Joan Whithers

“The faaaaaabuloooous, Joan Withers!”

Up comes the band. Applause for the good woman herself.

“I don’t get out of bed and piss until the sun has gone down.”

Late night drag queen torch singer.

“Part broken down show girl, part torch singer… (chuckle) part fucken vampire.”

She has only ever appeared in the early morning.

“My bed is the only comfort I get in this crazy fucken world. It’s the only place I feel safe. But I’m not precious about it, I’ll share…”

She has built a legend from appearing unexpectedly, late, the last girl of the night. She sings in her own, powerful voice. She only sings old, sad, maybe tragic, occasionally up lifting songs.

“Uplifting darl…only if your life is truly down the fucken sewer. That‘s where we’re looking from tonight, babe.”

Pointing up, with arm outstretched.

“I’m the reincarnation of Judy and you know how fucked up she was.”

Drum roll.

“My private life? You don’t want to know.” Big eyes. Big mouth.

Music starts.

“I’m here for the sad, the forgotten, the hopeless, just to show you if this old wreck can do it, so can you. No matter how fucked up your life, no matter how sad your circumstances, I’m here to cheer you up. One and all.”

The song starts. "Round and a round and a round."

She, of course, doesn’t appear alone. She has a backing troupe, The Fabulous Slags, a troupe of three, sixty year old divas wanna-bees. Old white girl hoofers. Stick thin, like they’ve been vacuum sealed to their bones; drawn, stretched tight, big hair, tits, real old pieces of work. Too much make-up, too much attitude. Old stage girl belters.

“I want to introduce you to my girls.”

The legend of Joan Withers, is that she appears unannounced, late at night, and belts out a show that just knocks the audience dead. And then she disappears again. Poof. Gone.

"Oh stop the world I want to get off."

One night she appeared with her best friend, Denise Le Blounge, who is even more of a mystery, on Castro one very late night. Legend is that their version of Enough is Enough, went for thirty minutes, during which a handful of drug-fucked queens swore they saw god. They were declared genius’.

Joan’s only public comment after was.

“Good fucking drugs boys?”

She raised her champagne glass to the sky.

“Up ya fucken bums!”

The only comment Joan ever offered about Denise was, She sleeps with her Alsatian.

When Joan appeared live the next time, she said of Denise, Oh she’s not coming back, you wouldn’t like her. Cunt! Nasty piece of work.

Joan says she’s Australian.

“I’ve got a husband. I live quietly in the country.”

A couple of cameo’s a year.

“Just to keep ya fucken appetites wet.”

Of course, rumour is that Joan is the famous pop star, Michael James, who retired fifteen years ago, walking out on a fabulous career.

And Denise was none other than pop legend....

“I met him once,” said the journo. “Michael James. Talk about fate. I asked him straight out.”

“Yes, of course it’s me. I only ever wanted to sing. I never wanted the fame bullshit.” Michael smiled. “This way they only care about the voice.”

“I wasn’t sure I believed him, said the journo, “As I dripped off his every word. Then he turned nasty.”

“Taken the piss?”

He did a fine job of outrage. Acknowledging everything and then sounding completely unconvincing in the explanation. Sarcasm used at its best. I didn’t really get that until I was watching the back of his car drive away, said the journo.

Full frontal assault and then complete withdrawal, not unlike Joan herself.