:: Party Hats & Sticky Wickets ::
Although the weekend was inevitably dominated by rehearsals for
The Way We Live (See entries for May 17th and 18th), my social whirl was not markedly affected. In fact I went to three parties - and turned up late for every one.
As I trotted through Peckham in a suit (play costume) on Saturday afternoon, I was getting slightly agitated by the number of stares from passers-by. Had I committed some Hypatia-style indiscretion?! Was I, too, displaying underwear in public? A discreet check proved that I wasn't flying low. As I obviously wasn't on my way to or from a wedding, people must have thought I was a bailiff or something. Or aren't I allowed to say that kind of thing?
*Political Correctness gone mad* - oh dear, that website makes me feel sick - nearly as bad as the queer-bashing one in the last post (
"click on Matthew to hear him scream in hell")...
I rushed home, got changed and headed to
Little Timmy's for the first barbecue of the weekend. I arrived to find some of the guests drunk or departing, but the wine I bought from
Nicolas went down a storm with some of the survivors.
Monsieur Est-Ouest was there with his Russian wife and his Mum who was over from France for a few days. There then followed an increasingly drunken tri-lingual conversation - a delightful way to practise language skills, but a bit of a head-fuck whilst munching on cold burgers and a stuffed pepper from the oven.
Pikovaya Dama seemed more convinced of the barbecue's efficacy than last time, and we watched the sun go down as the lights flickered on at Canary Wharf.
Some time later I stumbled onto the DLR in an attempt to get to Bethnal Green. I managed to get to
Bengal Bhaji's house ok, despite having only been there once before (also lamentably incapacitated). What happened there is mostly a whirl: I danced a lot, spoke to a few old friends and ended up accusing some mother of fucking stealing my travelcard. I presume the fact that it was handed to me some moments later was not a confession of guilt - merely an observation that it had dropped out of my back pocket as I jigged up and down. I also appear to have left my
Quantic Soul Orchestra CD behind - which was a shame as I've only just bought it.
Time for a brief B&B intermission:
The next day brought good news and bad. I had managed to get home (on a couple of nightbuses). However, all indications were that an elephant had sat on my head and shat in my mouth. This - and a tardy homecoming - prevented my arousal before noon, and with a range of chores to be completed, I didn't get off to my next appointment till 3 o'clock. Not remembering to allow for lackadaisical Sunday bus and train services, I was a bit miffed to arrive at my destination (a little known school between Windsor and Slough) over 2 hours later, by which time, once again, the barbecue was finishing and sozzled guests were departing. Despite the lack of Madhur Jaffrey's finest flame grilled treats, a sizeable amount of food still remained, including a massive mound of dough, ready to be formed into Naan breads. I ate a piece of salmon which appeared to be raw, but nevertheless have not had unpleasant results.
After the vague disappointment of late arrival the previous day, I was gratified that my host, Siberian Tiger (who teaches athe aforementioned school), had been something of a trooper and the guests rallied round to prove they had rather more stamina than Little Timmy's. So as the hours progressed, Pimm's followed wine followed beer and a cricket match was proposed, with 6 players on each team. The chosen field for the match had not been mown for yorkers and this added spice to some reasonably speedy bowling. My shins still bear testament to our foolhardy decision to play with a hard ball without pads, but the pain was numbed by regular libations, in the form of shots of Pimms, taken round to all the players during the game. I was on the losing team, of course but that hardly seemed to matter. I made the last train to London with Popsicle and another friend (after a swift pint in the local), amused at the knowledge that I had fulfilled all possible rah stereotypes by playing cricket (and croquet!) on the fields of Eton.
And that was it for the weekend. Rehearsals are clogging up the schedules for the rest of the week, but I have a couple of musical offerings: first, a rather embarrassing faux pas by those anti-Napster killjoys. Look out for the "goodwill gesture" the RIAA offer the university professor... And this site give you an insight into musical anniversaries. I'm alarmed to discover that Mull of Kintyre was at number 1 on the day I was born...
Toffee-nosed opera goers at the Royal Opera House last night were stunned by the hard-core action on stage. The back door antics were captured in this revealing shot sneaked by our under-tuxedo reporter in the front row. During the "climax" to the second act, all three were seen enjoying a cheeky tenor sandwich. Music Director of the ROH, Heironymous Fortesque-Smythe was "amazed" by the candid snap: "the last thing we want here is to promote an air of elitism. Opera is not merely the preserve of pooves and the upper classes."
