I saw a drag bingo game while binging on one of the many shows I watch. It looked incredible. So I checked it out, and sure enough it’s a thing. As luck would have it, there was even a weekly one, with brunch, in London where I would be visiting in a few months. I assumed my niece who lived there, would love to spend some quality time with her Auntie, so I purchased two tickets.
I was looking forward to a show of beautiful, impressively made up people dressed to the nines. Performers in outfits I couldn’t even imagined existed.
It was held at a comedy club below street level. We were ushered to a table for two next to the main stage and cat walk, and below the mechanical ball draw machine.
It’s probably the closest I’ll come to being seated like a VIP.
Most of the surrounding tables were for groups of 8 to 10, gathered for hen (bachelorette) parties. Many wore sashes, crowns, and paper bridal gowns.
My expectations were slightly dashed when the MC, sporting a hot pink mini dress, platform shoes, and platinum wig, began the show. I wanted to be in awe, but I was distracted by the lush mustache. The false eyelashes were impressive, but I didn’t exactly feel transported.
The event featured three rounds of bingo. There are no letters so it’s “Drop your drawers 74” rather than “Candy store, B74”.
Originally called Housey-Housey, British bingo uses 90 balls whereas the local VFW uses 75.
I’m not sure how that’s relevant.
Using your colored marker, another slight disappointment, no real dauber, you mark the called numbers and hope to fill a horizontal line anywhere on the page.
”Give us a cheer if you know what horizontal means” smirked the MC when giving instructions to the only two people in the room who weren’t sure what they were doing.
As the numbers are announced, you have to shut out the clucking and frivolity, and move your eyes rapidly around the page. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize the empty squares were free spaces and no numbers were repeated.
The first winner got on stage and did a dance with the MC. Everyone seemed to recognize the choreography, except for me.
”Touch my bum, number one!” Our host continued from the podium, after twerking with the second winner. At that point I vowed not to win.
There was a fair bit of audience participation, besides rapid eye movement. The DJ started and stopped musical tracks to the MC’s banter, songs that most of the audience knew the words too. During the 30 second singalongs, I only recognized Cher’s “ If I could turn back time”, so I joined in with Mad Magazine‘s version, belting out “If I could find my clothes.”
Most of the songs came out before my niece was born, so I advised her to sing WA-TER-MEL-ON over and over again. It moves your mouth around enough to look like you know the lyrics. I mouthed as I waved my arms overhead in solidarity with all those rueing lost love in a prosecco daze.
”Tickle my bits, twenty-six!” our host said with a wink.
Volunteers were invited on stage (six inches away) for a Macarena contest. Despite slight egging from my fellow VIP, I stayed glued to my seat. Good thing… I forgot that you put your hands behind your head before crossing your heart. I would have looked like an idiot.
During the break, a woman behind me at the end of the 12 hen bathroom line said “I can’t wait… I’m going to the gents… or maybe I shouldn’t… should I… don’t know…”
“Go” I commanded, “I’ll follow you and stand guard.” That was unnecessary because the handful of men had whipped in and out already.
Half a dozen followed us to one enclosed toilet and four urinals. I thought how cool it would have been if I’d packed the camper’s funnel I bought a couple of years ago so I could pee standing up while in the woods. (It was a covid purchase.)
Fortunately, I didn’t have to go that bad. This was more precautionary.
When the first woman came out, she thanked me profusely, as if I had just secured voting rights or something. A bottomless Prosecco hen party will do that.
“I’m the oldest one here,” I yelled in my nieces’ ear when I got back from sentry duty. “No,” she yelled back. “There’s a bunch of gray haired people at that table over there.”
Must be celebrating a second marriage.
Throughout the games, the MC periodically razzed on audience members. I hoped to God she wouldn’t say anything to me like, “Hey Nan, still getting plenty? It’s number 20!”
Why was I uncomfortable? Was it because I was there with my niece? Was that weird? Was it because I didn’t know what to expect, didn’t quite get the rules, or simply because everyone else was at least 40 years my junior?
I was there because I had the opportunity to experience something that intrigued me. It’s OK to feel discomfort, to feel awkward. It means that we are challenging ourselves, perhaps emotionally, perhaps physically, perhaps mentally.
It’s interesting to see how we react, and why. What are we learning, appreciating or understanding?
Maybe these questions are the point of a drag bingo brunch.
Alexandra Langstaff 