Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Wimbledon, drag


Have a thing about John Inverdale.  I thought it would pass but now that Wimbledon’s started he’s all over the telly again and it seems I’ve not shaken it. 

I have this inexplicable urge to dress him in drag.  Yes, of course I know he’s all man, and it would doubtless offend his rugby-trained 100% brawn to hear himself discussed in this way, but I can’t help it.  Every time I catch sight of the Inverdale I instantly transport him in fishnets and fuschia boned satin to centre stage, Madame JoJo’s.

Am yet to put my finger on just why this should be, but I think it’s the mouth, particularly when he smiles.  It’s a perfect Cupid’s bow set within a granite jaw, that curls upwards and stretches wide to reveal a pristine set of pearly whites.  Plus his eyes are a flashing steely grey, heavily lashed, and naturally defined in a way that looks like Boots no 7. 

Mouth, neck, shoulders, eyebrows… all are oversized in the kind of way that would immediately rumble a drag queen’s gender however lavishly feminine the dress and garb.  And such a great hulk of a man is instantly emasculated when dressed in a suit and perched on a TV sofa.

No idea.  Am prepared to accept that this could be a psychological issue that’s all my own but Inverdale just seems a bundle of soft, raw, feminine, masculine contradictions that’s resulting in a warping of my mind.  Surely I can’t be the only one…?      

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