Ms Monte Dee and Delilah took on Mardi Gras — and won! — joining a flood of northern-bound fags from chilly Melbourne.

I hear Ms Dee cavorted with Torah Hymen and Dallas ‘heavenly’ Dellaforce, culminating in Ms Dee acting as ‘fluffer’ to a group of Bel Ami porn stars on Bondi beach while her travelling companion fell asleep on the doorstep of a yoga centre, in some desperate attempt at clean living, no doubt.

Ms Dellaforce was the midnight show, I hear, and tore the roof off the joint, expressing herself and letting everyone know she was born this way.

All hail Queen Dellaforce, singlehandedly bringing creativity back to the Gras. For too long now we have been overrun by a sea of mediocrity — dancers in bike shorts, flatsy wigs, Dotti frocks.

Creativity is what the gay community was once known for. That creative spark was what the rest of society admired us for. I have despaired lately of ever seeing such innovation again — until now.

It’s all too easy these days. An eBay-purchased Thai beaded dress and a lacefront wig and voila — instant drag queen.

In my day we were required to display a little more imagination and had to make everything from the ground up. These days it seems a PayPal account immediately gives you the title ‘drag queen’.

Thank goodness we saw some flair and imagination at Gras this year.

Not so impressed was Ron Wilson of ChannelTen, who described the event as “disgusting”. Honestly, I didn’t think the parade was that bad!

Maybe it was Monte’s behaviour he found so offensive.

Seriously though, are you not there to simply report? Since when did your bigoted opinion matter, Mr Wilson?

One of Melbourne’s up and coming gals has taken to popping ping pong balls out of her ass in a desperate attempt to entertain her audience.

Sweetheart, slutty whore does not equal talented or stage-worthy. Learn your craft, please.

One of Melbourne’s oldest and dearest celebrated a birthday milestone recently, chalking up the big 5-0 with a do at her local watering hole.

All her girlfriends gathered around to join in a chorus of “why was she born so beautiful, why was she born at all?”

Hip hip hooray to you, darling. You don’t look a day over 70.

Recently, I was informed that I’m as old as the hills and heritage-listed. Thanks for that but I do own a calendar and a mirror — do you?

Here’s a little-known secret — in my day we didn’t even have headdresses or wigs. We strapped live chickens to our heads and used dirt for makeup — in a cave.

Until next time, remember, camp can indeed mean a thousand things.

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