Shura discusses post lock-down anxiety, becoming a muscle mommy, 5-a-side with Leah Williamson and teasing her first album in six years.

WORDS EMILY CAMERON
PHOTOGRAPHY SOPHIE WILLIAMS
DESIGN JACK ROWE

When I get on my Zoom call with Shura I’m immediately mortified by my setup – a grainy MacBook camera, grim lighting and a messy bedroom in the background embarrassingly juxtaposed to Shura’s HD top-left camera angle and ring light. The perils of interviewing someone who became a streamer during the pandemic, I guess. 

A lot has changed for Shura since her last album, 2019’s forevher – and not just the streaming. Having made a name for herself in 2015 with songs about heartbreak and sad-girl sapphic longing like ‘Touch’ and ‘2Shy’, forevher was about falling in love. Now, after six years, a brief career as a pro Twitch streamer, and an internal struggle with with mental health and isolation, her new album, I Got Too Sad For My Friends, bravely shines a light on those parts of ourselves we turn away from, feelings of shame and selfishness around our mental health. Crucially, IGTSFMF seeks to soothe and soften those strains while you find a way out. Filled with cuttingly emotive expressions of loneliness and isolation, it addresses difficult feelings from a position of love and positivity. This record lets you be the little spoon, it’s the fabulously sapphic image of sitting in an armchair ‘with a cat sitting on your lap’.

Part therapy, part cultural digest, our conversation ranged between topics like isolation, having a brick for a brain, delayed gratification, fancying video game characters and becoming a muscle mommy. 

There’s a lot going on in the album artwork: the armour, the mountains, the gremlins, the Kurt Cobain fit… What were some of the influences feeding into it?

I sort of joke that it’s giving Joan of Arc top, and then Ellie from The Last Of Us bottom. I think that the first sort of obvious one is a game I played called Baldur’s Gate 3, which took over my life. I just sort of fell in love with the idea of myself as this slightly chaotic gnome Bard.

I had also just read The Little Prince and was absolutely devastated by it, like this is not a children’s book. There’s this really striking image of him stood on top of a mountain range, and then the themes of the record are anxiety, loneliness and sadness and feeling myself disappearing. Obviously, Baz Lurman’s Romeo + Juliet is also in the back of my mind there. I think there’s almost not a lesbian on the planet who hasn’t at some point wanted to dress up as Leonardo DiCaprio in that film.

[In the album artwork] I’m ready to fight against these monsters or demons or whatever it is that I encounter, except my armour is nowhere useful, I’m not covering any vital organs. The idea is that the monsters are kind of not really there – they’re part of your internal world.

In the title and throughout the album, you address really difficult and familiar feelings directly. How did it feel to turn and face those feelings?

It’s true that extreme emotions make it easy to write, but part of my experience of being sad and alone actually meant I couldn’t write at all. Of course, that started with the pandemic. I was discombobulated that I couldn’t listen to music.

I remember calling my friend Pip [the singer-songwriter Ladyhawke] and just being like, ‘Pip I can’t write’. I remember saying, ‘I feel like my brain is a brick. It’s just solid. Nothing is – there’s no movement in there’. And I remember them saying, ‘Shu, I felt like this so many times. You will absolutely write music again, do not worry about this’. And that was really comforting, actually, to hear from someone who is a friend and who I respect. So initially quite difficult. Once I knew I had enough songs to be like, ‘Oh, an album is happening,’ it was a lot easier. 

You mention the lockdown era and the difficulties which you faced then as an artist. I remember you pivoting to streaming during that era – why? 

I started streaming video games on Twitch in the pandemic as a way to stay connected with fans that felt less strange to me than playing music to an empty room on Instagram Live. I also tried the Instagram Live route but it just felt alien to me since so much of performing is an exchange of energy between the audience and the person performing.

There’s not a lesbian on the planet who hasn’t at some point wanted to dress up as Leonardo DiCaprio in Romeo + Juliet.

This album explores the unglamorous side of mental health, and I think a lot of people are going to relate. I don’t want this to feel like therapy but is there anything you would like people to take from it?

I do hope that it brings people comfort, but I also actually hope it brings people joy in the process. Musically there’s definitely some less joyful [moments] but, overall, it’s quite joyful and warm. I hope it’s like an armchair for people to curl up in with a cat sitting on their lap, where they can stare wistfully out of the window and cry, or maybe also feel excited about the future.

I can see that mix of emotions in the song “World’s Worst Girlfriend”. It hits you with very difficult lines like “maybe I got too sad for my friends” but it’s followed with the hyperbolic, almost comedic, “I don’t wanna be the world’s worst girlfriend”. 

And you can see the merch, right? I was like, I need to wear a cap with World’s Worst Girlfriend on it. 

How did the musical side of the album come into being?

I think the first record that I really could listen to after I had that period of not being able to write, not being able to listen, was An Overview on Phenomenal Nature by Cassandra Jenkins [who features on I got too sad for my friends]. It felt like an armchair record and I was so comforted by it.

I’d made a decision to make an album that was the type of record I wanted to listen to. I wanted it to kind of spoon me. I wanted to be spooned. I wanted to be little spoon. We made a decision to record this live with musicians in one room, playing all together in takes, which I’d never done before. I remember the first day of recording and setting up in The Pool [recording studio] in London and just being really overwhelmed by emotion and on the verge of tears a lot of the time, partly because I almost never thought I’d be here [recording music] again.

Let’s talk about the soaring ethereal lead single about staying in, ‘Recognise’. Was that always going to be the first single? 

Yes, and then no, and then yes. I wanted it to kind of lead people and welcome people, to make people a little bit excited, a little bit unsure. I love being a bit of a troll at this stage of the record, I’m a big believer, for myself, in deferred gratification. I’m always the last person to open their Christmas presents. I like knowing something good is coming. So this is like my peak, where I’m the most mean to my fans ever. I like the idea of kind of, yeah, drawing [my fans] in and making them excited, but also not letting them know where we will go from here.

A little bird told me you’re becoming a muscle mommy…

So I thought it was going to happen really quickly. But, it turns out, getting muscles takes so long and you have to eat so much chicken. At one point, I was like, ‘Wait, how many whole chickens have I eaten this year?’ I started feeling really bad for chickens, who I love. I love chickens. They’re such cute creatures. I’d also had some health scares as a result of Covid. Being told that your lungs have the capacity of a 70-year-old woman when you’re in your 30s is quite a frightening experience. I’d started going back to the gym and taking that quite seriously to try and get my lungs to be back to somewhere good. Then, in the middle of all this generic health stuff, I watched Love Lies Bleeding, and wow, just wow – what a film. I was like, Wait, so you can be more than fit? You can be like a muscle mummy!? Since then I’ve been training quite seriously, several times a week and lifting. But I think the final evolution of myself as a muscle mummy Pokémon is years in the future.

My favourite Lioness is Leah Williamson, I met her at an Arlo Parks concert. We had a lovely little chat and agreed to play five-a-side.

I also obviously loved Love Lies Bleeding, do you have any other sort of lesbian media that you’ve become obsessed with?

Arcane: everyone in my Discord was talking about it and excited about it because it was gay. My other friend was messaging me about it being like, ‘Is it okay if I fancy a cartoon?’ I loved Agatha All Along. I do love a little gay treat from time to time. Last year was quite a gay year as well. There was also that film with Ayo Edebiri and who else? And it was kind of like high school–

Bottoms?

Yeah, Bottoms was great. And musically, you know, Chappell Roan, having that meteoric rise. There was a time, I think 2015, when I first started releasing new music and there weren’t many of us. Now, it’s like I never have to wait for a gay thing [to come out], which is so nice, there’s always a new gay thing around the corner, which I think is exactly as it should be.

And women’s football too is getting a lot of well-deserved attention – I heard you played for Man City as a teenager?

From U9 onwards. I was scouted at a primary school tournament, and I played until U16. Then I discovered guitar and I was like, ‘Wait, I can be inside in winter and not in a T-shirt and shorts and maybe people will think I’m cool and fancy me?’ That [last bit] didn’t happen. It did later, but not then. When I watched the England women’s team win the Euros I was so happy and I was so proud. And there was this tiny little footballer Shura, who was like, ‘Oh, what if I’d carried on? Maybe I could have been there.’ 

Who’s your favourite Lioness?

That’s really difficult. But I have to say Leah Williamson, because I met her at an Arlo Parks concert. We had a lovely little chat and agreed to play five-a-side. I know that’s never going to happen but, in my brain, it’s going to happen.

Recognise is out now on all streaming platforms. Follow Shura here. 

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Filling the much felt need for a lesbian rave, Plastyk is also, to the best of my knowledge, London’s first lesbian night run by a trans woman.

WORDS EMILY CAMERON
IMAGES VIA @PLASTYK__

On 21st of September this year the trans community in London achieved another of its “firsts” – we’ve had the first London Trans+ Pride, we’ve had Harpies, Europe’s first trans strip club, and now we have the first lesbian night run by a trans woman. It’s worth saying I would love to be wrong about this, and if you know of one that predates Plastyk, then please let me know. And I know that there are other trans-run lesbian nights, operated by non-binary people and trans mascs, in fact there are many, which is what makes this so exciting. The lesbian community has long embraced the presence of trans women, and while there is a possibility that there is another trans woman quietly, less visibly running a lesbian night in this city, to the best of my knowledge, this is the first time we (yes, hi) have stepped into an organising role in London’s lesbian community. 

Speaking to Karlie on the deflated sofas of Venue MOT’s heavily tagged and precariously elevated green room, she tells me that Plastyk is about clarifying our position in the lesbian culture: “If one of the biggest lesbian nights in London is run by a trans woman, then it’s kind of indisputable that we are part of this community.” And with the venue full, smoking area unnavigable and people spilling out the front door for air all by midnight, Plastyk looks set to become a stalwart of our community. There were even 20 people in at doors, a rare phenomenon in queer circles (but then lesbians are terrifyingly punctual). 

 

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Aside from being trans-run, Plastyk is a valuable addition to the lesbian nightlife calendar – while there are club nights and bars specifically for the lesbian community, there has been an absence of raves of late. This is something promoter-DJ Karlie Marx, with her high-tempo genre-clashing style is more than able to remedy. Lesbian rave Big Dyke Energy filled this role for a time, but has since taken a hiatus – with one party-goer even mentioning that “it’s good to have lesbianism back at Venue MOT”, referencing BDE’s much beloved tenure at the venue. 

Venue MOT is by no means an easy place to get to for your average east London lesbian, and the evening of September 21st was a less than pleasant one on which to drag us all south of the river. But our mass migration is a testament to the faith we have in Ms Karlie Marx, the DJ and promoter responsible for Plastyk. Walking from New Cross Gate overground station in the rain was perhaps the only time I’ve ever been jealous of people who live south of the river. You win this one, New Cross lesbians…

 

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Inside there are enough blonde buzz cuts and tank tops for a Slim Shady lookalike convention, several entire cows’ worth of Doc Martens (though I have to assume some were vegan), and a satisfying absence of AliExpress harnesses. Instead Courtney Love-style negligees, fishnets, jorts and Guy Fieri flame print stood out – a palette-cleansingly chaotic scene in the immediate wake of fashion week. 

“It’s quite moving actually,” says one party goer about the numbers of trans people, specifically trans women, at the party. “It kind of highlights an issue in the wider lesbian scene.” While the London lesbian community is broadly very open and accepting, and generally welcomes trans women (think: eclectic club nights like Female Trouble, Wet, Femme Fraiche, Big Dyke Energy etc), what was noticeable was that, given a space where they are specifically welcomed and supported, sapphic trans women will arrive in droves. London has a rich history of trans-run and centred clubbing, from early Transmissions parties at Vogue Fabrics Dalston, to Transvision Wednesdays at Dalston Superstore (now Bodyswap), early iterations of Unfold, Arize, even the classic, Bombshell “for TV/TS and admirers”. But none of these spaces is specifically lesbian. And with the recent renaissance of lesbian culture in the capital (openings like La Camionera and Goldie Saloon, the soaring popularity of the Lionesses and the WSL and London’s first Dyke March), Plastyk feels like an explicit coming together, a formalisation if that’s not too strong a word, of two communities that have existed hand in hand in London for years and who are both going from strength to strength. 

 

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Queer scene icon and star of campaigns and promo posters everywhere, DJ Reenie performed opening duties as the corrugated tunnel filled up from the front, shaking off any dampness from the weather with a bone-rattling remix of “Hollaback Girl” amongst other heavy techno edits of pop songs. Karlie’s set lived up to her reputation, mixing Skepta and Swedish House Mafia in the first five minutes and quickly rattling through SOPHIE, The Prodigy and, of course, Le Tigre, because some things never change. She’s flanked behind the decks by her Bodyswap co-conspirator Harietta and drag performer and actor Danielle “The Doll” James – it’s dolls supporting dolls, promoters enjoying the spoils of their labour and friends partying together, the vibes are immaculate. Sister Zo, visiting talent from NYC, followed Karlie and was locked in, focussed and flawless. She took control of the room with dub infused techno, snares that cut through the room and high intensity techno, the crowd were in the palm of her hand. An outrageous booking for Plastyk’s first event. 

By 1am, the darkened back of the dancefloor is largely populated by couples new and old, and unsurprisingly, as the time edged past 2am, those couples were headed for the exit. Because some things never change. I must confess I was part of this exodus (not to hook up but to split an extortionate four-drop-off cab back to east). Plastyk, however, continued long into the night, until 4am, with Bumpah co-founder and Popola resident Cheza Lucina on closing duties (I’m told, of course, she slayed). 

The second iteration of Plastyk is this weekend – Friday 6 December at Venue MOT. Lineup highlights include WET founder and resident Rabz, and FOLD resident Lockhart – see you dykes there. 

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One writer makes her debut at the exclusive London art fair, chronicling the celebrities, CSM students, champagne and high-street flat whites.

WORDS EMILY CAMERON

The Frieze fairs (London and Masters) landed in Regents Park this week, sending ”art people” into their annual frenzy. It’s the art world’s equivalent of fashion week with much more money and much less embarrassment about it. There is absolutely nothing coy, current or trendy about a “Deutsche Bank Wealth Management Lounge”, or champagne at a minimum of £20 a glass. In that sense, Frieze is fundamentally and proudly unabashed. 

The fairs take place in what must be two of the largest marquees on the planet, a pleasant 15 minute stroll from one another — but that doesn’t stop them putting on a VIP BMW car service between the two. Frieze London brings together some of the most exciting modern and contemporary artists and galleries in the world, all under one tent.

“Frieze is a fascinating cultural spectacle before even considering the art on the walls”

Frieze Masters on the other hand collects artworks and artefacts of all ages, from Jackson Pollock sketches to fourth century roman mosaics. Frieze London, the significantly bigger and denser show, is like having 10,000 galleries urgently vying for your attention. Masters on the other hand, is spacious, relaxed, more like a museum inviting you to marvel at humanity’s past achievements, but everything’s for sale. 

I am not one of the aforementioned “art people”, nor am I an art critic, so please don’t expect a breakdown or highlights from me. I’m far more interested in the event, the vibe, and the utterly fascinating group of people that the fairs bring together. The fact under one roof (tent) you can have CSM students, Benedict Cumberbatch, local queer icons like Opia, and two Princesses (Beatrice and Julia), makes Frieze a fascinating cultural spectacle before even considering the art on the walls.

 

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Six years in London and it was my first Frieze. But whenever I brought it up, the news was greeted, not with pity or surprise, but with sadness. “Oh,” they said, with a head tilt and a furrowed brow, “I’m sorry.” Not sorry that I had missed out on previous fairs, or sorry that I’d been left out, but that I had now been eventually dragged into it. Or that I had been dragged into against my will (which was not the case, I actually loved it). And this feeling was everywhere. I swear not a single person in that monstrous marquee wanted to be there. Like a gigantic Boschian purgatory, no one thought they deserved to be put through the ordeal. The smiles of the gallery attendants dropped like Jell-O on concrete as potential buyers turned their backs. It was a face that knew that this was only the beginning. 

“Imagine. Such a fundamental breakdown in British queueing etiquette at such a posh event”

The most purgatorial of all? Gail’s. Gail’s at Frieze London was really a sight to behold. A long stringy, disorganised queue — “Are you queuing?” “Oh, you’re still looking?“ “Oh sorry” — that passed the sandwiches and the pastry counter, ending in what I can only describe as a gaggle of people, crammed into the corner of the marquee trying to order coffee without queueing for a pastry. 

Said mob had merged with the dozens who had ordered and were now waiting for their coffee, everyone was facing different directions, no one knew who had ordered or who was next and the staff (who were angels, saints, and should have been paid double) stayed wisely out of it, politely serving whoever came out the victor of this upperclass Lord of the Flies. Imagine. Such a fundamental breakdown in British queueing etiquette at such a posh event. And this was at 3pm, heaven knows what carnage was beheld earlier that morning. 

Some trick of the acoustics of the significantly larger Frieze London marquee, or maybe just the number or kind of people there, meant that every inch of it was filled with stressful hubbub. It was almost immediately affecting, everyone seemed to be rushing around to the soundtrack of thousands of feet trampling wooden boards and a deafening chorus of ”Darling, how are you?” In an almost ridiculous illustration of the saying “money talks and wealth whispers”, Masters was near silent. Even the Gail’s was more civilised. 

“It’s easy to forget that the objective of the event is to sell works for tens of thousands of pounds”

One thing that surprised me though, was the variety of  alcohol available and the volumes in which it was being consumed — an Illy Espresso Martini cart, the champagne stands on every corner with a corresponding main bar, a separate wine bar and a waiting area for Sessions Arts Club where a glass of bubbles seemed like the must have accessory. But then none of this should have surprised me. It’s easy to forget, when you only ever have three figures in you bank account, that all of it is for sale, that the objective of the event is to sell works for tens (maybe hundreds?) of thousands of pounds. So getting everyone a little liquored up couldn’t hurt. 

I’m imagining that familiar feeling of waking up hungover and knowing that you spent too much money last night, but instead of a few too many doubles, £10 on a kebab and £15 on a taxi, you’ve drunkenly bought a £35,000 collection of inflatable penguins.

Though maybe that’s not a terrible problem to have. 

Spit, desire and identity: Meet the standout queer artists at this year’s Frieze

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For many trans people, The Substance will contain an obvious, and at times unsettling, queer reading.

WRITER EMILY CAMERON
IMAGES COURTESY OF MUBI

This article contains spoilers for The Substance.

If you’ve been on the internet over the past few weeks, it’s been near impossible to avoid talk of The Substance, the best-known example of the “feminist body horror” revival which also includes Nightbitch and Shell. From tales of Demi Moore’s career best performance, to its scathing critique of the beauty industry and society’s attitudes towards ageing women, the internet is awash with (mostly) praise for Coralie Fargeat’s second feature. 

The film stars Moore as Elisabeth Sparkle, an Oscar-winning actress who turns 50 and is promptly fired from her TV aerobics instructor gig. Desperate, she signs up for blackmarket injections that create Sue: a younger version of her that she can live as for one week at a time, before switching back for the next seven days. But, predictably enough, like the Icarus of injectable beauty, this life of gorgeousness ultimately becomes too tempting and she slays too close to the sun. Sue can’t resist misusing the drug and stealing extra time – leading to a particularly gruesome downfall. 

The obvious analogy for “the substance” is botox, as an anti-aging injectable. Which is the reading that I’m sure the botox-using portion of the audience will take away from it. Other audience members might read it as filler. Others still might read it as Ozempic. I think all of these are valid readings. But an injectable that brings to life a gorgeous version of you that you are happier with is extremely familiar for trans people. 

Transing “the substance”

While it’s not approved in the UK, injectable oestrogen is prescribed all over the world and testosterone treatments are also predominantly administered via injections. So, watching The Substance as a trans person you immediately recognise the joy of looking in the mirror and having changed your body in a way that makes you happier. When Elisabeth inhabits her old body for a week and then reverts to her younger counterpart, Sue, you recognise the familiar swing from the debilitating self-doubt of dysphoria, to the confidence and joy of finally feeling good in your body.

Tangentially, there’s almost a very direct parallel with having an inconsistent supply of hormones. There is such euphoria in noticing the subtle changes hormones cause but equally – if you can’t access them for whatever reason – there’s a corresponding agony that comes from watching those changes slowly reverse, one that the film captures brilliantly in Elisabeth’s depression sequences. There’s even a surgical analogy – when Elisabeth wakes up stitched back together having just literally given birth to herself, I’m sure plenty of trans people would relate to the process of rebirth and self-actualisation through surgery. 

And finally, before we move on to the problems with all of this, Sue, ultimately kills Elisabeth. The part of her that is bold, confident and thriving kills the part of her that is depressed, doubting and, by that point, decrepit. It feels like such a deliberate analogy for transition – choosing the life that makes you happy, not the one that makes you miserable. To be clear, this is a very trans narrative, one that fits with the heritage of trans-coded body horror (think: Videodrome), and one that I would love to love.

The abjection of Monstro Eliasue

But within this trans reading, how should we react to the eventual monsterification and subsequent murder-by-public-opinion of Elisabeth and Sue Sparkle?

To recap: by misusing the substance, Sue precipitates the physical deterioration of Elisabeth and eventually births the grotesque “Monstro Eliasue”. Even in monster form, this diva is still dedicated to the grind – despite her radically altered body, she turns up to host a live New Year’s Eve special. But, after removing an improvised Elisabeth Sparkle mask and revealing her true form, she’s literally torn apart by the audience. 

For the director, Monstro Elisasue represents Elisabeth’s final moment of freedom. “Finally, it’s the moment where she’s free from her human body and appearance,” Fargeat has said. “She doesn’t have to care what people are going to think.” But I’m not so convinced. If she’s so free from what people think, why does she glue a picture of her old face to her new monstrous face? This does not feel like a proud moment of finally inhabiting one’s body. And if it is, what’s the moral of that story? That proudly presenting to the world as you are will inspire such a violent reaction that an angry mob will scream “kill the monster” at you? 

Well, perhaps there is an unfortunate nugget of truth to that. We might be able to see this scene as a representation of how society views people, including trans people, who they perceive to have had “too much work done”. The audience’s reaction in this scene may represent a society that is needlessly violent towards bodies it perceives as monstrous. But we look to cinema to tell us something interesting, to hold a mirror. Suggesting that society violently hates women (both cis and trans) who undergo cosmetic procedures is hardly groundbreaking. Just bring up Madonna in front of a group of non-gays and that much will be screamingly obvious. 

There’s also the fact that many critics have mentioned that these scenes make use of “hagsploitation”, a recurring horror trope where an older woman’s visceral corporeality is used to stoke up shock and repulsion. But does the film really subvert this trend? Instead, it feels like it just projects this trope onto people who “go too far” in their attempts to take control of their bodies. The major problem is that Monstro Elisasue isn’t just hideous – she’s presented as abject and subhuman, all flesh and no soul. As she lurches down an empty corridor and stands heaving for breath on stage, the shock value is achieved but her humanity is lost. 

What happened to Monstro Eliasue’s soul?

Making the representative for women who take aesthetic control of their bodies into an R-rated Fooglie that vomits a boob from her face-vagina (yes, you read that right) erases any sympathy or understanding we might have for the pressures Elisabeth/Sue was under. We are left with only the deep discomfort of watching a character many of us identify with being abused and murdered. What’s perhaps most painful is that it’s a unanimous assault: no one defends her, no one. 

Surely we want something to counter that. Surely we want an ending for Monstro Elisasue that isn’t bleak, grim and morbid, one where society’s condemnation doesn’t lead to her violent death. Maybe she becomes a reclusive filmmaker lauded for her portrayal of strong women who make their own decisions about their bodies while retaining their personhood? And in doing so becomes appreciated for her mind, artistic output and her comment on society? 

Just a thought.

The Substance is in UK cinemas now.

The post The ‘feminist body horror’ resurgence is here – but where does transness fit in? appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Legendary strip night Harpies teams up with fashion rave Opia in the search for a new dancer to join the Harpies. 

WORDS BY EMILY M CAMERON
PHOTOGRAPHY BY FREDDIE TALBOT
PHOTOGRAPHY EDITING BY BAUTISTA BOTTO BARILLI
WITH THANKS TO HARPIES AND OPIA

“If you were taking your clothes off more I’d be cumming everywhere,” says Bimini into the microphone from the judges balcony, like this is some kind of x-rated X Factor, which, actually, that’s exactly what it is. It’s her feedback to blonde bombshell ‘Babe of Light’ who swung her diamanté heels and ass in the air, working every inch of the circular stage in the centre of the room for the chance to be America’s Next Top — sorry, Harpies’ Next Top Harpy. The room is full, the crowd are as close to the stage as it’s possible to be without catching a Pleaser in the face, just to make sure they don’t miss a single second of sexiness. Amongst the crowd the leatherette is out in force, adorned with fishnets, graphic extravagant eyeliner, lacing, corsets, silk, satin and faux furs — no one wants to feel underdressed as the glamorous dancers swan past them. It’s a hot night and glistening skin peeks through the increasingly ornate fishnet bodysuits and dresses. Every subsection of the queer community has turned out – queers, dykes, dolls, gays, student fashion darlings – from scenes across the community, and they’re all here for the biggest nightlife collaboration of the summer: Harpia. 

Harpia is a doll-centred fashion rave (Opia) collabing with Europe’s only trans+ strip club (Harpies), and if that sounds like the hottest combination in living memory that’s because it is. It’s the east London equivalent of Britney and Madonna snogging on stage at the VMAs – young c*nty upstart meets Mother who paved the way. The Mother in question is of course, Lucia Blayke, founder of Harpies and London Trans+ Pride, the woman who for half a decade has been the voice of a generation of trans people who wanted more from life, who refused to settle for less. The c*nty upstarts, Bambi Dyboski and Bauti Barilli, or “the Opia girlies” for short, have been running their fashion-oriented response to being sidelined by mainstream fashion parties for just over a year now, first bursting onto the scene, the streets and your TikTok feed in platinum blonde wigs painted head to toe in pink. 

"The girls just want to sliv for the sake of sliving. And maybe some tipping dollars."

To be past your first birthday in London queer nightlife is a blessing and a curse – a blessing in that you made it, just like most businesses, most parties give up the ghost in their first year. And while it can be a curse to have to rise to the occasion of bigger expectations,  bigger venues, bigger fees, more pressure and bigger queues, the Opia girlies haven’t hesitated as they’ve planted their heels in each stride forward. From a launch night collaboration with Chema Diaz, to their designer showcase collaboration with Wraith, to recent Vogue coverage, these girls don’t stutter when the spotlight’s on them. 

Harpies, on the other hand, is a little longer in the stiletto. Saturday in fact marked its fifth birthday, an incredible achievement when you consider the draconian licensing laws around stripping and generalised transphobia they have to navigate. In the beginning it was about the simple reality of needing income and not being allowed to dance at a regular strip club, so Lucia made her own. “If people don’t want to put you on a stage, you build the fucking stage!” she screamed into the microphone on Saturday to riotous applause. 

And this is why these two nights are kindred spirits: they take matters into their own hands for the queer community. They take industries that commodify queer bodies and take control of the narrative, they create environments for performance without exploitation, where the agency is returned to the model and the dancer. Trans people, models, and queer people in general are so often spectacles in service of others, in a diverse marketing campaign, on a runway, or just being ogled in the street – Harpies and Opia represent efforts to reclaim that, and be spectacles for ourselves, an effort to perform without being consumed. 

But that all sounds so serious – what I mean is that the girls just want to sliv for the sake of sliving. And maybe some tipping dollars. 

So back to the night. Anyone who’s been to Harpies knows that the midnight shows are not to be missed, and this was no exception. Ever wanted to see a stripper drop ten feet into a split? This is where to see it. What’s better is that the person doing it is the very sam person you developed an instant crush on when you walked in an hour ago. Everyone’s getting a little hot under the choker, but each removed garment is met with screams and snapping fingers. It’s stripping for the queer gaze and it’s an incredible thing to see. And it’s well appreciated as is evidenced by the literal heaps of tipping dollars they scoop from the stage after each number. But now that the seasoned Harpies had raised everyone’s temperatures sufficiently, it was time for the competition. 

For the first time ever, dancers competed for a chance to become a Harpy. Having taken applications online from their combined online following, four dancers were selected for to compete on the night: Manuka Drip, giving some masculine representation to the evening in fingerless gloves and an earpiece mic purely for the 90s vibes; Babe of Light, our previously mentioned diamond diva; Louis, in the most brilliant moment of the night, performed to Lords of Acid in a blacked out motorcycle helmet and not a lot else (“We got motor mommy served to us!” cried Lucia in the feedback); and our closer, and ultimately our winner, Syren Seduction, who flipped the script performing to Framing Hanley’s Lollipop, a loud and sexy alt rock, almost screamo adjacent track, worked every strap of her intricate underwear as she disassembled it and tossed it into the crowd, their jaws collectively on the floor. Fingers in her mouth, her hands all over herself, the room was transfixed. “To strip to such a c*nt punk rock song,” said Bambi, ”you should be judging us tonight.”

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