DON’T SLEEP IN THE CABARET.

Sgt. Pepe’s Lonely Hearts Club Bund.

A Romance and Relationship Advice Column.

Dear Sergeant Pepe,

I’m a little embarrassed to write you—especially since you are a Yank. No offense.

I’ve always considered myself a lady’s man. An operator. A proper swinger. Known for my way with the birds, see?

But there’s this one chick—she’s really something. We get on like a house on fire. It’s just that she always gets the upper hand.

I’m supposed to be the main man here—the big Kahuna—but she’s got a way of turning everything around. She psyches me out, smooth as anything, like she’s playing chess and I’m still setting up the board.

We had a bit of a blow-up the other day. I was halfway out the door, ready to sleep in the Underground if I had to. No way was I roughing it in Hyde Park with the drizzle and the chance of getting rolled by some hopped-up migrant TikTok gang. But then—get this—she stops me. Starts singing. Says it’s something she wrote. Sounded oddly familiar. Something about not sleeping in the subway and not standing in the pouring rain…

🎶 “Don’t sleep in the subway, darling / Don’t stand in the pouring rain…”

Next thing I know, I’m sitting back down with a cup of tea and my pride dripping off me like a wet coat. She totally disarmed me. Again.

For the sake of operational security—and my bruised masculinity—I’m signing this with a nom-de-amour. You understand.

—Dallas Potenz

Dear Dallas,

I may talk like one and live here, but I’m not a Yank. I’ll let that slide—for now.

But I can’t let the rest pass. Let’s talk identity, Dallas. Yours is leaking.

This narrows things down. You can’t be Crocodile Dundee—he settled these matters with a swift grope and a grin. And you can’t be Ray Davies—he embraced Lola faster than you’re willing to face your own reflection. That leaves only one possible candidate by process of elimination: Quentin Crisp. Nice try, Quentin!

You almost had me, ducky—but then came the chin, the tune, and the pride in splinters.

Now, about that insult. While I’m not British, I have to admit you lot got this one right. Next time you send in a farce like this, at least reread your own quote:

“In America, whatever you do, everyone is for it. You say to your friends here, ‘I’m getting up a cabaret act.’ They say, ‘What will you sing? What will you wear? Where are you going to do it? Can I accompany you?’

In England, if you tell your friends you’re getting up a cabaret act, one of them will say, ‘For God’s sake, don’t make a fool of yourself.’”

Now take your tea, listen to Petula Clark, and don’t sleep in the subway—unless you’re ready to wake up in the truth.

—Sgt. Pepe Le Peuw

Editor’s Note (Unreliable, As Always):

It occurs to us—belatedly, but not regretfully—that the real cabaret act may have already taken place.

Not Dallas. Not Quentin. But the little dance of masks and letters you’ve just read.

To borrow Crisp’s own words:

“For God’s sake, don’t make a fool of yourself.”

We did. And we are. And we rather enjoyed it.

**************

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