Revellers at Horse Meat Disco give it some Legs and Co realness. Photograph: Peter George/ scene_OUT
On Saturday night I went to the third Vogueing Ball organised by raucous Sunday south London nightclub Horse Meat Disco. Vogueing is the dance form invented in the late 80s by a subculture of black New York gay men, famously paid homage to - some would say nicked - by Madonna for her 1990 uberhit. The basic idea is that you strike poses like a fashion model on a catwalk, and that "houses" (as in fashion houses, but really teams) compete to be the best - or rather, in the lingo, the fiercest.
The definitive vogueing document is a film called Paris Is Burning, which captured the original innovators like the magisterial Willi Ninja, who died of Aids this year. Saturday night was titled Vauxhall Is Gurning. An astonishing 50 people had signed up to tramp down a catwalk erected in the middle of the dancefloor before an eclectic judging panel - including fashion designer Roland Mouret and Strictly Come Dancing judge Craig Revel Horwood - and several hundred plastered clubbers. One of the "walkers" was a mate of mine, who donned a blue lurex bodysuit purchased on eBay which had holes for neither mouth nor eyes (though he wisely remedied the latter with some scissors).
There were five categories: Femme Real Carpet Walkabout ("Dripping in designer labels and bejewelled to the hilt, you deserve that Oscar, Miss Thing!"), Butch Banjiboy Realness ("Everyone wants a piece of your working ass, so give 'em something to drool over"), Spaced Cadets up in Pumps ("The woodwork squeaks and out come the freaks"), John Waters Homage ("Work your body to create a character worthy of the King of Trash") and - best of all - Legs and Co Realness ("Legwarmers and Latin hustle, so get the sequins out"). After a foul-mouthed introduction by the two hosts abetted by two bears in drag and a gentleman dressed only in his underpants (proving that no event is too outré for corporate sponsorship these days, it was "in association" with knicker firm Red Torpedo), the competition began. The very first person, wearing an astoundingly elaborate creation topped off by a foot-high wig, set the tone by falling straight down the stairs. Clearly, rather than practising their amazing dance moves, most of the walkers had instead put on the most outrageous outfit possible, swallowed their bodyweight in booze and decided to wing it. This is no doubt when Craig Revel Horwood gave most of the walkers two or three out of 10. Roland Mouret was much more generous, giving most 10 or 11.
The Banji Boy Realness category involved the assorted gay men pretending to emulate violent beer boys - surely rich material for a sociology thesis. With a couple of exceptions, this was none too convincing - one dude dressed as a workman suddenly produced a couple of fans from somewhere and started flailing them around, behaviour that wouldn't go down too well on your typical building site. "He'd better be butch in the sheets because he sure is femme in the streets," agreed the compère after boos from the audience.
My friend acquitted himself admirably in the Spaced Cadet category - he didn't even fall off the end! (Someone else did, a few minutes later.) Later, one of the bears was on his hands and knees trying to clear up a splattered egg someone had thrown onto the stage. "Is anyone on a high-protein diet who could lick this up?" demanded the host. Adding a topical note, a walker who looked not unlike that night's X-Factor winner Leona was asked how "she'd" managed to hotfoot it over from the TV studio. "I don't fuck about," rasped the basso profundo reply.
The rest of the night was a whirl of outrageous outfits, shouts of "fierce", "work it" and "mind the egg" before the chaos came to a halt somewhere around 3am with a victory from the House of Dubois (other houses included the House of Ill Repute and House of Frasier). While old-school New York vogueing balls were all about athletic dance moves and hardcore glamour - a form of escapism from harsh surroundings - this was more about dressing up and having a laugh, but still paying tribute to this lost subculture. As my friend staggered on to the dancefloor in his catsuit, I think Willi Ninja would have smiled.
