Nigel Parks is a great guy. He works as a surveyor, is on the school P.T.A and plays a key role in local government. He lives in a nice house in Buckinghamshire with his wife, Anne, and his three children. He drives a silver Audi and listens mostly to classical music, with a bit of Phil Collins thrown in at weekends. He displays a reassuring level of calm at all times, and he and Anne have barely had a cross word in 34 years.
Absolutely no one would suspect that the ‘business’ that he drives to Manchester every six weeks for could be of such an extraordinary nature… For one night only Nigel puts on his rhinestone suit, make up, wig and high heels, and grabs his mauve feathered cloak, before taking to the stage of a small club called ‘Bolt’. His tribute act is legendary and he dazzles and shines through song after song to rapturous applause. He winks at the crowd, before leaping on to his chair and scattering theatrical kisses to all.
This is the night. The night he owns. The night that he feels totally, wonderfully and completely alive. On the following Saturday morning there is always a frantic flurry of feathers, satin and sequins, as he stuffs his brown suitcase and checks out of the ‘Holiday Inn.’
He takes the long drive home down the M1 and stops halfway for a ham sandwich. If you should see him you might even think he’s drunk, he looks so ridiculously happy. In fact he smiles all the way back to his front door.
” Good trip love?”
” O’h the usual”