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Gay, straight, bi, man, woman, tranny, granny, goth, undecided
- they're all there, at Brighton's most inclusive nightclub.
Hannah Latham took to the Harlequin's dance floor to talk
to some of the city's most colourful characters. Photos
by Cathy Teesdale
As "Dancing Queen" blares out, the three-by-five-metre
dance floor is heaving with revellers, throbbing like
a hungry animal under our feet. I'm out with two mates
and we're sandwiched between a David Bowie look-alike
lesbian practically having sex with a gorgeous femme,
three gay guys screaming, "Don't you just love Abba?"
and determined to add us to their dance-tourage, a happy
straight couple and a tall, burly guy with a big black
beard. Everyone is grinding it up. One of my mates is
a practice nurse and says she recognises a lot of her
patients. "It's a bit weird," she says. "I've
done a lot of smears."
I take a breather to go and chat to an onlooker I recognise.
I ask for a quote, and he says, "Never smoke a cigarette
in a petrol station." Sensible advice, but not really
what I was after. "Oh, well, the worst thing that
could happen here is someone could insult your curtains."
When I ask whether he often brings his curtains out with
him, he laughs and points at the black tutu he's wearing
over fishnets. "Just call me Brian the glove-puppet,"
he says. "Although, really, what I'd like to be is
a woman. I'm not gay though - I just like wearing skirts.
I've had girlfriends." I can't believe how open he
is. Brian goes on to say he wanted to have the op and
even started hormone treatment, showing me his right breast.
He stopped because he still lives at home and his parents
weren't impressed. Coming here is a vital part of his
life. I do the maths and calculate that he's a lesbian
femme trapped in a man's body. The three glasses of red
wine I had before I came out must be wearing off.
 Another
person I recognise is Elvis the Girl. Having performed
at Dynamite Boogaloo, Heaven, G-A-Y and even on the Frank
Skinner Show and for Jeremy Beadle, I can't understand
why she hasn't done a turn here at the Harlequin. "They've
asked me, but this is where I come to play," she
says. Elvis the Girl has been coming here for 12 years
and explains that her Elvis fascination started when she
was nine. "I fell in love with his looks, not particularly
his music, and have been dressing up like him ever since."
I'm reminded of a bus driver I met in Vancouver who had
even mastered the Southern drawl. It's the Queen's English
here, but Elvis the Girl has her own hair. My friend the
nurse will be pleased to have that question answered.
I move on the man/woman I saw dancing in a skimpy combat
outfit with handcuffs on his/her belt and a red light
sabre. On closer inspection, Lizo - "you know, like
Madonna but spelt differently" - has a better cleavage
than me. And the light sabre? "I was born in May,
so I was destined to be a Jedi." I inspect the device
- it's definitely not from Poundland. It's made of a perfect
cylinder of see-through acrylic, with a solid, detailed
handle and a button-operated laser pointer that shines
down the tube. Yoda would be jealous. "Actually,
I have a wheelchair and calliper fetish, so I make my
own walking sticks." So that's what he/she has on
his/her legs. I wonder what fabulous outfits he/she creates
for the fetish nights here, and I am almost tempted to
go to one. I make a mental note: find myself a fetish,
preferably Jedi Knight linked. Lizo raves about the Harlequin.
"You can do whatever you like here - within reason.
You can treat this place like your playground. And it's
straight-friendly."
The Harlequin is one of Brighton nightlife's lesser-known
gems - a building easy to overlook, opposite St Bartholemew's
Church, behind London Road. If only the vicar knew what
went on three doors down - but then, knowing this place,
he could easily be a loyal regular. Diversity is celebrated
in all its glory, with an undisclosed postscript that
reads EVERYONE is accepted. Gay, straight, bi, undecided,
man, woman, both, undecided, goth, tranny, granny - they're
all here. While diversity made clubs like Revenge mainstream
(I know it's hard to think back to when gay was so diverse),
causing inflated prices and a natural selection of exclusive
poseurs, the Harlequin quietly continues to provide a
place for anyone who feels they don't fit in anywhere
else. "We wanted to provide something different to
Revenge, Wild Fruit or Envy. We wanted something relaxed,"
says Stewart Rampton, who bought the place six years ago
with business partner Steven Chillingworth. Previously
known as Ruby's, Stewart and Steve named it the Harlequin
to reflect a chequered mix. Like Liquorice Allsorts. "I
had a Harlequin in Sunbury years ago, and it was really
successful," continues Stuart. "I was going
to say Steve and I have been in the licensing trade for
many years, but I don't want to. I'm only 29. That's my
waist, not my age!"
Deliberately keeping their prices down (entry is free
until 10pm, £2 before 11, and around £5 after)
they built up their own trade, picking up the Marine Tavern
off St James's Street three years ago. While the Harlequin
is billed as a gay bar, there is such a mix of twisted
stereotypes and gender-benders, you'd be hard pushed to
figure out the sex, let alone sexuality, of some of the
clientele. But what's great is that they don't care and
they don't mind you looking. The cheap pub prices give
it that local pub atmosphere, while the raised ceiling
and mini-grand staircase make it feel more like a converted
barn/meeting hall, creating great space for people-watching.
Upstairs there are tables hidden away at the back of the
balcony for the less extrovert, and two more exposed sections
of seating leading to the tiny dance floor which hangs
in the corner, below the DJ's stall.
Dayve is on - a family
man who has been flipping CDs here for eight years. We
meet at the bar and he admits he's not really a DJ. "They
do this," he says, yanking on imaginary vinyl with
his hand over his ear. "I tried all sorts of call
names, but none really worked. So it's DJ D-a-y-ve with
a 'y'." We discuss the finer points of not having
to seamlessly blend music together, and he shows off their
new text-a-request posters, which will go right above
the mounted computer and keyboard by the stairs that do
the same job. "It's directly linked to me upstairs.
We're the only club in Brighton that has it." I'm
finding it hard to keep up with my note-taking, and I
make a mental note: must learn shorthand one day. P.S.
drink less wine before doing interviews - especially in
clubs.
DJ D-a-y-ve insists I shouldn't buy my own drink, and
puts my £1 pineapple and soda on his tab. Drinking
from two full pints in turn, he then tells me he's been
trying Paul McKenna's hypnosis-to-lose-weight CD, and
it's so relaxing. I only realise the irony now. Hypnosis
being a subject I know a bit about, I'm busy launching
into how great trance is, when the barman wearing a Misterhard
in a Mastercard logo T-shirt, interjects. Somehow the
conversation moves on to comedy and we're arguing about
what's the funniest thing on TV at the moment. I like
Kath and Kim, but Misterhard, whose glasses are taped
on one side, says that's so old he saw it years ago. DJ
D-a-y-ve says 8 Out of 10 Cats could be even better than
Whose Line Is It Anyway?. Misterhard badgers him for when
it's on, but really wants to talk about Big Brother. "Isn't
Kinga beautiful? It takes real guts to walk in with rolls
of fat hanging out like that."
I make a third mental note: Journalism has made me superficially
unforgiving - Kinga is no minga, she's a brave woman (and,
by the way, I don't really watch Big Brother - please
believe me).
 Cabaret
for the night is Maisie Trollette, an aging tranny in
a trailing dress of giant white sparkling fish scales
and a blue fake feather boa. The crowd love her, even
though she insults all of them. "When I've got a
Moulescoombe audience, I like to start with a bit of country,"
she coos. A group of Irish girls get a hammering, and
a lesbian is asked why the hell she'd wear a T-shirt with
GAP written on it in a place full of gay men. They all
take it in true British, rip-me-to-shreds spirits. This
crowd knows it takes a sharp tranny to keep you in check.
My photographer, who has arrived as hung-over as I am
drunk, gets a wringing too. "Insight, oooh fab. John,"
she turns to the pianist. "What kind of rock formation
are you going for with that close-up love?" At least
Maisie pokes as much at herself as at anyone else - always
a healthy start to a good relationship with your audience.
I notice that Steve's mum, who was down at the bar, is
now sitting right up at the front having a good laugh.
She doesn't get picked on, and quite right too - she's
exempt purely out of respect for bothering to go up the
stairs, although no doubt Maisie wouldn't stand a chance,
anyway.
Later, I corner Debbie, who came in late and got a lot
of over-familiar flack, including: "If you fell over
with tits like that you wouldn't hurt your face."
I ask her how they all know her so well. "Because
I've slept with most of them," she replies. She's
out for the night with her ex-husband and his katoey (ladyboy),
who designs gowns for the Queen of Thailand. The Thai
underwear models who were going to come couldn't make
it. "I like it here because there are no labels -
that's rare to find. I met my boyfriend in here - he just
walked in off the street. We're engaged. He doesn't do
gay bars. He's at home tonight, probably masturbating.
So long as he's quiet. That's all I have time for."
Thank God, I think - my notes are illegible. It may be
straight-friendly here, but I'm hard pushed to find some
nondescript straight people to give this piece a more
rounded edge - they just don't stand out amid all this
colour. I'm also determined to prove that the man in my
party who thinks he's the only straight guy here is wrong
(note: it was in the context of him feeling totally relaxed
and enjoying watching everyone have a good time). I settle
for the mixed group at a table downstairs who have been
drinking all night and are now singing loudly to a cheesy
rock song coming from DJ D-a-y-ve. Maybe it was their
text request, as they seem to know all the words. "We
come here every six weeks or so, early to get a table.
It's an organised thing," says one guy. "We
love it." Everyone seems to have the same thing to
say.
 The
Harlequin is quirky, vibrant and friendly, with a heart
of gold. Life goes on and it goes on larger than life
here. When I'm 65, I won't be smoking cigarettes outside
petrol stations in a black tutu or demanding a light sabre
with my wheelchair to remember the good old days. No,
I'll be down Providence Place throwing a kick-ass party,
because the Harlequin will still be there, and the doors
will be open. They have the kind of spirit that never
skips a generation and one you can't kill. Plus they don't
charge for private hire in the week, and whatever lousy
pension I end up on, it'll be enough to be having a good
time here!
The Harlequin, 43 Providence Place, is
open Thurs to Sat, 9pm-2am, with cabaret on Friday and
Saturday nights, £0-£5. There's a pre-Pride
benefit night on July 24 at 9pm, hosted by Kitty Litter
and with Maisie Trollette, Cookie, Dave Lynn, Betty Botox
plus others. Tel: 01273 620630.
copyright The Insight
2005
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