#regatta week

July 24,1930 - July 3, 2005 Venice, August 1991

So I arrived in Hamilton Island looking forward to lots of rosé and lots of sitting by the pool reading all these Misogyny books (true stuff, not very compelling reading) but instead we went for a buggy ride around the island. Now let me tell you, I was adorned with necklaces galore (trying to look acceptable, I mean you should have seen my accommodation - if you look like you don’t belong there, you’re most probably underdressed) and had the vibrant red lipstick to give my ripped jeans and t shirt a bit of oomph (a ten year old boy told me it was too much - bit humiliating), and I was riding through town, and everyone looked at me like “What the hell is a drag queen doing here? It’s regatta week not gay pride!” And it’s safe to say I looked absolutely ridiculous. Since I’m really quite stubborn and don’t like to be made fun of, I was like “right, this is what I’m gonna do. I’m going to dress up and put on the poshest accent I can while talking to the sailors so perhaps they’ll see it as some girly thing they don’t understand, instead of someone trying too hard. Skip along to later in the week, my friends were sitting at the Owners table at the crew party, and I went to sit with the sailors. Since I was dressed up (sans red lips this time) and was talking like a twat, I think they were interested to laugh at me across the table. However, with my (slightly uncouth) (terribly crude) sense of humour, it went along swell! I was roaring with them at the end of the night, and felt like a true yachtie (except I was holding champagne up to the table, because I was getting red teeth from the wine). Quite fantastic, if I do say so myself. I like yachties. I really do.