Where do we go from here?

It's anybody's guess, but do they think us Remainers are going away now that we're the oppostion after all the years the Tory lunatic fringe and Ukippers chipped away at democracy? Some hope has to come from Open Europe led by Streatham boy Chuka Umunna - one of the few in the Labour party who might offer charisma to match Sadiq Khan (and Nicola Sturgeon, for that  matter, the only other impressive leader), while all else implodes. By the way, I turned my Labour subscription over to Greenpeace long before the latest debacle, but only a couple of weeks ago decided to pay my subscription to the Lib Dems. No-one of great standing there at the moment, but they're the only hope in forming and leading a coalition to bring down the Tories.

Anyway, these marches to Parliament Square must go on. Saturday's was the first I've been around to part-attend, and the crowd hanging around for the speakers seemed a bit patchy by 2pm (the actual march had been scheduled for 11 to 1). Certainly the numbers were nothing like as big as they had been in July, but then that was a better-weather day and closer to the outcome.

I doubt if Parliament can vote, and a second referendum seems off the table, though the thinking behind it isn't so skewed: if a third of the nation was misled by a campaign based entirely on lies, why should we accept the result? Peter Tatchell (on the screen below) thought that result should be - well, I wish people would stop saying 'respected' and leave it at 'accepted'.

Meanwhile, I like the analogy between May's 'Brexit means Brexit' and 'Breakfast means Breakfast' - in which instance there are very many definitions of what your breakfast might be. Remainers are torn between thinking it might have been worse than that Theresa - we were heading Edinburgh-wards if Boris became PM - and remembering that she wielded some nasty false figures for her virulent anti-immigration campaign, and she hasn't changed her tune on that. And was she really playing a sly game putting Johnson, Fox and Davis in responsible positions? The first fall-out began to bite today as Davis' non-manifesto was virtually laughed out of the Commons. The only thing that so far seems certain is that any restriction of free movement means no access to the single market; that much is simple.

Well, we took some consolation on Saturday from the ever-spirited Eddie Izzard, who has long been out there and trying his best - which is formidable - in umpteen European languages. He told us that his pink beret had been snatched away by a hooded man; he gave chase, and a policeman - hurrah - wrestled the assailant to the ground. So there it was, the beret with the UK and EU flags on it.

One thing's for sure, the yellow stars and blue background have rarely been seen as merchandise, but here they are, selling like hot cakes. My Euroman thought he'd never see the day. And in an inelegant segue from Eddie's cross-dressing - though not without connection to the day of wrath, when RuPaul put across her slogan to British voters, 'And remember - don''t f**k it up' -  can I just say what terrific amusement and solace we're getting from RuPaul's Drag Race Series 7 and 8 AND Allstars 2, now that we've found how to access them at long last.

There have been some seriously inventive new catwalk looks, few more so than the 'bearded runway' sequence of Series 7. I'm not so far in to it, so please don't tell me who wins, but I have to sing the praises of two favourites - Violet Chachki as (in RuPaul's phrase) 'Peggy Sue got hairy'

and Katya Zamolodchikova, a very funny queen out of drag as well as in, giving us 'emancipation, proclamation realness' as Bab(e)raham Lincoln.

And since our great mamma hasn't appeared in this entry so far, let's feature her with a slogan that might serve all campaigns well at the moment.

Drag as high art

Never thought I'd use that headline, at least not until I got hooked on RuPaul's Drag Race. The diplomate was sick in bed one weekend and turned to Netflix for comfort viewing. I only had to see a couple of minutes to know that this was better than daft: a game show in which queens from all over North and Central America compete for the drag crown. The path has led from watching all the series to buying a couple of tickets to see the Series Five winner Jinkx Monsoon, a self-styled Jewish narcolept from Portland, Oregon, in action at Camden's Black Cap Club. This was the consequence of re-bonding with lovely goddaughter Rosie May, studying theatre design at Central, who's good friends with hostess Meth and was amazed when, at the end of a dim sum lunch at our Soho regular, the Joy King Lau, we brought up her favourite programme.

RuPaul's Drag Race is in turn inspired by the seminal documentary about the drag balls of 1970s New York, Paris is Burning. When I first saw the film a couple of decades ago I warmed to the wit and wisdom of the participations. Watching again, I found it achingly sad: the resilience and creativity still blaze through, but how circumscribed it was by society then, how many of the folk in it met their end through AIDS or, in one case, being murdered by a client. That all seems so far off in the relaxed, anything-goes climate of this series. No holds barred on the language: one of the catchphrases comes in the 'lipsynch for your life' finale when the two competitors at the bottom have to battle it out on the catwalk - 'and don't fuck it up'. The entrants have to display their Charm, Uniqueness, Nerve and Talent; of the two lipsynchers, Ru says to one, following the Paris is Burning lingo, 'chantez, you stay', to the other, 'sashay away'.

A more charming and encouraging drag mother you could hardly find (Ru appears for part of the show undragged, as above on the right). There are defiant mantras like 'RuPaul's Drag Show - bringing families together', and my favourite slot each season is the one in which the entrants have to drag up and make up outsiders. One deliciously skewed instance is when the grooms-to-be of engaged straight couples have to be dressed up as the bride before the couples can be married onstage. In another, mostly older gay men from the US armed forces who fought for the rights which, among other things, make the show the happy, liberated thing it is become the 'drag mothers' (or sisters). This is where I totally took my hat off to Jinkx and his/her emotionally mature response to his veteran 'drag mother', who found it difficult as an HIV-positive man on a punishing drug regime to moves easily.

Their partnership as Liza and Ethel won the game, of course, and despite being bullied by an especially insecure and spiteful fellow-finalist, our Jinkx took the crown. Watch her wipe the floor with Detox lipsynching for her life to Yma Sumac's 'Malambo No. 1'. The only decent version on YouTube doesn't seem to be downloadable so click here for the link.

What's artistic? Quite apart from the sheer 'Miss Congeniality' star quality of many of the performers - who could not adore big basso Latrice Royale,  'chunky but funky'? - some, like Jinkx can really sing at the level of any cabaret chanteuse, while the inventiveness of gown, frock and wig design in the many costume changes of each episode, can be breathtaking. It's actually not so far away from the couture of pantomime dames, which gives me the pretext of a picture interlude. The other week, I took my aged P to the latest Wimbledon pantomime, Cinderella (and got to write about it for The Arts Desk). A memory that will stay with me always is ma laughing until she cried at the ponies pulling Cinderella's coach - something she remembers from her childhood - and at the animal heads in a sylvan interlude (pure Magic Flute).

Father and son Matthew Kelly and Matthew Rixon are sisters Cheryl and Mel (photographed here by Craig Sugden in images I couldn't cram in to the review). Oddly the costume designer isn't credited in the programme, but he/she has done wonders on the breakfast frocks, the girl guides terrorising little Wayne Sleep at the country fair

and - these of course have to be the pieces de resistance - the ballwear.

As for Jinkx, she is a consummate artiste. That much was evident in her all too brief, post-cold slot with brilliant pianist Major Scales at the Black Cap: every line, ad lib, grind and bump perfectly timed. The singing voice is unique, too.

The snag - and this is why I can't go back to see Latrice - is the amplification, so distortingly loud I went temporarily deaf in my left ear. And it was pointless in that one could hardly catch a word of any of the songs. I wouldn't want Jinkx to leave the drag circuit, but she's good enough to wow much larger and more mixed audiences than this. Watch her fly. And, whoever you are, watch all of RuPaul's Drag Race as a chunk of pure seasonal escapism and joy.