Tuesday, December 7 2004, 12:26

Showtime

Last night, Warren and Tash took me to see The Producers at the beautiful Theatre Royal for my birthday. I know, several months late, but it's my own fault. They had originally got me a ticket to see Jerry Springer, the Opera, but I double booked myself with a wedding and had to bail out. Oops.

The Producers was hilarious; we watched Nathan Lane (of Birdcage fame) and the ever-uncomfortable comedian, Lee Evans, and a whole bunch of people who actually haven't been in Casualty or Eastenders from our vertiginous seats about ten rows removed from the ceiling! I really do think that theatres rely a little too hard on the quality of the performances to enthrall the audience to the point that we have forgotten that circulation has been cut off to our lower limbs. I was thoroughly entertained throughout, so Deep Vein Thrombosis only crossed my mind in the intermission.

If you haven't seen it, you should. Quick synopsis: failed Broadway producer joins forces with socially inept accountant to diddle IRS by producing guaranteed flop and creaming off funds; eventual show is written by neo-Nazi and produced by team of Village People-alikes, starring Broadway queen as Adolf and nubile Swedish nympho love interest as Eva. With lines like "to trip the light fantastic we picked dancers who were spastic", and songs like When you got it, flaunt it, Keep it gay, and Springtime for Hitler, you're hard pressed to keep a straight face. My favourite moments were the sex-obsessed geriatric ladies tap dancing with zimmer frames and the synchronised shiny-helmeted SS troops goose-stepping a rotating swastika around the fat camp Adolf.

And I was still humming Haben sie gehoert das Deutsche Band? on the train this morning...

Friday, December 10 2004, 10:31

Shh... I'm dying

I'm not sure if you remember that scene from Highlander in which the evil Kurgan whispers "don't speak to me..." That's how I feel today. A victim like many others in this month of December of... The Office Christmas Party (capitals warranted, I believe).

Last night, after a pleasant Christmas repast in Holland Park, I beetled off home to get changed into something that might approach the "glamorous" dress code required, and discovered I quite literally had nothing to wear! Thank god for my fabulous housemate. I plunged back into the Tube system clad in a variation on typical straight male clubbing uniform: sharp shirt, smart jeans, and (here's my two fingers to the jumped up snob on the door) trainers instead of the expected shiny black shoes with big shiny buckle. As anticipated, such an ensemble provoked a long look up and down from the Doorman of Tantra before he slowly perused his Special Clipboard for my name and graciously let me through.

What a nice club it is. All white and pretty inside, with lights under the dancefloor, roses strewn about the place, a fountain of molten chocolate gentling splashing over a mountain of strawberries. Yes, very agreeable. And of course, free plonk. It would have been rude to not drink in such circumstances, so I was excruciatingly polite all evening and got hammered.

After several hours of burning up the dancefloor, I left in a fit of frustration that the DJ hadn't played Call on me as he'd promised. I managed to stumble to my nightbus stop on the Embankment on autopilot, picking up a chicken burger on the way; I got myself comfy upstairs, periodically lurching awake to check I hadn't missed my stop, right up until I lurched awake to see the welcoming lights of Canning Town tube station glowing at me from Zone 3. Bugger. Canning Town station spells disaster for me. It means trying to flag down a taxi going back the other direction, and usually at a point in the night when only one vehicle goes past every five minutes. I was a lucky so-and-so though, and managed to hit my bed by 4.30am.

By some miracle, some sign that maybe God doesn't hate me after all, I don't have a hangover today. I am very tired though. I put my head on my desk a few moments ago and idly dreamed I was curled up in my bed again, drifting off to the gentle effervescent melody of a berocca dancing a fizzy waltz in a glass of ice cool water... zzzzz

Friday, December 17 2004, 10:44

Shiny disco baubles

Last Saturday, Pete and I held our Christmas party; preparations, as always, were well planned but put off until that frantic afternoon; but with Chris' and Matt's help, the flat was made to look spangly and festive and all the cooking was complete before the guests began to arrive. Chris did a great job with putting cobwebs up everywhere for our Hallowe'en party, and he was just as good with holly and mistletoe this time, although he finally put it aside in disgust having suffered from all those pricks (go on - laugh!).

We had mince pies, puff pastry cranberry things, with the fondue you could say we had cheesy poofs, fairy lights galore, mulled wine, then more lights, and more, and although we didn't have any bad ass Vegas hoes, we had shiny disco baubles (although they started crumpling under the heat from the halogen lamps)... And most importantly, we weren't left with no white wine and a shitload of red stuff. Quite the reverse. Thanks for restocking our white rack everyone :) Now we just have to work on the people who are filling our cupboards with lager.

The annoying thing about living in London is that you haemorrhage guests throughout the night in waves. The first wave want to make it on to a club, the second run for the last train, the third wave fall into taxis when they're too drunk to play Twister, etc. The last revellers left at about 11am Sunday, so it was a good party. Pete and I would like to thank Matty and Chris for help throughout the day, Warren for the fantastic photos, and John for starting on the clean up effort at 10am while I watched. :)

Last night was my latest shot of festive fun. A bunch of us went to St Paul's for their annual carol concert; Christian, Vicki, and Clare were aghast that I'd never been inside before and so (privately) am I. What a monster! it has the second largest dome in the world and an organ (fnar) that can startle the most soundly sleeping congregation into action for Hark! The herald angels sing!

Sitting in a cold and crowded cathedral listening peacefully to the voices of choristers soaring into the columns is an essential Christmas activity for me - it gives a warm, familiar, and comfortable feeling; I've been doing it every year since 1989 after all. Christian and I even managed to revisit a schoolboy experience by sniggering at something "rude" in a reading and barely controlling our giggles for a few minutes.

So, feeling all heartwarmed, lungsore, and exceedingly breathless, we piled into taxis back to Vicki and Pete's for much-needed mulled wine and nibbles, and a warmer, boozier end to a great evening :)