Future Queens of England

by Ryan Matthews

Hugh smiled. “To get noticed and to get famous,” he stated simply.

  Uwe leant across the table. “Martyrdom is the only way a man can become famous without ability,” he uttered contemptuously.

  Hugh sat back on his stool, obviously offended, “You may mock me,” he said, “but you’ll see.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Hugh,” Bruce said seedily. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of special abilities that I’d just love to discover.” He nestled up closer to Hugh. Hugh gulped, uncomfortable with Bruce’s close proximity, and tried to edge himself away from Bruce in tiny micro movements.

  Meanwhile, Marc returned with the drinks, this time on a tray so he could manage them all. He placed the beer in front of Tony and the bottle of wine in the centre of the table. “I’ve got some extra glasses for the wine,” Marc said, placing them on the table before sitting down and knocking back some more vodka.

  Uwe examined the bottle of wine momentarily before pouring a small amount into a glass. He lifted the wine glass up to the light and studied it as it swam around. Thoughtfully, he brought the glass close to his nose; he closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma. The group watched Uwe, completely transfixed by this show. Finally, he raised the glass to his lips and carefully took a small sip.

  “The wine here is shit,” he proclaimed to them all, pulling a face as he put the glass back on the table. He flicked at the rim of the glass with the tip of his finger. The glass made a dull thud. “Cheap wine in cheap wine glasses,” he sighed, “I don’t know how you island monkeys put up with it.”

  Keenan nudged Giles, “He knows how to make friends, doesn’t he?”

  Giles nodded in agreement.

  “I really don’t know how I am going to last the year on this terrible island,” Uwe said airily. “The food is awful, the weather is horrible and the tables are always sticky.” He demonstrated by placing his hand on the table and lifting it slowly whilst pulling a face of disdain and disgust. “Why are all the tables so sticky?” he asked no one in particular. “Every time I lean on one in this country I have to suffer the discomfort of the stickiness on my arms. Have you people never even heard of detergent?”

  “Sticky tables? What on earth are you on about, Uwe?” Tony asked.

  “Back in Germany we would never put up with any of this shit,” Uwe declared. “There are undiscovered tribes in sub-Saharan Africa who have better living conditions than this.”

  “Aye, well, if they’re undiscovered how would anyone even know that?” Keenan piped up.

  Unfazed, Uwe carried on talking. “It was a figure of speech you imbecile. Surely the British understand sarcasm? I thought it was only Americans that failed to understand this.”

  “Isn’t that a complete generalisation of Americans, Uwe?” Giles asked.

  Uwe leant closer to Giles, “Generalisation is a tool. The alternative is to meet every single American on the planet, interrogate them and only then make a judgement. I have neither the time nor the inclination to perform the latter, therefore I choose generalisation to save time.” He stared at Giles waiting for a response.

  “Well, actually, that kind of makes sense,” Giles said, quite taken aback by the logic.

  Uwe sat back smugly. “Of course it makes sense. You will find I am normally correct on such matters. In fact, I would go so far as to say that as a rule of thumb, when we disagree on something automatically assume that you are wrong and I am right. It will save you a lot of embarrassment in the long run.”

  “You are so self-obsessed, you’re always talking about yourself,” Hugh retaliated. “You never show any interest in anyone but yourself.”

  Uwe replied coolly. “If we were not all so interested in ourselves, life would be so uninteresting that none of us would be able to endure it.”

  “Look, are we here to listen to this crap or are we here to have some lap dances?” cried Bruce in exasperation.

  “Err, what about some of that wine Tony?” Hugh said, ignoring Bruce.

  Tony picked up his glass and said, “Sure, fill her up.”

  Hugh picked up the bottle and poured it into Tony’s glass. The liquid reached the top and overflowed spilling into Tony’s lap.

  “Careful, you bloody idiot!” Tony stood up to examine the extent of the spillage. A large wet patch was visible on the inside of his left thigh. “Fetch me something to mop this up with,” he ordered. “I don’t want any of the queens in here thinking I’ve gotten over excited and lost control.”

  Quick as a flash, Hugh left his seat and went to the bar to get some tissue.

  “Jesus Christ, what next?” Bruce exclaimed. “Hey, you! Come over here!” he cried to one of the dancers, “I’d like a dance.”

  The dancer walked over to Bruce. “Hi there lover boy, that’ll be twenty pounds.”

  “Yeah, here we go. This is what I’m talking about,” Bruce said, reaching for his wallet. “I want a really dirty dance though for twenty pounds.” He took out his wallet and unzipped it, “I don’t have any notes I’m afraid, so I’ll have to give you coins.”

  “Coins?” cried the dancer, “do you see any pockets in this outfit?”

  “I could pop them in your g-string if you like, one by one. Though the elastic had better be strong or you’ll be giving me more than I bargained for,” Bruce said half seriously.

  “Forget it,” the dancer said walking away. “Time waster!”

  Bruce reached out after him, “Ah, no, please, please don’t go.”

  “Bruce, please have some dignity,” Uwe said.

  Bruce’s head hung low for a moment, “Does anyone want to swap some coins for a note?” He looked around the group pleadingly.

  “I’ll loan you a twenty, Bruce,” Keenan offered. “You can give me a note back though this week.”

  “Great, thanks Keenan,” he said gratefully.

  In front of Marc sat a number of shot glasses, all empty bar one. He picked up the last shot glass and knocked it back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then let it fall onto his lap limply. He turned his head to see Uwe furtively peering at him. “How many have you had, Uwe?” Marc slurred drunkenly.

  “This is something that I will never understand about the English,” Uwe said. “You are always so keen to find out how much alcohol everyone else has consumed.”

  “Answer the question, you foreign devil,” Marc shouted belligerently.

  Uwe ignored him and continued undeterred. “Strangely, this doesn’t seem to apply to other drinks. For example, you never seem interested to ask how many cups of coffee I’ve drunk today or how many freshly squeezed orange juices. But I am more than willing to provide you with a well rounded picture, if you want me to break it down to that level of detail?”

  “You’re from the same country as Hitler, aren’t you?” Marc garbled.

  “No, Hitler was Austrian, I am German. That’s like saying you’re from the same country as Napoleon, you ill-educated fool,” Uwe scoffed with an air or superiority. “Anyway, do not change the subject. You were asking me about my alcohol consumption. Why stop there? I can tell you how many calories I consumed today and perhaps give you percentages of fat versus carbohydrates and protein. Would this be of interest to you since you are so keen to know my gastric intake?”

  “Fuck you! You know-it-all German bastard!” Marc slurred angrily before picking himself up and wandering off to the bar again.

  “Arschloch,” Uwe responded coolly as he sipped at the wine again.

  Hugh returned with some tissues and went to wipe Tony.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Tony said slowly enunciating each word. He took the tissue from Hugh and began to wipe himself.

  Bruce spoke up again, “I think it’s time for a dance now,” he said with growing impatience.

  “Where are your manners, Bruce?” Uwe said with a wry smile. “Shouldn’t we let our guest, Tony, have the first dance?”

  Bruce ground his teeth in anguish, “Yes, alright, but I’m having one straig
ht after him,” he muttered tersely.

  “Hey, I’m not so sure about this,” Tony said with a small quiver in his voice.

  “Tony, a bet is a bet. We lost the game and now you must take your medicine,” Uwe stated firmly, and then waved for a dancer to come over. A tall, tanned muscular man in shorts, braces and a cowboy hat walked barefooted over to Uwe. “This guy here would like a dance,” he said, pointing at Tony before thrusting some money into the dancer’s hand. The dancer nodded and moved across to Tony.

  “Actually, you go first, Bruce,” Tony said, with panic in his eyes.

  “Now, come on, Tony,” Uwe said relishing every moment of Tony’s pain. “You’re not scared are you?”

  All eyes were on Tony. He looked at them all as they stared back at him, waiting for his response. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and finally he buckled under the pressure.

  “No, of course not. Bring it on,” he said unconvincingly. “How does this work then?” Tony asked the dancer.

  “No touching,” the dancer informed him.

  “You think I’m gonna touch you? In your dreams, you gay bastard,” Tony blurted.

  “What?” the dancer said, taken aback at Tony’s outburst. But after a moment he smiled. “Oh, I get it, you’re still not ready to admit you’re gay.”

  “I’m not bloody gay,” Tony said defensively, “I’m not!”

  The dancer laughed then added, “The lady protests too much, methinks.”

  “No, seriously, I am not bent,” Tony stated.

  “So what are you doing in a gay strip bar having a lap dance from a man then?” the dancer asked with some confusion.

  “I’m doing it as a bet,” Tony said, his voice slightly higher than normal.

  “Ah, yes, a bet. I believe you darling, millions wouldn’t!”

  “It’s true,” Tony said weakly. His shoulders sank and his head hung limp. “It’s true,” he repeated.

  “Sure, sure. Look, shall we get on with this?” the dancer said, losing his patience.

  “How long does this dance go on for?” Tony asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

  “The length of one song.”

  “Hey, wait one moment please,” Uwe said to the stripper. He ran across the dance floor towards the DJ’s box and leant over and spoke to him. The group watched the DJ shaking his head. Uwe then reached in his pocket and removed his wallet. He took some money and handed it over. The DJ took the money greedily and nodded, and then Uwe turned and ran back across the dance floor to rejoin the group.

  “What was all that about?” asked Giles.

  “Patience,” Uwe said smugly.

  Suddenly the DJ’s voice boomed from the speakers. “We have an unusual request tonight. It’s not the sort of music that we play here normally, but we have a dedication. Where’s Tony tonight?”

  The group cheered and waved at the DJ.

  “Okay Tony, this one’s going out to you, Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. Enjoy, my friend,” the DJ said as the last track faded. Tony’s face turned pale.

  Uwe laughed, “This is going to be six minutes of your life that you’ll never forget, Tony. Prost alte!” And with that he raised his glass.

  As the opening bars started to play the dancer took his position over Tony. Tony gritted his teeth and tried to find his happy place but it was no good, he was unable to escape into his head. The dancer straddled Tony and swayed gently from side to side, staring intensely into his eyes. Tony, obviously uncomfortable with the eye contact, didn’t know where to look. His eyes looked to his left and were confronted by the smirks of Hugh, Keenan, Gareth and Bruce. He turned his head to the right and was met by the glare of Uwe and the simpering smile of Giles. Flanked on either side by a flange of grinning baboons and faced by a sight that didn’t even feature on Tony’s list of ‘one million and one things to see before I die’, he felt trapped.

  As Freddie Mercury sang, I’m just a poor boy, the dancer placed his hands upon Tony’s chest. Tony’s torso instantly tensed and he immediately pushed himself back hard against the wall away from the dancer’s touch.

  Tony’s companions watched on gleefully as Uwe declared, “I feel like a Roman emperor watching the Christians being thrown to the lions.”

  Bruce nodded his head in agreement, “Two thousand years later and this sort of grim spectacle has lost none of its appeal.”

  “I never want it to end. Look at him squirm,” Uwe said, his voice dripping with schadenfreude. The dance continued, much to Uwe’s delight.

  After what seemed liked hours to Tony, he spoke up again, “How much longer does this bloody song go on for?”

  “You’ve got a while yet, Tony, we’re not even at the operatic part yet!” laughed Gareth gaily. The dancer bent over and touched his toes. He winked at Tony from between his legs before pushing his buttocks against his face.

  “That’s it, I can’t take any more,” wailed Tony.

  “Come on, Tony, stay with it, it’s nearly at the guitar solo,” Hugh said supportively, as he clenched his fists, willing Tony on. The dancer fell to his knees in front of Tony and placed his hands on Tony’s thighs. He attempted to pull Tony’s legs apart, but Tony fought this. The dancer gritted his teeth and his huge biceps and triceps flexed as Tony’s legs shook and gave way. Quick as a flash the dancer slid between Tony’s legs. He attempted to close them again but then thought better of it.

  Mama, ooohh, I don’t wanna die sometimes wish I’d never been born at all, came the angelic voice from the speakers. The dancer grabbed Tony’s wrists and held them down before pushing his face into Tony’s crotch. Tony wore a pained expression on his face as the onlookers wept tears of laughter. Uwe clutched his stomach, contorting in pain, and he then threw his head back in hysterics. He lost his balance and toppled backwards from his chair onto the floor. The group pointed at Uwe on the floor in fits of laughter and held their sides to stop them from splitting.

  The blistering guitar solo started and the dancer sprang from his knees to his feet. He undid his braces and let them hang limply at his sides. He stared intently at Tony as he ran his hands down his chest to the top of his shorts. With a smouldering look he began unbuttoning them. Tony opened his mouth to speak but no words would come out.

  I see a little silhouette of a man … Queen sang as the dancer pulled down his shorts to reveal his thong and an incredibly large packet.

  “No!” Tony shrieked, “look at the size of that thing. It’s not natural.” Tony stood up to escape, but the dancer pushed him back down into his seat and leapt onto him. At four minutes and seven seconds into the song the rock section kicked in. With his legs wrapped around Tony the dancer rode him like a bucking bronco. Gripping Tony firmly with one hand for support, the dancer waved his cowboy hat in the air with his other as Tony bucked like a bronco trying to escape, but the rider remained in the saddle. The sweat poured from Tony as he twisted this way and that, trying to eject his rider, but the rider was just too strong. Every time Tony made it to his feet his rider squeezed him with his thighs and Tony collapsed back onto the chair behind him.

  Oh baby, can’t do this to me baby. Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of here! Freddie belted out with the utmost passion as Tony flailed wildly. He made attempt after attempt to buck his rider, but his rider’s prowess defeated him each time.

  “That is the most incredible thing I have ever seen,” declared Gareth with awe. “Has anyone brought their camera?”

  “It’s magnificent,” Uwe said, “I never thought it would be as good as this!”

  “This is the stuff that dreams are made of,” Bruce declared with his hand suspiciously in his pocket.

  As the song reached its crescendo, a defeated Tony collapsed exhausted into his chair. With an enormous sense of satisfaction the dancer climbed down and danced delicately around Tony, occasionally stroking his arms, face and legs gently. Finally, the dancer placed his cowboy hat crookedly onto Tony’s head and walked away as the final bars played out s
oftly. Tony lay slumped in the chair, down but not out.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Good morning to you my nearest, dearest and queerest,” Ben said as he shimmied into the room.

  “Morning Ben,” they chorused enthusiastically seated upon their cushions.

  “Today we are going to deal with style,” he announced in his normal flamboyant manner. “For some of you this is going to be a piece of cake …” He looked at Gareth and Uwe and winked. “But for others - and I’m not naming any names,” he stared deliberately out of the window at the skyline so as not to give anything away, “well, let’s just say we’ve got our work cut out.” He turned back to face the class and continued. “Your latest assignment will be to make someone look fabulous!” Ben announced with gusto. “You will all be put into groups and the least stylish member of each group will be given a makeover.”

  The class cooed and gasped and then started to chatter excitedly. After a moment Tony raised his hand.

  Ben gestured for the class to quieten down then pointed over to Tony. “Yes, Tony. Do you have a question?”

  “Who decides who the least stylish person is?” Tony asked.

  The class burst into hysterics.

  Ben gently put his finger to his lips and the laughter immediately died down. “Tony, Tony, Tony,” he said with a smile, “unless Stig of the Dump is in your particular group then it’s an absolute axiom. But to save people’s feelings as much as possible I will nominate the least stylish person within each group. I don’t think we want to let you all start listing everyone else’s faults now, do we?” He looked at the class seriously, “Guys, I don’t want anyone to take this personally, just accept it for what it is and learn from it.”

  The class eyed each other nervously. Hugh crossed his fingers and hoped that it wouldn’t be him.

  “So, Tony, as I inferred you will receive the makeover within your group,” Ben said softly and sensitively.

  “Alright,” Tony said matter-of-factly, “what do I have to do, then?”

  “Oh,” Ben said a little taken aback. “I’d actually put twenty minutes aside in my diary for convincing you to do it.”