Bearlesque

A burlesque show starring a troupe of hairy men’s men? I had no idea what to expect yet I wasn’t surprised at anything I saw all night.

The bijou, West End venue, held a snug-fitting 75. The tiny stage, dressed modestly with a hat stand and tinsel backdrop, was to become the scene of much hilarity. In a sell-out show, we perched on the back row, closer than you would want to be given the quantities of sweat and loose bear-hair soon to be flying about and well away from the firing line of compére, Fred Bear. He delivered gentle snipes at the front row, particularly to a guy sporting a ‘Paul Weller’.

The ‘premise’ of the show was to educate us in what it means to be a bear: three bears emerged bleary eyed, chubby and partially clad from a cave at the back of the auditorium. Once they’d trekked to the front, stretched, yawned and scratched their bollocks, Fred Bear indicated a row of handsome young, slim men in the audience which, he suggested with a cheeky glint in his eye, “Could be on a stag night, but you and I know - gay.” To him, he said, they represented stereotypical gay men and bearded Fred Bear, wanted us to experience the kind of gay man he was. Dressed in fun fur shorts with a little tail, brogues, long socks and sock suspenders, a collar and tie with his ample, hairy chest and belly on full display – he promised an evening which celebrated the “Rubenesque male form” in song and dance.

My Nephew was the stooge and ‘volunteered’ to be the student on behalf of the giggling audience. Convincingly ingénue and sporting a rugby shirt and a pair of trousers I’d given him a few years ago known as his ‘slayer trousers’ he agreed to learn. Before long he was taking part in a musical number based on The Titanic with lots of slap-stick and visual jokes around the size of the funnel then, just before the interval, he emerged transformed in waiter’s waistcoat, colourful frou-frou skirt with the rest of the troupe and treated us to a hilarious, slick can-can complete with whooping, buttock slapping and splits.

The rest of a delightful evening went by far too quickly; Fred’s gentle banter joined up all the pieces performed by his fellow bears as well as the guest act , a group of four ‘proper’ dancers who performed an at times moving piece that might have been called ‘Make Love Not War’ for that was the message on their underpants.

Later Nephew grinned, “Yes. We hate them. They’re actually good.” After the interval, ‘original’ Bear; Henry VIII made a special guest appearance, Nephew was transformed into an American Beauty, we enjoyed a re-working of the famous dance scene in Singing in the Rain, found out how kinky bubble wrap really can be and finally and best of all, were treated to the scene with the chairs, bowlers and fishnet tights from Cabaret!

It was teasing, hilarious, camp fun. And educational; I now know the difference between regular Bears, Cubs (young Bears – i.e. Nephew), Otters (slim bears) and Polar Bears (older bears with grey hair). What a difference from the one or two occasions in the distant past when I’ve seen male strippers performing to women at hen parties; here I noticed that despite their nudity and cavorting, they were still the ones in charge advancing on the audience making them squeal with barely contained nerves; here all flesh on display was in a “Hey! I think I’m gorgeous.” mood. And how could you deny their beauty? The Bears eschew the gym and eat their pies with no guilt - it was two fingers up at male oppression!

During the interval, I boasted to some guys outside while they smoked and I made a phone-call:

“Isn’t it great? That’s my Nephew you know? I’m so proud!”

“Really? Which one?”

“The cub.” I beamed.

They exchanged looks, “I’m sorry, but he’s gorgeous!” one said.

No need to apologise!