Books, their covers and judging

Today's dominant mood (due to hangover):

Picture, if you will, a slightly built and somewhat short woman of about 40 years of age. Imagine that she is flanked on both sides by unusually burly, invariably silent men. These men have a look of suspicion when surveying all those around them. They are invariably dressed in dark suits of unexceptional quality. There is always a cable thing around one of their ears, which presumably is some sort of communication device.

You’re probably imagining that I’m describing a former first lady of the USA on a shopping trip or something? No. I’m describing the combat lesbian in charge of the door at one of the best known pubs in Canal Street, Manchester. I won’t name that pub to avoid risk of libel, except to say that its reputation as a gay pub is now spurious. If the Walt Disney Corporation were to have a gay pub at Epcot, it would be like this place. It now principally welcomes tourists who don’t know better, bi-curious, generally curious and (worst of all) every hen night in the Northern hemisphere. It’s truly loud, tasteless and horrid, although not as loud, tasteless and horrid as your average Canal Street hen night. They shall be the subject of a wholly different rantlet.

The “lady” in question is, in fact, one hard, thoroughly disagreeable cow. Her sole recreation appears to be giving attitude to punters and harassing them for imagined misdemeanours, such as leaving their coat over a banister. No, dear reader, I don’t know why that should be an infringement of general good taste and manners either, but it is deemed thus. The two quiet, muscular men flanking her are not her protection squad. They are her bitches. They presumably had some dignity once, but certainly no longer. Occasionally one sees them try to suppress a wince when they hear her pick an argument with a valued customer over some minor imagined infraction. They then generally get the task of dealing with the would-be customer who has been made irate by her querulous manner. Get some self-re-sodding-spect, gentlemen.

I drunkenly staggered past said establishment last night and marvelled for a moment why anybody should voluntarily subject themselves to the indignity of her sneer and her sniping inspection. The range of options very nearby is positively bountiful, mostly with a happy crowd and conspicuously pleasant door staff. The combined bodyweight of her bitches must be four times her own, yet she holds them in her absolute power by some means that I assume must have something to do with Stockholm syndrome.

We staggered on past and went to Hollywood Show Bar, where I sadly discovered that the lovely Babs has decided she’s leaving. Babs is everything that the combat lesbian isn’t and the Gay Village will be a slightly duller place without her. Babs, we salute you.