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popular. Alistair was the larger of the two both in height and girth. Phil was smaller, very funny and like Alice could go from gross caricature to high glamour. They did a ‘tarts’ routine at first, made up of bits of recognizable songs cleverly edited together on a reel-to-reel tape. They had a wealth of songs to choose from courtesy of Chris’s extensive record collection and between them had concocted a very funny montage. The tarts had gone down a treat when the Harlequeens made their debut. They had planned on calling themselves the Harlequins until someone suggested the funnier alternative, then with a new name they had extended the act into the requisite two twenty-minute spots and successfully gone on the pub circuit.
    There was a drag boom on. Every pub in London, gay or straight, seemed to have a drag act. Mime acts were extremely busy too. They could work any pub, no matter how small, and were cheaper as the landlord was spared the expense of the drummer and pianist required to accompany live acts. All the mime acts needed was a record player or a tape machine plus a speaker to play them through. The Harlequeens had their own sound system, not exactly high tech but nevertheless effective and worth the initial expense as it allowed them greater scope.
    ‘What are you doing tonight, Sadie?’ Alistair asked. ‘Why don’t you come and watch us? We’re working a pub in the East End.’
I couldn’t wait. I’d read about the famous East End and seen it depicted in films on telly. It was home to the Krays and Jack the Ripper, Limehouse opium dens and the white slave trade. Gaslit alleys crawled with whores who lurked in the shadows and said, ‘Wanna good time, duckie?’ to every passing male. And fog, lots and lots of fog. Oh, I knew all about the East End all right, so it was not surprising that after an unremarkable journey squashed in the back of Alistair’s sister’s Mini with the speaker on my lap I was more than a bit disappointed when we pulled up outside an ordinary-looking pub on a main road. No fog, no opium dens, just a couple of girls outside a kebab shop.
    Inside was equally unremarkable. The stage was a little carpeted platform with a bit of silver and red slash curtain tacked to the back wall for theatrical effect. A small organ and a set of drums completed the scene and at the side of the stage a chenille curtain had been hung for the acts to change behind. I sat at the bar while Alistair and Phil set their costumes up behind the curtain. They had no need to get made up as they’d arrived in full slap, hiding their heavily painted eyes behind dark glasses in the vain hope that it made them less conspicuous.
    The changing facilities in most pubs ranged from appallingly squalid to non-existent. Very few had what could be described as a proper dressing room; at best the manager might allow them to change in the kitchen or at a push in the living accommodation over the bar, but it was more than likely the act could be found in the ladies’ toilet trying to apply an elaborate make-up in a dirty mirror lit by a forty-watt bulb while standing in two inches of pee. It was usually a wise move to arrive fully made up to save the hassle and abuse from the women who were, quite rightly, annoyed at finding their lav taken over by a couple of fellahs.
‘Get us two bevvies, Sadie,’ Alistair shouted, waving a couple of pound notes from behind the curtain. ‘And get one yourself.’
    As I waited to be served I studied a poster that was pinned to the wall at a jaunty angle. ‘ This Week’s Cabaret ,’ it proclaimed in shaky black felt-tip. ‘ Saturday, the Fabulous Harlequeens! with Compère the Lovely Shane! ’ This was accompanied by a black and white ten-by-eight photo of Philip dressed as a baby, complete with bonnet and teddy bear, and a deranged Alistair advancing towards him wearing a fright wig, bovver boots and clutching a lavatory brush. Underneath this, written in a smaller hand, it