There's a Drag Queen in my Soup!

Well, as the Four Seasons once said - oh what a night! I've been on my annual pilgrimage to Manchester for Kiki and Herb in Queer Up North.

They were playing in the restaurant at Harvey Nicks - eatery of the pretentious north westerner. How hilarious that a foul mouthed drag queen and a homosexual Jew were screeching about rape and child abuse at the tables where the hoi poloi nibble paté.

I'm not sure how many K&H shows I've seen, it's got to be something like 40, but this one was seriously fierce. Kiki entered from the rear screaming Lick My Legs. I didn't get to put tongue to fishnet, but as she walked past she fell onto me and nearly knocked me from my seat - a simple hello would have done.

She was dressed in an adorable black sequined number. Though I'm not sure about the white pants beneath, they were revealed every time she kicked her leg and left way too little to the imagination - think Pete Burns on Big Brother.

From the established repetoire we had Wu Tang Mother Fuckaaaa and Walking The Cow. Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You? made my chin wobble a bit, and I was delighted the African chant from Justin's solo shows has been carried through to Kiki. If anything it's even funnier when she does it.

The dialogue grew adorably dishevelled as the evening wore on. I love when you can tell the lines are so new, even they haven't heard them before. I particularly adore Herb's eye rolling and head shakes that are intrinsic to the act. He was quieter than normal though, I think he's hurt his voice.

After the show I sat drinking with my escorts for the evening - Rentard and (Divine) David Hoyle. Having attempted to floor me earlier, Justin Bond tried to tit me up - that girl takes diabolical liberties! It's his birthday today so we drank him a toast at midnight. By this time I'd migrated to a table with Kenny and some Coronation Street stars - the lovely Antony Cotton (also of Queer as Folk) and Jennie Mc Alpine who plays Fiz. Last year Shelley was there too, but she must have been busy at t'Rovers.

Eventually it was time to leave so we decanted to the hotel bar of the swanky MalMaison. We proceeded to piss off our fellow punters by talking loudly and doing swears. Standards fell further until the evening descended into a blur of broken champagne glasses and a row with a nasty American. Hoorah for being badly behaved!

I skipped to my bijou Canal Street resident for some much needed sleep.