Something funny happens once a year at the London Lesbian and Gay Film Festival (LLGFF to those in the know). Particularly with the lesbians who don’t usually go out much.
The minute the volume gets turned up in the film theatre bar, a year’s worth of pent up fun is released. Arms are thrown up in the air, casting off the cobwebs (and cat hair) and frizzy haired homely types suddenly become wild party animals, dropping glasses of wine and spinning on the patches of broken glass as they give it some in circles around parked rucksacks on the dance floor.
Bless their recycled sandals, those Wah Wahs still have it in them. They just can’t afford a cat sitter every week.
I repress visions of mildly hungover plus-40s waking up with their pants on their head the morning after, wondering what the hell happened to their back last night, as an over-enthusiastic pussy scratches the carpet outside the uncharacteristically closed bedroom door.