in a wheelchair by Rudolf and one other terribly red nosed reindeer.
Travelling from pub to pub, we learned that the street was where the real action was and it had been laden with Osamas – one even sporting the playful sign: “Shhhhh you ‘ain’t seen me right…”. But they ‘ad seen him. A hoard of marauding marines set after him and we did as any innocent bystanders would do and fled to Pakistan. Sorry, I mean fled to another pub.
We worked our way to the Walkabout. An Aussie theme pub and the hottest new venue in town. Hundreds sought refuge in this Australian outpost. We tried to use our accents to sweet talk our way in, but we were without our passports and I think the bouncer mistook my generous headpiece for a turban. He ruthlessly blocked our entry and sent us back into the sea of desperate people. Rack off bouncer.
Paddling back up the soaking street, I jostled with spacemen, cavemen, preachers and laymen. I brushed passed never ending naughty nurses. (Rare credits to the NHS.) One particularly impressive pair caught my eye… a seemingly perfect Laurel and Hardy. Though, they could hardly rest on their laurels. Never before has so much looked like acted so little like. I offered my congratulations on their costumations only to receive a grim reminder that a funny costume does not a funny (or nice) man make.
Further up the street, a gaggle a girl guides gathered on one footpath to hurl abuse at their male counterparts on the other: a bedraggled band of boy scouts. Between them, morris dancers, ballet dancers, disco dancers and one reindeer (whose name, for the moment, escapes me) danced madly about. We felt it was time for us to do the same and we made our way to our final venue. Fifteen in both name and number.
We were lead in by a group of Hare Krishnas and they had never had it so good as we and hundreds of others joined them in dancing and chanting until the UK’s licensing laws decided we had all had enough. The night was officially over and the drunken masses spewed out onto the street to catch cabs and kebabs.
We trudged home via a familiar route past misplaced snouts and feathers and beer soaked udders. Wigan had given us a night on the town to remember and we slept off our shivers only to be awoken the next day by a wonderfully warm Wiganer’s: “Artawreet?”
I take my hat off to them.