Reign On Cloud Nine.

The hacking cough scattered the seagulls that hung around the run-down dwelling which, in just three weeks, would become Cloud Nine, the South Bank's latest nightclub. The club was owned by none other than Trixie Lix: the one-time queen of clubland. She was now fighting with a new lock on the front door and using her nail file in absence of a key. Trixie had been out, celebrating her courtroom triumph. She had won the right to build her own entertainment capital, as she called it. The court battle had been with a local building firm that claimed Trixie acquired the land through bribery. It was not true, of course - but it did look suspicious, considering she had been intimate with the councillor who dealt with the sale of the land. Trixie was adamant she did not blackmail the married man with photos of him in a naked jousting contest. Whether just the existence of the photographs - depicting him naked on top of an eighteen-year-old model swinging a double-ended dildo - was enough to persuade him to sell the land cheaply to her only he would know, but she certainly did not blackmail the man. She had been successful in lifting the injunction that had stopped her building her dream, a dream of opening London's first purpose built gay village. She thought it a stroke of luck that she had also known the judge - of course, it had been in his wilder days/nights. She remembered he preferred his steeds to be of East Asian descent. Having left her home in fine, glamorous splendour, she'd now returned fifteen hours later looking like an air crash survivor. At this point, Trixie realised her mistake regarding the nail file. She called the door something in gibberish and then started attempting to unlock it with a lip balm. It took almost an hour for Trixie to get through the front door; she then crashed out half-clothed on the workmen's coveralls that lay next to the freshly-varnished bar. During her unconscious period of cradling a tool belt, Trixie's drool travelled upwards on her backward-hanging head and had matted the glue from her false eyelashes together. Loud banging on the front doors startled her awake. She screamed when she could not open her glued eyes. Jumping to her feet, she attempted to run, but having one leg wrapped around said tool belt and the other missing a glittered stiletto, she quickly ended up back on the floor. Still squealing with panic from the overnight blindness, she crawled headfirst towards the open trap door which led to the cellar. ***************************** After three hours under observation at St Thomas' Hospital and with a cracking headache, Miss Trixie was back at Cloud Nine barking orders at the workmen. Not one to be seen without her face on, she was dressed from turbaned top to varnished toe as Norma Desmond, as she found that when terminally heterosexual men are challenged by such a being, they tend to be rather unusually polite and accommodating. After another hour of banging hammers and buzzing saws, the front doors swung open and in walked her best friend in the whole world, Lady Alice Lovett. Or, as Trixie called her, Nana Love. Nana Love was dressed in a long, flowing, flowery maxi-dress, her pale complexion highlighted by the subtle blend of rouge and cherry lipstick. Her long, silvery grey hair had been scraped off her face and tied loosely at the base of her neck with a wine-coloured crushed velvet ribbon. On her head, she wore an oversized velvet hat which flopped down the sides of her face, which was mostly concealed by a pair of large dark sunglasses. Over the crook of one arm swung a large patchwork bag of sorts; it was in fact a large bundle of patchwork material tied together. She carried everything in it. Letters, photos, shoes and a change of clothes, including underwear. Everything except the kitchen sink, so the saying goes; however, she did carry a set of new faucet taps, three rubberised plugs and a couple of old washers. She walked gasping into the darkness of the club, removing her glasses, then noticed Trixie and strode towards her, relieving herself of a full-length velvet coat en route. The two embraced and Trixie kissed her friend so gently and so lovingly on the cheek. Nana Love backed up and looked her friend up and down. With furrowed brow, she began, “My dear, you look like the council dressed you!” Trixie smiled and replied, “And you, you old goat, look like Woodstock exploded all over you!” The two women laughed and hugged again. They sat down in one of the semi circular sofas facing the stage area; Trixie called to one of the bar staff to bring coffee and settled down. Feet tucked underneath herself, she began by pointing out the bottom cleavage of an electrician, hovering in front of them above the stage. Nana shook her head in disapproval, then let out a slight titter. Trixie attached a cigarette to an overstated holder and said, “Only God herself knows how I got home last night; one minute I'm sipping a Bloody Mary just reaching to have a pinch of a stripper's arse - fantastic night - then the next thing I know I'm back here, hair piece Velcroed to the bar, eyes superglued together and I go arse over falsies into the bloody cellar!” Nana Love arched one eyebrow. Lifted her tea, blew gently into the cup and over the rim commented, “I do so hope that is the shortened version.” Trixie lifted her long finger and, with a manicured talon, pointed at the bar. Nana Love turned to see Trixie's wig still hanging from the wet varnish. The two women cackled