Well it seems the title of Melbourne’s biggest fag (drag) hag is up for grabs. And so the race begins.

In the running we have everyone’s favourite part-time drag queen, the gorgeous Tegan, Queen ‘T’…for tits that is.

We also have a dark horse coming up on the inside by the name of Queen V, who’s only claim to the crown and orb seem to be a $2 shop plastic tiara, a tutu, and the over attendance of a certain mixed Sunday night club. Ah, such competition!

Also in the running is a lady in waiting who has suddenly come from nowhere to try to snatch the crown from the steel-like grasp of our lovely ladies. She is none other than the fair Princess Brooke of the Alice Band.

Fair maidens, which of you has balls big enough to take the title of Queen of the Gays?

Any broad who is willing to out-drink, out-dress, out-think, bleach their hair to a ridiculous shade of blonde, behave like a trollop, take their top off, podium dance for hours at a time, and dare to tell a gay boy what to do and who to see, is apparently Queen of the Gays.

Personally, I am queen enough for myself, although I have, many years ago, fallen into the simpering sycophantic fag category.

While the goodly folk of club land are left to ponder this question, I have a question of my own to mull over.
Here, in the fairytale land of faggotry, it appears a lot of 20-something gay boys feel the need for a strong female role model to, ahem, look ‘up’ to (or at least hold their hair back when they throw up).

Why is it that young impressionable gay boys feel the need for a mother figure? Were they so sadly robbed of love during childhood? I think not.

I think it is the age-old habit of gay men deifying strong outspoken confident women, and that in itself is another whole column my dears.

In other news, a certain Melbourne drag matriarch has jetted off to Thailand for yet more touch-up surgery. Honey, please!

Apparently doctors here wouldn’t touch her as she now falls into the Micheal Jackson category of “we cant do anymore to you”.

So off to Bangkok she trekked.

The old bag looks amazing for 80. So while the rest of us rot away in geriatric hell, she’s out and about, convincing everyone that she’s only 25 – and doing it too. I love her.

Rest assured, as soon as this old carcass can amass enough pennies for a nip, tuck and lift, she will be joining the ‘scar club’.

There’s only so much botox one can do. It reminds me of a line from Death Becomes Her –
“make-up is pointless!”

Once you reach a certain age my darlings, that is so true. Book me in.

Sad news, readers, has reached my turnip-like ears about the passing of Pokeys’ showgirl Cherie Lamour. One super-glam, acid tongued lady. Loved her.

Finally on World AIDS Day [Dec 1], I would like to make mention of the many lives lost and those who still live with this illness. It’s still a very real problem, and hopefully the catastrophic losses experienced from ‘86 to ‘96 never to happen again.

Personally I lost more friends than I care to count.

Moving right along.

Until next time. Remember, camp can mean a thousand things.

Mwah Rita x

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