During our previous weekend trip to Blackpool in December 1998, Rikki and I had discussed at length the merits or otherwise of travelling dressed. As a tranny who refuses to dress down, I'd built up a healthy regard - some would say a paranoia - for the unique safety issues connected with motorway service stations, so had always travelled essentially en homme on long journeys such as this. Rikki, on the other hand, is relatively new to the 'scene', but is quite passable when dressed down in jeans, trainers and a minimum of make-up, and she'd been keen to travel home dressed. She'd accused me of being selfish, and I'd accused her of being naive - in the end, we'd agreed that we were probably both correct to a certain extent. To break the deadlock, Rikki had backed down in this instance on condition that we check out a named service station on the M6 for the express purpose of travelling home dressed on our next trip to Blackpool.
The place we'd chosen for our study was Corley, south-bound, near the junction with the M1. Rikki had been right - it was quiet, and in retrospect, I'd admitted that we'd probably have been safe enough had we been dressed. But there was always the chance of an irate husband seeing a not-too-convincing tranny (me) following his wife into the ladies, and the possible outcome of this situation worried me. In addition, my growing political belief had been telling me that I was a guy in a frock, and I shouldn't be trying to pretend otherwise. As we left the service station and began the second half of the 500km journey, we'd discussed the possibilities for next time - and then hit on the perfect compromise.
By chance, which we hadn't realised at the time, our next trip to Blackpool was 12th to 14th March 1999, which coincided with the weekend of Comic Relief, when it's perfectly acceptable to do something completely outrageous for the benefit of a worthwhile charity. In fact, I'd already spent the previous Thursday 11th wearing a microskirt, a garter, and high heels at work, and had raised nearly £500 in the process! The highlight of the Comic Relief programme was Red Nose Day, which fell on the 12th; Rikki and I had travelled up to Blackpool on that day en homme but wearing skirts, tights, and the official Red Nose tee-shirts, and had met with nothing more than a few smiles and friendly comments. We'd even been offered a sum of money by two ladies in the M6 service station at Keele, who thought we were doing a stunt! But for the journey home, something more was needed.
Having made our plans back in November, we rose early on Sunday 14th March, and began getting ready. We both wore very heavy eye shadow, and bright blusher supplemented with a touch of red lipstick. Copious quantities of glitter were also applied to eyelids, cheekbones and cheeks. Rikki decided to wear a dishevelled brown wig, a red and white miniskirt, torn tights and platform shoes - I opted for my electric blue spiky wig, a black microskirt, fishnet tights and high heels. Of course, we both wore our Red Nose tee-shirts to give the whole stunt some credibility! We created quite a stir at breakfast - everyone else had either reverted to male mode, or had dressed soberly for the journey home. After exchanging e-mail addresses and phone numbers with our friends, we finally said our goodbyes, packed the car and set off for our appointment at Corley. This had been our compromise plan - to dress as girls, but to be outwardly seen as guys.
After attracting a fair amount of attention on the journey itself, we arrived at Corley at around 12 o'clock. Just to get ourselves in the right frame of mind, we called in first at the petrol station - I filled the car, and joined Rikki in the kiosk. I paid using a credit card in my male name, of course. There was no reaction from anywhere - it was almost too easy. We quickly dismissed the unthinkable - that the whole stunt was going to be a total anti-climax - and determined that we'd have to be louder and more brash when we got into the main building. So we drove the hundred metres or so into the car park, picked up our bags and cameras, and got out of the car. Rikki walked straight up to the man selling RAC membership near the entrance, and asked if he'd take some photos of us with the service station in the background "otherwise no-one would believe we'd done it". He willingly agreed, so we posed as he clicked, much to the amusement of the passers-by [1]! Heartened by the attention, we thanked RAC-man, collected the camera, and boldly strode into the building, talking and laughing loudly.
First call - the gents' toilet. Yes, dear reader - the gents! As we were simply guys having some fun, and were making absolutely sure that no-one was under any illusion to the contrary, we'd decided that we had no right to use the ladies. We'd been expecting some of the men using the facility to have a problem with our appearance - maybe they'd get nasty, or more likely they'd simply pretend not to see us, in the way that only the British can do. In the event, there was a total lack of any reaction whatsoever - no-one appeared embarrassed or even the least bit unnerved that a couple of guys wearing skirts and wigs were standing in their midst having a pee! Perhaps our outward confidence and nonchalance put them at ease. Emerging back into the dining area, we each bought a bun and something to drink, and sat down right in the centre of the large circular seating area - at which point the sun came out, shone through the domed glass ceiling, and illuminated us like a spotlight on a stage. We couldn't have asked for more!
Well, people came and people went. They looked, gawped, smiled, laughed and shook their heads in disbelief, but there was no nastiness, and we never felt threatened. It was as I'd predicted - no-one was in any doubt what we were, so no-one felt that they were being duped. We were obviously the subject of hushed exchanges across several tables, but people soon lost interest. The main thing was that we were having a lot of fun doing something outrageous, and - hopefully - managing to change a few pre-conceived ideas about guys who enjoy dolling themselves up like girls. When we'd finished eating, just in case anyone still hadn't noticed us, we returned noisily to the sales counter and asked the young girl who'd served us if she'd take a couple of photos "for the guys at work". She was happy to oblige [2] - almost too happy: I think she'd been expecting it! Then suitably refreshed, we headed back out to the car and continued our journey home.
It's perhaps an interesting point for debate as to whether the proximity of this weekend to Red Nose Day, and the fact that we were wearing Red Nose tee-shirts, allowed us to get away with more than we'd have been able to on an 'ordinary' weekend. Nowadays, everyone knows that a lot of trannies cross-dress under the guise of 'worthy causes' - some of the make-up and costumes are just too good for first-timers - so do we really need the excuse? Rikki and I decided that there was only one way to find out what an 'ordinary' weekend would be like ...... In the meantime, I regard the success of our venture as proof that guys don't need to pass as women to be able to get out dressed in public. Of course, I defend my fellow trannies' right to do this if they so wish, but I believe that our safety was assured because people saw us for what we were - a couple of guys in drag having some fun.
From personal notes and correspondence.