Stardust Diaries 2007

by Swan, Tarn

  The Stardust Diaries 2007

  Book Four

  Tarn Swan

  Copyright © Tarn Swan 2012

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  This electronic book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you so much for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art by Dare Empire

  Chastise Books

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  1st January ~ Beige Rage

  4th January ~ Gossip Queen

  9th January ~ Announcing the Murder of a Drag Queen

  11th January ~ Twisted Ratatouille

  18th January ~ Blue Cross Day

  23rd January ~ Revealing a Secret

  7th February ~ Relationship Crisis and Days Long Gone

  9th February ~ Bon Voyage

  14th February ~ Complex Valentine

  24th February ~ Flower Fairy

  25th February ~ Twinks Goes Commando

  27th February ~ Spring Fever

  1st March ~ Friends and Lovers

  4th March ~ Domestic Tyranny

  7th March ~ Sucking and Crunching

  9th March ~ A Potted History of the Pink Parrot

  19th March ~ Breakfast with the Poison Princess

  22nd March ~ Sudden Death

  4th April ~ The Three Must Be Queers

  12th April ~ Anally Retentive

  13th May ~ The Queen’s Speech

  20th May ~ Rescue Remedy

  28th May ~ John Craven

  8th June ~ Hell on Heels

  11th June ~ Twenty-Twenty Vision

  18th June ~ Water Water Everywhere

  19th June ~ Ringmaster

  21st June ~ Chocolate Cocks and Celebrity Frocks

  24th June ~ Houses Need No Discount

  25th June ~ Baby Face

  27th June ~ The Garage Man

  6th July ~ Sad Times

  6th August ~ A Grand Summer Garden Party

  8th August ~ Buggering Jane Norman

  11th August ~ Cappuccino Hero

  26th August ~ Changing Moods

  31st August ~ The Days of Life

  1st September ~ Pasta Hell

  14th September ~ Ruby Slippers

  16th September ~ Perfect Sunday

  20th September ~ Second Hand Cucumber

  23rd September ~ A Fair Earring

  29th September ~ The Grisly Case of the Corpse Bride

  3rd October ~ The Sweet Fairy

  7th October ~ Sweet Talking Men

  17th October ~ Questions

  20th October ~ Soap Land

  15th November ~ Custody of Barry Manilow

  17th November ~ Squeals in the Wendy House

  28th November ~ Corsets and Cotton Buds

  30th November ~ Watching and Waiting

  7th December ~ Masks

  13th December ~ Little Pink Hitler

  18th December ~ Icing on the Cake

  21st December ~ Pantomime Time

  It Doesn’t Matter Who You Love or How You Love, but That You Love ~ Rod McKuen

  The Stardust Diaries ~ 2007

  1st January ~ Beige Rage

  Happy New Year! Twelve months lie ahead to be filled with life, love and who knows what else. It goes without saying that there’ll be dramas and some tears and fears along the route, but hopefully nothing we can’t handle.

  We had a bit of a do at our house last night, and by ‘do’ I mean a do in the party sense rather than a do in the domestic drama sense, which makes a change I grant you. It wasn't planned as such. It came about as a result of the Pink Parrot being evacuated because of a big fire at a nearby Tapas Bar. The flames were fanned by high winds and the fire brigade insisted all buildings in the vicinity were cleared. The area was cordoned off and all would be revellers were advised to go home or find safer places to see in the New Year.

  Twinkles was determined to party. No one was raining on his NY parade thank you very much. Before I knew it he had thrown out an open invitation. Our humble abode was packed wall to wall with friends and an eclectic array of acquaintances from the PP's hallowed halls. There were also a few faces I’d never clapped eyes on before. I suspect they were refugees from the flaming bar who had spotted our party and tagged onto the end of it.

  Predictably our illustrious neighbour Ray Brownlow called round to complain about the noise. He left in a hurry when Bear Daddy, who was dressed in a black leather vest, leather briefs and chaps, told him if he didn't clear off and stay cleared off he'd put a collar and lead on him and make him his bitch. Never have I seen a man move so fast down a garden path.

  I awoke this morning with the hangover from hell. Unlike much of the population my hangover was external to my body and blaming me for its misery in between blessing the toilet with its stomach contents. I am of course referring to my beloved little regent, the self-declared Miss New Year 2007, licensed to overdress and thrill for twelve whole months.

  I had little sympathy for 007. Him feeling like hell was his own fault, not mine. I didn't force him to drink the entire nation’s combined quota of drink units in one evening. In fact I'd told him he’d had enough and he was to stop boozing after he fell off his high heels into the Christmas tree thus fusing the fairy lights. I warned him last night before he fell into bed that in due course we'd be discussing the 'fruit' punch he'd claimed to be drinking thereafter. Little fibber.

  I gave him painkillers, something to settle his stomach and lashings of water. I then tucked him back into bed to sleep it off, giving him Lulu, whom I retrieved from under the dining room table, for hangover cuddles and company. Leaving them snoring like a pair of road drills I made a large pot of tea, handing out mugs of the beverage to the party revelling remnants who were cluttering up the couch and chairs in the living room. They were the usual suspects, Big Mary, Natalie, Rick and Empress Gloria.

  There was also someone called Diamond, who to be honest looked to be a bit of a rough hewn stone in the cruel light of day. Her siren red lipstick and heavy blue eye shadow had somehow leaked and bled together, creating a mess on her face resembling road kill. I pitied Rick when he woke up and spied the countenance belonging to the fake bosom he'd lost consciousness in.

  Mum, bless her, was slightly the worse for wear, but gave me a hand with the grim task of the post party clean up. Prissy like Twinkles and Lulu was completely indisposed. He lay in the guest room groaning quietly and wishing to die until mum took him home.

  I’ll leave aside the fresh born year and return to the old one for a few moments to tell the tale of Christmas just past. It proved something of a mixed event for us.

  On Christmas Eve we went to the PP where the Christmas spirit cut across all rivalry and a jolly good time was had by one and all. There were no fights, no tantrums, no hair pulling. Natalie was having a day off and had sent Kevin in her place. He enjoyed being the male in demand and took to the dance floor with a bevy of assorted beauties, including Twinks who told Kevin he was cute and ought to leave that cow Natalie at home more often. I was suitably jealous when Twinks flirted with him. I had to be. Twinks insisted.

  Christmas Day started well. Twinks and I made long leisurely love. We had a pleasant breakfast and opened some gifts. We then went over to my mother's for Christmas Dinner and more giving and opening of gifts. There was a hiccup involving a beige rage incident. It went much as follows:

  Beige Rage!


  A Christmas Melodrama

  Starring Stardust Twinkles and Joan Swan

  Co-starring a matching scarf and gloves

  S.T. "Beige! Beige! Frigging beige! Do I look like a beige kind of person? I do not wear beige. I would not be seen frigging dead in frigging beige, particularly frigging beige chenille! Beige chenille is what old age pensioners wear, pensioners with no taste. Beige! I ask you. BEIGE! It's an insult, that's what it is, an insult. What are you trying to say, I look like an old age pensioner? I mean how long have you known me, Joan, how long and have you ever seen me in beige? I don't frigging think so!"

  J.S. "Calm down! I didn’t get you anything beige. I know what a vain little Barbie doll you are. I got you a designer scarf in green and gold angora decorated with glittery multicoloured pom-poms. The beige scarf and gloves were for our Debs. Prissy (turns to glare at poor Prissy who tried to look innocent) must have got the labels confused when he wrapped them up."

  S.T. (giving an outraged scream) "You mean thanks to (rudely points) Dizzy Prissy, a butch truck driving lesbian is parading around in MY designer pompom scarf?"

  J.S. “If you flap that bloody beige scarf at me once more I'm going to slap your legs. There's no need to get your silk knickers in a knot. I'll get it back. I can't see our Debs wanting to wear anything with glittery balls."

  S.T. "Knowing your Debs she'll hack all the balls off. She’ll emasculate it. I'll end up with an impotent scarf. How could you, Joan, how could you let Prissy wrap up my present? You should have done it yourself. It's your duty. Phone Debs, phone her now and tell her not to harm my scarf."

  J.S. “I’ll call her later. Have a bloody drink and calm down.”

  Twinks did eventually calm down. Several glasses of wine later he was hugging mum and all was forgiven, even Prissy. My cousin Debs was profoundly relieved to discover the flamboyant scarf she wouldn't be seen dead in, let alone driving a truck in, wasn't hers after all.

  Lulu and his father arrived to have Christmas lunch with us and what a splendid lunch it was. Mum surpassed herself and we all ended up more stuffed than the turkey. Lulu had a bit too much to drink and got emotional about his mother. Lu's dad was also upset, but put his own emotions on hold to comfort his son. Twinkles, ever competitive, comforted him too, as did we all. Lu rather enjoyed being petted and fussed and eventually fell asleep on the couch with his head on my sister Maryann's lap and his feet on mine. He and his dad ended up staying over at mum's house, which I later learned caused a bit of a row between Prissy and mum. Prissy voiced a fear that Lu's widower dad had his eye on mum. Mum told him to get a bloody grip.

  Twinks and I happily headed home on Christmas night laden down with gifts, turkey sandwiches (mum insisted) and looking forward to curling up in bed together to share the bottle of champagne I had stashed in the fridge. It didn't happen.

  Our house had been broken into. We didn't notice at first, nothing was apparent as we went inside. I locked the front door and went into the living room to close the blinds and draw the curtains while Twinks dashed upstairs to the loo. I'd just pulled the curtains shut when a single blood-chilling scream made my hair stand on end. Twinks and screams are par for the course in our house, but I instinctively knew it was something serious this time. I cleared the stairs in record time.

  It was serious. I felt physically sick when I entered our bedroom and saw what had caused the scream. All of his Stardust possessions were destroyed. His gowns and dresses were slashed to ribbons, his feather boas pulled apart, his shoes damaged, his jewellery broken and scattered. His makeup had been spoiled, the containers and contents crushed. His wigs were sprayed with paint and glue. Years of accumulated possessions were decimated and spitefully spewed around the room.

  Only one item of clothing belonging to me was damaged, a precious one. It was my wedding suit. Along with the beautiful suit Twinkles had worn on one of the best days of our lives it had been flung on the bed and drenched in bleach.

  The framed wedding photo I kept on my bedside table was broken and the photo ripped to shreds and scattered contemptuously on top of our spoiled suits.

  I'll never forget the sight of Twinkles standing by the bed with his hand touching the sleeve of the frock coat he'd looked so handsome in. Tears poured silently down his face. I will never forgive the wicked bastard responsible for causing them.

  More later. Twinks says he can manage a cup of tea and a round of toast now, but only if I get them for him. Honestly, I bet his last slave died of exhaustion. It's a good job he's beautiful even when he’s hung over.

  4th January ~ Gossip Queen

  Him in frocks is watching Hollyoaks. God how I hate that programme. It’s all strife plus there doesn't seem to be a single actor or actress under the age of twenty-four. It’s a kind of Twink soap opera. He's addicted to it because it features an array of openly gay, bisexual and transgender characters as well as straight ones. In his estimation it gives a true representation of society, or how society should be. I suppose it keeps him quiet, well, quietish, as he does tend to give a running commentary. I might not actually watch the programme, but I know all about what’s happening in it.

  We seem destined to have run-ins with the emergency services lately. First it was the police on Christmas Day and then yesterday evening we had two fire tenders parked outside the front door and a bevy of firemen and one firewoman tramping all over the house in heavy duty boots. They left mucky footprints all over the carpets and floors.

  What happened? I’ll tell you. Twinks and I had been home from work for about an hour and were in the living room continuing an argument that had begun in the car. It revolved around his desire for me to have an extramarital affair, so he could then forgive me for it. He went so far as to offer to phone Stuart Cramer and arrange a date between us. Cramer would jump at the chance seeing as he fancied the socks off me. I refused. I didn't want an affair. I had enough on my plate with him.

  He claimed I was being selfish. We'd been together for years and it was about time I had an affair. I was gay for God's sake! Gay men were notoriously fickle with their affections and gratuitous with their groin equipment. I issued a simple statement: not this gay man.

  What lay behind his odd desire for me to have an affair? I'll tell you - pure envy and materialistic greed. I knew exactly what it was about because Teddy had also called me to announce he had graciously forgiven Maurice for his Brazilian affair. His forgiveness had come at a price. While he was on the phone he grabbed the opportunity to brag about the beautiful car, a red Alfa Romeo Spider, that Maurice had presented him with shortly before being forgiven for the affair that happened on their pre-Christmas Las Vegas trip. Maurice denied having an affair with the young and handsome Brazilian in question, but put up his hand to ogling him. It had cost him dear.

  Recognising he wasn’t going to get a car via the affair route Twinks demanded I buy him a nice sports car, something in pink that would put Teddy's nose right out of joint?

  My answer was no. For a start what was the point of him having a fancy car he couldn't drive? He said he’d been thinking about taking a few refresher-driving lessons.

  Over my cold, dead body! While blood pulsed in my veins I was going to hold true to the vow I'd made to him, to myself, the judge, local driving instructors and the manager of Sainsbury's that never again would he get his hot little hands on the steering wheel of a motorised vehicle. I will tell that story one fine day.

  I was in the middle of making a few things clear: I was not in the market for an affair, he was not in the market for a sports car, when I was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen smoke alarm going off, closely followed by the one at the top of the stairs.

  Abandoning all arguments we dashed into the hall to investigate. There was a faint scorching smell, but no smoke or flames. The kitchen was fine. The cooker was turned off. The dining room was fine. There were no tree lights smouldering.

  I ordered Twinks to put on his coat and go sit in the car. I then
ran upstairs to investigate further, promising to treat myself to regicide if it turned out he'd left a hair appliance on. I could find nothing that might be responsible for the smoke alarms going off. The smell upstairs was worse and had a distinctive oily, gas like taint to it. There was also a fine blue smoke hanging in the air, but I couldn't detect where the hell it was coming from.

  After opening the bathroom and bedroom windows to disperse the fumes I called the local fire station for advice. They told me to get out of the house immediately. They'd send someone round to have a look. Fair enough.

  Minutes later two huge fire engines, all sirens blaring, roared into the close. Every curtain in the close started twitching. Honestly, can't the fire brigade go anywhere without drawing attention? In next to no time the front garden was full of fit men uncoiling hoses and the house was echoing to the sound of many manly boots.

  Twinks said it was like a scene from a gay fantasy and seeing as he knew he wasn’t responsible for them being there he could enjoy it without guilt.

  I was rather embarrassed at first, especially as there was no obvious sign of flame and fire. As it turned out I'm glad we called them. A thermo-imaging camera detected the source of the fumes and smoke. We have a gas fuelled warm air heating system, which is rather archaic. Thick dust inside the flue had built up and was smouldering sending fumes and smoke out through the heating ducts. If the smoke alarms hadn't done their job we would have had a full-blown fire, and probably an explosion.

  We now have a dismantled and condemned gas boiler and loose duct grills all over the house. We’re cold, but alive and resigned to the fact we probably need a completely new heating system. I've tried all day to get an engineer out to look at it, but to no avail. Monday afternoon is the earliest I could get one to agree to call. We face a chilly weekend, though at least we have an electric fire in the living room.