Unlike Vanessa Feltz's thighs, most of my the things I say do not retain water, and I am known for being like the weather, very changeable. My motto is that I used to be indecisive, now I’m just not so sure, so when I point blank refused to go and see We Will Rock You the musical because I considered it to be a dilution of some of the best music in the world, my friends knew it wouldn’t be long before I not only came around to the idea of going, but also buying the accompanying CD of the show.
We Will Rock You is set in the future on Planet Mall, a planet where real music is a thing of the past, and all that exists is computer generated junk, by Boy & Girl bands who have taken over the world. It is a very cloned society, with everyone thinking and doing the same thing. The main characters Galileo and Scaramouch do not fit in with this society, and words just ‘pop’ into their heads, usually taken from Queen songs. They are referred to as the ‘Ancient text’. This is forbidden on Planet Mall, and having a single original thought results in the secret police coming along and brainwashing you.
They flee camp in search of other like-minded individuals, and meet a suspicious looking fellow going by the name of Britney Spears. He seems familiar with the ancient text too and they believe him when he says he will be the one to free them, based on the ‘legend’. The legend states that there are musical instruments buried somewhere on Planet Mall. As musical instruments are banned, they set out to try and find them and to save the Planet and music.
Throughout, the musical Queen songs are very cleverly weaved into the story line with everything from Radio Ga Ga, Killer Queen, Flash, We are the Champions and of course the title track to mention just a few. However, In a way it is not just a celebration of Queens music, but music as a whole with a very poignant scene where The Bohemians pay tribute to all the great musical legends over the years that had died young leaving a their undeniable legacy to music behind.
One of the most amusing things throughout the show, is the references to the fact that good music lost it’s respect and appeal, being ultimately destroyed after all inhabitants were overdosed by a massive influx of reality TV ‘Talent’ finding shows such as Pop Idol, and Fame Academy. Watching the X Factor last Saturday, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was actually a premonition. Does Ben Elton (Writer) have a crystal ball??
The sets are lavish as is the lighting and it is obvious that no expense has been spared. The musicians are absolutely fantastic and the cast all have incredible voices. This is a very energetic and high tech show with lots going on to keep the audience captivated. I found it extremely entertaining and incredibly funny at points, which I was not expecting at all. However, as always, you take your sugar and then comes the medicine, and there were a few moments where it was heart wrenchingly emotional (I didn’t cry. Honest)
At this moment, I would put my hand on my heart and say it is one of the best Musicals I have seen, and would recommend it to anyone. But the thing is with me, you never know. It’s ‘any way the wind blows………’
Monday, December 18, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Where for art thou Romeo?
No matter how many freaks I meet, I am an eternal optimist, and genuinely believe in love at first sight. I fall in love at least 25 times a day, and everytime I go out for a drink to a Homo haunt, I convince myself that I will meet the man of my dreams. Last Thursday was no exception.
Gaz and I met up in the Retro bar for a quick 'ketchup' and debrief to see how one another is getting on in our new jobs. We used to work together and were made redundant on the same day back in the summer, and as irony would have it, after 3 months of looking for work, we found our new jobs within days of each other. Gaz is doing extremely well and was full of new buzzwords he has picked up from his new place of employ such as 'Quota's' and 'Briefings'. I on the other hand am hating my new job and am sick of working for a charity that cannot seem to speak the Queens English and insist on using acronyms for everything. On my first day there I learned that I was working for CRUCK in the HICE directorate, which was part of POLD based at LIND. (If anyone out there knows what the hell that means, would you mind clarifying for me) This really is how they talk where I work, and in my 'Directorate' everything is about the 'Comms' (communications) It is our buzzword. As in "have we got the comms on that?" or "I'm just waiting to book the next HICE meeting but am waiting on the comms" or the most common one is, from the head of our team "can I get everyone to gather round for a quick comms". I find myself looking around at my fellow colleagues for signs of what the fuck they are actually talking about, but they are so sucked into the whole acronym language that they all sit there nodding, while I sit and back wondering whether it really isn't butter.........
Needless to say I am not very happy in my current job, and felt the need to let my hair down, rejoin the rest of the human race and have fun. My best friend Charles joined us at about 7:30 for one of his famous 'just the ones' and we were all quite merry by 8:45 so decided to whiz down to the Ku bar and watch the final Catherine Tate on the big screen. when we got there we wondered if we had just stepped into a after school club. There were Youths (and their fag slag's) in there that hadn't even had their BCG's yet, let alone reached puberty. We found the whole thing quite distasteful, so as soon as we had watched yet another disappointing episode of Catherine Tate, we decided to Schlep out of there and find a place with men. Or at least someone you wouldn't face arrest for by merely giving them a light for their Mayfair cigarette. Off to The Yard we go. Empty. Hardly a living soul in there, and most definitely nobody I would sleep with, so like a tribe of nomads off into the night we went again.
We decided the Admiral was the best option, it as its always busy, drinks are cheap, and if you are willing to spend £1.50 at a time, you can guarantee that every song you want to hear will be played on their fantastic 'Play mine first' jukebox. I can't end a night in town without hearing the 12" mix of Gambler by Madonna, so the overweight (and offensively under dressed) queen slouched against the jukebox was given the heave ho, my money was in, my song was on, and my scent was being reacted to by a rather suspicious looking fellow at the end of the bar.....
He had been checking me out since I had arrived, and I had been letting him. I kept making eye contact and giving him my cutest ‘come over and make the first move by asking me for a drink because I don't want to come over and be rejected by you’ smiles. I was sure he was the man of my dreams. This went on for a good 2 hours and I was getting quite frustrated with him and myself. With him for not being a man and just coming up to me and saying ‘Hello’, with myself for not being a man and just going up to him and saying ‘Hello’. I was about to call it a night when he eventually got up off his stool and started making his way over to me. I mentally gave myself a pat of the back for having not made the first move, leaving myself open to rejection and humiliation.He approached me and was about to either ask for my name, ask what the time was or kill me. I'm not sure which because he fell onto me, ricocheted off and promptly left the bar without saying a word.
Now one of two things has happened here. Either he was blind drunk and was embarrassed hence his hasty departure once he made the misdemeanour of falling into a perspective mate without establishing his name, or he wasn’t interested in me at all, and I had spent the whole night cruising a man that wasn’t cruising me back. I wish I knew which one it was. I think the most tragic thing about the whole event is that it was the closest I have been to having sex this year. This was a man who didn't even know my name, a man who was too drunk to stand up, a man that once seen up close I wouldn't have slept with anyway and yet he has still been the only man to have any form of contact with me in nearly 12 months.
They say that rejection is the greatest aphrodisiac, and they are right. Because I am horny as a bitch in season.
Gaz and I met up in the Retro bar for a quick 'ketchup' and debrief to see how one another is getting on in our new jobs. We used to work together and were made redundant on the same day back in the summer, and as irony would have it, after 3 months of looking for work, we found our new jobs within days of each other. Gaz is doing extremely well and was full of new buzzwords he has picked up from his new place of employ such as 'Quota's' and 'Briefings'. I on the other hand am hating my new job and am sick of working for a charity that cannot seem to speak the Queens English and insist on using acronyms for everything. On my first day there I learned that I was working for CRUCK in the HICE directorate, which was part of POLD based at LIND. (If anyone out there knows what the hell that means, would you mind clarifying for me) This really is how they talk where I work, and in my 'Directorate' everything is about the 'Comms' (communications) It is our buzzword. As in "have we got the comms on that?" or "I'm just waiting to book the next HICE meeting but am waiting on the comms" or the most common one is, from the head of our team "can I get everyone to gather round for a quick comms". I find myself looking around at my fellow colleagues for signs of what the fuck they are actually talking about, but they are so sucked into the whole acronym language that they all sit there nodding, while I sit and back wondering whether it really isn't butter.........
Needless to say I am not very happy in my current job, and felt the need to let my hair down, rejoin the rest of the human race and have fun. My best friend Charles joined us at about 7:30 for one of his famous 'just the ones' and we were all quite merry by 8:45 so decided to whiz down to the Ku bar and watch the final Catherine Tate on the big screen. when we got there we wondered if we had just stepped into a after school club. There were Youths (and their fag slag's) in there that hadn't even had their BCG's yet, let alone reached puberty. We found the whole thing quite distasteful, so as soon as we had watched yet another disappointing episode of Catherine Tate, we decided to Schlep out of there and find a place with men. Or at least someone you wouldn't face arrest for by merely giving them a light for their Mayfair cigarette. Off to The Yard we go. Empty. Hardly a living soul in there, and most definitely nobody I would sleep with, so like a tribe of nomads off into the night we went again.
We decided the Admiral was the best option, it as its always busy, drinks are cheap, and if you are willing to spend £1.50 at a time, you can guarantee that every song you want to hear will be played on their fantastic 'Play mine first' jukebox. I can't end a night in town without hearing the 12" mix of Gambler by Madonna, so the overweight (and offensively under dressed) queen slouched against the jukebox was given the heave ho, my money was in, my song was on, and my scent was being reacted to by a rather suspicious looking fellow at the end of the bar.....
He had been checking me out since I had arrived, and I had been letting him. I kept making eye contact and giving him my cutest ‘come over and make the first move by asking me for a drink because I don't want to come over and be rejected by you’ smiles. I was sure he was the man of my dreams. This went on for a good 2 hours and I was getting quite frustrated with him and myself. With him for not being a man and just coming up to me and saying ‘Hello’, with myself for not being a man and just going up to him and saying ‘Hello’. I was about to call it a night when he eventually got up off his stool and started making his way over to me. I mentally gave myself a pat of the back for having not made the first move, leaving myself open to rejection and humiliation.He approached me and was about to either ask for my name, ask what the time was or kill me. I'm not sure which because he fell onto me, ricocheted off and promptly left the bar without saying a word.
Now one of two things has happened here. Either he was blind drunk and was embarrassed hence his hasty departure once he made the misdemeanour of falling into a perspective mate without establishing his name, or he wasn’t interested in me at all, and I had spent the whole night cruising a man that wasn’t cruising me back. I wish I knew which one it was. I think the most tragic thing about the whole event is that it was the closest I have been to having sex this year. This was a man who didn't even know my name, a man who was too drunk to stand up, a man that once seen up close I wouldn't have slept with anyway and yet he has still been the only man to have any form of contact with me in nearly 12 months.
They say that rejection is the greatest aphrodisiac, and they are right. Because I am horny as a bitch in season.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Day old bread
When are you too old to go clubbing on a week night?
I ask this question because it seems for the most part the answer is twelve. last night I, at 28 years of age felt past it during an impromptu spontaneous moment when myself and Gaz decided to throw caution to the wind and hoof ourselves down to G.A.Y for a deliciously irresponsible night of drinking and dancing. As soon as we paid our £1 entry fee and headed off to the bar to purchase one of their 'all drinks for under £2' we knew something wasn't right. Looking around I saw faces younger than the pint of milk I have in my fridge at the moment and there was a smell of baby lotion in the air, which unfortunately was not lingering after a hot strippers routine. The place was packed with guys who I bet my Madonna CD collection on had not yet received their National Insurance number. And here they were, out on what was definitely for them school night making me and Gaz feel like we should be have been sentenced to spend the rest of our days at the Elephants Graveyard (The City of Quebec pub in Marble Arch, where gay folklore has it, all the old queens go to die).
They may have youth but I could still fuck all of them under the table.
I ask this question because it seems for the most part the answer is twelve. last night I, at 28 years of age felt past it during an impromptu spontaneous moment when myself and Gaz decided to throw caution to the wind and hoof ourselves down to G.A.Y for a deliciously irresponsible night of drinking and dancing. As soon as we paid our £1 entry fee and headed off to the bar to purchase one of their 'all drinks for under £2' we knew something wasn't right. Looking around I saw faces younger than the pint of milk I have in my fridge at the moment and there was a smell of baby lotion in the air, which unfortunately was not lingering after a hot strippers routine. The place was packed with guys who I bet my Madonna CD collection on had not yet received their National Insurance number. And here they were, out on what was definitely for them school night making me and Gaz feel like we should be have been sentenced to spend the rest of our days at the Elephants Graveyard (The City of Quebec pub in Marble Arch, where gay folklore has it, all the old queens go to die).
They may have youth but I could still fuck all of them under the table.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
