Thursday, 20 March 2008
The end is nigh....
Ugh. You know when you're in a relationship and you can just feel it staggering towards its inevitable demise? When the sniping has started but you don't yet feel enough loathing to walk away. I feel that may be where the drummer and I are now. Despite the fact that he and the russian are seemingly on the rocks, I don't think I want him anymore. Contrary biatch that I am. Something somewhere has changed and I can't put my finger on it...
Monday, 10 March 2008
Roxy, I Heart.
Although I obviously spent a lot of my time at burlesque events and urgo, with other burlesque performers. They tend not to make it into my circle of aquaintance outside of work hours. I feel one self-obsessed performer is enough for any group of friends to deal with. Added to this, most performers live their job in a way that I tend not to. Outside of my twilight working hours you're not likely to find me at another burlesque event. I'll be headbanging naked a in a gutter in east London, dancing in some grotty warehouse party or pretending to like some cute boy's frankly appauling band in Camden. I've found that lots of the burlesque girls tend to frequent the the same venues that they perform in, even when they aren't working and while I applaud their dedication to the burlesque cause, I'd rather take my custom elsewhere. Somewhere without naked girls who can't dance and somewhere the drinks won't cost the same as a pair of new shoes.
But recently whilst working within the performer collective The Victor and Vanquished with Roxy Velvet and Ivy Paige, I feel like I've made my first real burlesque friend. The slighly insane but wonderful Roxy Velvet.
The other week my friend Charlotte sent me a text asking what I was up to that evening. It was a Tuesday and I hadn't much planned because the boy was on tour and I didn't have a show, so Charlotte invited me to come out with her. It transpired that 'out' translated into a table at William and Harry's favourite hangout Boujis. Ugh. I am allergic to Kensington. It brings me out in a cheap rash, principally because I am cheap. However, the night out came resplendant with the promise of free booze and I've never been one to turn down a free drink so I asked Roxy to join me as East London back up. I rocked up to the Sloane's venue of choice first, wearing some rather natty spandex leggings, a band t shirt so old you can see the outline of my bra through it (yet curiously not the name of the band), 7" battered heels and a waistcoat I got in Vegas. The look was topped off by my Miss Selfridge fake-mink and waaaaaaay too much red lipstick. When I finally made it into Boujis I was greeted by two guys, both in shirts and a pair of identikit blondes who were drinking water and complaining that the table they were seated at wasn't prominant enough. My friend Charlotte had cried off and not seen fit to mention it. Brilliant. I was on the verge of tottering back East as fast as my massive shoes would carry me, but I recieved a text from Rox saying that she'd already left the house looking like 'Shannon Doherty circa 1985'. That was reason enough to stay. And stay I did, cursing Roxy's lateness. I laboured through a conversation with the blondes who by this time had dismissed me as a nutjob with too much make up on, then turned my attention to the texan half of the be-shirted men on my other side. It turned out that he was 'in oil' and when I asked for a dark rum and diet coke, he returned with a bottle. The evening began. Roxy turned up in an 80's dress complete with shoulder pads and we drank the table dry then started requesting more from our poor beliguered waitress. The blondes saw themselves possibly outclassed and certainly out-drunkened so headed for the hills. I got so pissed that I snogged the none-texan half of the two men, which turned out to be a mistake because he then spent the remainder of the evening trying to lock me in various bathrooms with him in the mistaken belief that he could get me to have sex with him. Shudder.
Boujis closed and so on the promise of omlette and possibly gear, Roxy, the guys and I headed to Balans. We ended the evening raiding the laurent perrier from the texan's mini bar in The Dorchester. What they expected when they got us back there was not what actually happened. Rox and I drank the mini-bar dry and then re-enacted the Eddie Izzard 'Cake or Death' sketch repeatedly whilst cackling like witches. We stumbled out of The Dorchester at about 11am and back to Balans where Roxy had a meeting. She attempted to hold it togther while I drank mimosas and chipped in with innapropriate comments along the lines of 'Cake or death?' (Girl with a one track mind...)
To her credit, Roxy laughed every time.
But recently whilst working within the performer collective The Victor and Vanquished with Roxy Velvet and Ivy Paige, I feel like I've made my first real burlesque friend. The slighly insane but wonderful Roxy Velvet.
The other week my friend Charlotte sent me a text asking what I was up to that evening. It was a Tuesday and I hadn't much planned because the boy was on tour and I didn't have a show, so Charlotte invited me to come out with her. It transpired that 'out' translated into a table at William and Harry's favourite hangout Boujis. Ugh. I am allergic to Kensington. It brings me out in a cheap rash, principally because I am cheap. However, the night out came resplendant with the promise of free booze and I've never been one to turn down a free drink so I asked Roxy to join me as East London back up. I rocked up to the Sloane's venue of choice first, wearing some rather natty spandex leggings, a band t shirt so old you can see the outline of my bra through it (yet curiously not the name of the band), 7" battered heels and a waistcoat I got in Vegas. The look was topped off by my Miss Selfridge fake-mink and waaaaaaay too much red lipstick. When I finally made it into Boujis I was greeted by two guys, both in shirts and a pair of identikit blondes who were drinking water and complaining that the table they were seated at wasn't prominant enough. My friend Charlotte had cried off and not seen fit to mention it. Brilliant. I was on the verge of tottering back East as fast as my massive shoes would carry me, but I recieved a text from Rox saying that she'd already left the house looking like 'Shannon Doherty circa 1985'. That was reason enough to stay. And stay I did, cursing Roxy's lateness. I laboured through a conversation with the blondes who by this time had dismissed me as a nutjob with too much make up on, then turned my attention to the texan half of the be-shirted men on my other side. It turned out that he was 'in oil' and when I asked for a dark rum and diet coke, he returned with a bottle. The evening began. Roxy turned up in an 80's dress complete with shoulder pads and we drank the table dry then started requesting more from our poor beliguered waitress. The blondes saw themselves possibly outclassed and certainly out-drunkened so headed for the hills. I got so pissed that I snogged the none-texan half of the two men, which turned out to be a mistake because he then spent the remainder of the evening trying to lock me in various bathrooms with him in the mistaken belief that he could get me to have sex with him. Shudder.
Boujis closed and so on the promise of omlette and possibly gear, Roxy, the guys and I headed to Balans. We ended the evening raiding the laurent perrier from the texan's mini bar in The Dorchester. What they expected when they got us back there was not what actually happened. Rox and I drank the mini-bar dry and then re-enacted the Eddie Izzard 'Cake or Death' sketch repeatedly whilst cackling like witches. We stumbled out of The Dorchester at about 11am and back to Balans where Roxy had a meeting. She attempted to hold it togther while I drank mimosas and chipped in with innapropriate comments along the lines of 'Cake or death?' (Girl with a one track mind...)
To her credit, Roxy laughed every time.
Better late than never...
Time, it seems, actually flies when you're having fun. Tonnes has happened since I last logged in and I barely know where to start. More accurately, I can barely remember where to start. Damn you short term memory! Damn you blank patches due to over-consumption of alcohol! Damn you... other stuff...
The few days before my new night Head Over Heels were spent in furious preparation. Perhaps 'furious' is too strong a word but Roxy and I did spend very nearly the whole of the Sunday before the big day, tripping around Portobello whilst wearing the previous night's make up and smelling strongly of vodka (Roxy) and cheap cider (me) trying to give people Head Over Heels flyers that we had prettily attached to some amazing fake flowers from the pound shop. Most people smelt the booze and noted our air of general bedragglement and crossed the road to avoid being flyered. Others clearly thought we were gypsies selling our own version of lucky heather and marched past with a swift 'no' and occasional outstretched palm to indicate they really meant business. The odd soul, who had probably been drinking as heavily as we had the night before, took a flyer but I think more out of pity than curiosity. I think we got rid of about 50 flyers in the end, in about 5 hours with various stops for pub and the odd ten minutes where we walked up streets that looked like they might go somewhere interesting with lots of people to flyer but then didn't.
The next couple of days where then taken up with shopping for materials to make my cupid outfit, with money I shouldn't have been spending. My favourite type of shopping. £30 for a pair of tiny feathery wings I can only wear once in completely the wrong colour? Brilliant! I'll take 3. The night before should have been spent in an orgy of sewing and preparation. But what actually happened was that I went to Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes with the drummer and the boys from For Ramona and got rip-roaringly fucked on free sambucca. I still have no idea how I made it home. When I woke up in the morning, it seemed that Roxy had been doing something similar. I still hadn't finished making my costume, cut my music together or walked through my show even once. Ever the professional, I sighed and went to join the warm body of the drummer who was still in my bed for another hour and decided not to think about it too much. When I eventually got out of bed, I decided to finish my costume and spent an enjoyable half an hour spraying things gold. Even things that weren't originally supposed to be gold. Spray paint is fun, but will stain your hands for about a week afterward. Mental note boys and girls.
Upon reaching the venue, the enormity of what we hoped to achieve hit both Roxy and myself and turned me into a hysterical wreck and Rox into a snarling banshee. Putting on an event is rather like throwing a party, in so much as you're terrified that no-one will come. Turn that party into an event in which you have the temerity to ask people to pay to watch you remove your clothing, and the nerves start to jangle. Add to that the fact that Roxy and I would be showcasing acts that we had literally never ever performed, not even in the privacy of our own homes and you will understand why I literally sprinted to the off-license to buy as much cheap booze as I could carry. There is security and strength at the bottom of a bottle my friends. Rox and I were both pissed before the first punter even walked through the door. But walk they did. We fucking packed the place!
Trevor Locke our host was utterly brilliant, the lovely Ruby Blues and Agent Lynch put on fabulous shows to a whooping hollering, wonderful crowd. By the time I made it to the stage, I was properly drunk and don't reeeeeeally remember the finer details of my act. Suffice to say, the crowd yelled their heads off, screamed when I lunged at them with my big knife (having seen the truly insane faces I was pulling in the photos afterwards, I'm not surprised) and cheered when I covered myself with fake blood at the end. It couldn't have gone better if I'd actually rehursed it! I came off-stage to a glass of champagne and a bag of mdma. I remember little of the rest of the evening but my friends informed me the next day that I spent a good two hours running round wearing only the briefest scattering of rose petals, refusing to put my clothes back on and informing everybody that the drummer had a girlfriend in Russia and was therefore a cunt which meant they weren't to talk to him. Luckily everybody, including him had the good sense to ignore me.
The evening ended shortly after a tired and emotional Roxy Velvet and myself were packed off into separate taxis by our nearest and dearest. But not before the pre-requisit drunken 'I love you, no I love YOU' end of evening hugging that left me covered in red fucking glitter.
I woke up at lunchtime the next day desperate for water. Upon crawling out from under the duvet it appeared that I had manged to fall asleep in fake-bloodstained stockings and petals with roses still in my hair. My sheets, the drummer and a bit of the hallway were all covered in petals and glitter. I wanted to take a photo and call it St Valentine's Day Massacre. I wish I had, the mental picture still makes me smile.
The few days before my new night Head Over Heels were spent in furious preparation. Perhaps 'furious' is too strong a word but Roxy and I did spend very nearly the whole of the Sunday before the big day, tripping around Portobello whilst wearing the previous night's make up and smelling strongly of vodka (Roxy) and cheap cider (me) trying to give people Head Over Heels flyers that we had prettily attached to some amazing fake flowers from the pound shop. Most people smelt the booze and noted our air of general bedragglement and crossed the road to avoid being flyered. Others clearly thought we were gypsies selling our own version of lucky heather and marched past with a swift 'no' and occasional outstretched palm to indicate they really meant business. The odd soul, who had probably been drinking as heavily as we had the night before, took a flyer but I think more out of pity than curiosity. I think we got rid of about 50 flyers in the end, in about 5 hours with various stops for pub and the odd ten minutes where we walked up streets that looked like they might go somewhere interesting with lots of people to flyer but then didn't.
The next couple of days where then taken up with shopping for materials to make my cupid outfit, with money I shouldn't have been spending. My favourite type of shopping. £30 for a pair of tiny feathery wings I can only wear once in completely the wrong colour? Brilliant! I'll take 3. The night before should have been spent in an orgy of sewing and preparation. But what actually happened was that I went to Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes with the drummer and the boys from For Ramona and got rip-roaringly fucked on free sambucca. I still have no idea how I made it home. When I woke up in the morning, it seemed that Roxy had been doing something similar. I still hadn't finished making my costume, cut my music together or walked through my show even once. Ever the professional, I sighed and went to join the warm body of the drummer who was still in my bed for another hour and decided not to think about it too much. When I eventually got out of bed, I decided to finish my costume and spent an enjoyable half an hour spraying things gold. Even things that weren't originally supposed to be gold. Spray paint is fun, but will stain your hands for about a week afterward. Mental note boys and girls.
Upon reaching the venue, the enormity of what we hoped to achieve hit both Roxy and myself and turned me into a hysterical wreck and Rox into a snarling banshee. Putting on an event is rather like throwing a party, in so much as you're terrified that no-one will come. Turn that party into an event in which you have the temerity to ask people to pay to watch you remove your clothing, and the nerves start to jangle. Add to that the fact that Roxy and I would be showcasing acts that we had literally never ever performed, not even in the privacy of our own homes and you will understand why I literally sprinted to the off-license to buy as much cheap booze as I could carry. There is security and strength at the bottom of a bottle my friends. Rox and I were both pissed before the first punter even walked through the door. But walk they did. We fucking packed the place!
Trevor Locke our host was utterly brilliant, the lovely Ruby Blues and Agent Lynch put on fabulous shows to a whooping hollering, wonderful crowd. By the time I made it to the stage, I was properly drunk and don't reeeeeeally remember the finer details of my act. Suffice to say, the crowd yelled their heads off, screamed when I lunged at them with my big knife (having seen the truly insane faces I was pulling in the photos afterwards, I'm not surprised) and cheered when I covered myself with fake blood at the end. It couldn't have gone better if I'd actually rehursed it! I came off-stage to a glass of champagne and a bag of mdma. I remember little of the rest of the evening but my friends informed me the next day that I spent a good two hours running round wearing only the briefest scattering of rose petals, refusing to put my clothes back on and informing everybody that the drummer had a girlfriend in Russia and was therefore a cunt which meant they weren't to talk to him. Luckily everybody, including him had the good sense to ignore me.
The evening ended shortly after a tired and emotional Roxy Velvet and myself were packed off into separate taxis by our nearest and dearest. But not before the pre-requisit drunken 'I love you, no I love YOU' end of evening hugging that left me covered in red fucking glitter.
I woke up at lunchtime the next day desperate for water. Upon crawling out from under the duvet it appeared that I had manged to fall asleep in fake-bloodstained stockings and petals with roses still in my hair. My sheets, the drummer and a bit of the hallway were all covered in petals and glitter. I wanted to take a photo and call it St Valentine's Day Massacre. I wish I had, the mental picture still makes me smile.
Wednesday, 6 February 2008
What Goes Up, Must Comedown.....
I fucking hate comedowns. One day the world is your powdery white party oyster and three days hence, the complete lack of seratonin in your addled body makes you oh so keenly aware of each and every tiny thing lacking in your miserable empty life. Dammit! And while the logical part of your brain pleads the case that life really isn't that bad, you just overindulged at on Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday/Friday/Saturday/Sunday (delete as applicable, or not...) and it will all wear off soon. There is also another darker part that takes hold of anything that may be niggling at you and turns it into something miserable and malignant.
The week just gone saw me consume rather large quantities of alcohol at various gigs. I had a lovely evening at The End of The World with Miss Polly Rae and her Hurly Burly Girlies. Many thanks to whoever kept replacing the bottle of wine that was on the table in the dressing room. You have my unswerving devotion. Thanks also to Denise at Volupte who took it upon herself to provide the performers with wine during the break at Pete Saunders Jazz night on Wednesday. My performance in the second half was slightly wobbly but ever so much more animated as a result. The drinking continued in various venues around our nation's fair capital throughout the week and reached something of a crescendo on Saturday night.
The boy I've been knocking around with for the past few months is a drummer and his band were playing a venue in Central London. While he has seen me perform on more than one occasion, owing to my apauling time keeping I have never yet managed to make it to see him. I have however seen numerous bands that appeared higher up the bill... Saturday was supposed to be the first time I got to see him onstage but alas alack, it was not meant to be, again. I was performing with another band called For Ramona at another venue in Soho. In my carefully laid plans, I was supposed to be done in time to run back and catch the boy but cider, general back-slapping and a late start all colluded to prevent me getting there in time. Post-gig he was sweaty and sulking slightly. I was drunkenly indignant. So, in order to prevent an actual conversation (and because it's what we do) we procured a tonne of gear, more booze than was strictly necessary and high-tailed it home to get trashed. And trashed we did get. Fast forward to Monday which saw us both in The Hawley drinking cider, sambucca (me and the barman), dancing on tables (just me) and being generally obnoxious (every cunt in there). On Tuesday night as I lay on my friend's sofa watching tv I could feel the start of my comedown prickling at my tearducts. Today it stormed the battlements and took up residence in my head.
I can never sleep when I get in from work. I need an hour or so to wind down before my duvet and I can get really serious, and I tend to wile it away on my laptop. I was idling around on Facebook and clicked on a link for a review the boy wrote about a recent holiday he took in Eygpt. Now, I'm aware that he has a girlfriend - which isn't something I'm at all proud of, I really don't want to part of anything that hurts anyone. I'm also aware she was over here for Christmas. I know they went to Eygpt togther, I've seen the pictures on facebook. But I suppose that in my head over time, I've sort of started to think of him as mine. The review he wrote started out saying that he and his 'girlfriend' went to Eygpt blah blah blah. And I don't know if it's the comedown making me overly sensitive or just some sort of timely wake-up call but seeing him call her 'girlfriend' in print really made me think. And more than that, it fucking hurt which is something I never expected. The boy and I are 'fun'. We take gear, we have sex, we party. But suddenly and almost unconciously, I seem to want to parlay it into something more. Ugh. He's clearly not boyfriend material, I know he cheats and trust is an integral part of a relationship. I hope it's my comedown that seems to want him as a boyfriend and not me. Damn feelings. Must drown them. Pass the vodka....
The week just gone saw me consume rather large quantities of alcohol at various gigs. I had a lovely evening at The End of The World with Miss Polly Rae and her Hurly Burly Girlies. Many thanks to whoever kept replacing the bottle of wine that was on the table in the dressing room. You have my unswerving devotion. Thanks also to Denise at Volupte who took it upon herself to provide the performers with wine during the break at Pete Saunders Jazz night on Wednesday. My performance in the second half was slightly wobbly but ever so much more animated as a result. The drinking continued in various venues around our nation's fair capital throughout the week and reached something of a crescendo on Saturday night.
The boy I've been knocking around with for the past few months is a drummer and his band were playing a venue in Central London. While he has seen me perform on more than one occasion, owing to my apauling time keeping I have never yet managed to make it to see him. I have however seen numerous bands that appeared higher up the bill... Saturday was supposed to be the first time I got to see him onstage but alas alack, it was not meant to be, again. I was performing with another band called For Ramona at another venue in Soho. In my carefully laid plans, I was supposed to be done in time to run back and catch the boy but cider, general back-slapping and a late start all colluded to prevent me getting there in time. Post-gig he was sweaty and sulking slightly. I was drunkenly indignant. So, in order to prevent an actual conversation (and because it's what we do) we procured a tonne of gear, more booze than was strictly necessary and high-tailed it home to get trashed. And trashed we did get. Fast forward to Monday which saw us both in The Hawley drinking cider, sambucca (me and the barman), dancing on tables (just me) and being generally obnoxious (every cunt in there). On Tuesday night as I lay on my friend's sofa watching tv I could feel the start of my comedown prickling at my tearducts. Today it stormed the battlements and took up residence in my head.
I can never sleep when I get in from work. I need an hour or so to wind down before my duvet and I can get really serious, and I tend to wile it away on my laptop. I was idling around on Facebook and clicked on a link for a review the boy wrote about a recent holiday he took in Eygpt. Now, I'm aware that he has a girlfriend - which isn't something I'm at all proud of, I really don't want to part of anything that hurts anyone. I'm also aware she was over here for Christmas. I know they went to Eygpt togther, I've seen the pictures on facebook. But I suppose that in my head over time, I've sort of started to think of him as mine. The review he wrote started out saying that he and his 'girlfriend' went to Eygpt blah blah blah. And I don't know if it's the comedown making me overly sensitive or just some sort of timely wake-up call but seeing him call her 'girlfriend' in print really made me think. And more than that, it fucking hurt which is something I never expected. The boy and I are 'fun'. We take gear, we have sex, we party. But suddenly and almost unconciously, I seem to want to parlay it into something more. Ugh. He's clearly not boyfriend material, I know he cheats and trust is an integral part of a relationship. I hope it's my comedown that seems to want him as a boyfriend and not me. Damn feelings. Must drown them. Pass the vodka....
Friday, 1 February 2008
Yen
I just noticed that I have the word 'yen' in all three of my blogs thus far. I don't even say 'yen' in real life! Or 'thus' come to think of it....
My Funny Valentine
Today I manged to prise myself from the haven that is my pillow-strewn, double bed before the crack of noon. A momentous event, the like of which has not been seen in weeks owing to my inimitable laziness and lack of self-discipline. The reason for such gargantuan effort on my part was that my friend Martina had secured us tickets to the rehursal of the Royal Ballet's new programme which started at 11.30. I haven't been to the ballet in approaching forever, which is sad because it has to be one of my very favourite ways in the whole world to spend an evening (provided there is champagne post-performance, without champagne it drops from 'favourite ways to spend an evening' to merely 'a lovely night out'). The show was just heartbreakingly gorgeous and I loved that the audience seemed to comprise entirely of old ladies with giant handbags and moth-eaten fur coats that looked like they might well be heirlooms - clearly the only people other than Martina and myself that had no work to attend and a yen to watch ballerinas leap.
Watching the dancers today filled me with a million ideas for a new show that I'm working on for a night I'm going to be putting on for Valentines Day with my friend Roxy Velvet. To be honest, I hate Valentines. Really always have, and that isn't the ranting of a bitter old witch (although I'm probably only a couple of cats short...). Even when I had a long-term boyfriend on Valentines Day and was therefore forced by Hallmark to be affectionate, I never really got into it. My favourite Valentines Day of all time was when my ex and I bought each other drugs instead of cards, turned our phones off and got fucked up and fucked for 24 hours. Romantic? I think not, but undeniably more entertaining than being stuffed into an overpriced restaurant with fifty other couples who also couldn't think of anything more entertaining to do...
But I digress. I've been dithering about my Valentine's show for weeks until today when inspiration struck at the ballet. Normally most of the routines I perform are flirty, tongue-in-cheek and rather cute (for want of a better word) little pieces and I suppose I'm rather bored of this persona I've created for myself. I want to push Kitty to somewhere she hasn't been before. My idea thus far had been to do some sort of balloon-busting act with red heart-shaped balloons. Nothing I haven't done previously if I'm entirely honest, but I can be terribly lazy when it comes to thinking up new material. The audience generally want you to skip around a bit then tassel twirl. Do that, they clap, job's a goodun'. But this Valentines show will be the very first burlesque evening that I have helped to bring about and I suppose for that reason I actually (whisper it) care about the act that I will be performing. Also more prosaically, all my mates have promised to come and most of them haven't seen me perform before. I am shitting it.
So, in the spirit of my Valentines Day hatred, drumroll please......... I'm going to 'Kill Cupid'. I plan on starting dressed up as the little be-winged bugger - all festooned with hearts and flowers, brandishing my bow and arrows. I'm going to flit around the stage en-pointe to the strains of 'Cupid, draw back your bow...' and then I'm going to become disillusioned with the whole notion of love, produce a knife and hack my wings off. Feathers and blood everywhere. Brilliant! Obviously I need to work on the finer points of how the piece will work as a whole, but I like the concept. That I enjoy the notion of Cupid ripping his own wings off, speaks volumes about the tatters that my love life regularly finds itself in. Although, for the first time in a while, I do actually have a boy in tow. That fact that he also has a girlfriend in Russia is a matter of concern but not, it has to be said, a primary one. When I mentioned the Valentines night to him, he asked if he could attend. I think I may exclude him on the grounds that a) he probably should spend his evening on skype talking about vodka or whatever it is a 30 year old English man talks to a 23 year old Russian about. Ahem. and b) I'm not sure I want him to see me ripping my own wings off with gusto while flashing a blade around. It might make me look both bitter about love and a teensy bit mental...
Besides, I figure Valentines Day events must work slightly like weddings. In so much as all the couples feel smug and all the singles copulate furiously in the bathrooms to reassure themselves that while they might not be married, they're still attractive alright? My theory may come to nothing but a girl has to keep her options open, but not in the bathroom you understand. That was hyperbole.
Watching the dancers today filled me with a million ideas for a new show that I'm working on for a night I'm going to be putting on for Valentines Day with my friend Roxy Velvet. To be honest, I hate Valentines. Really always have, and that isn't the ranting of a bitter old witch (although I'm probably only a couple of cats short...). Even when I had a long-term boyfriend on Valentines Day and was therefore forced by Hallmark to be affectionate, I never really got into it. My favourite Valentines Day of all time was when my ex and I bought each other drugs instead of cards, turned our phones off and got fucked up and fucked for 24 hours. Romantic? I think not, but undeniably more entertaining than being stuffed into an overpriced restaurant with fifty other couples who also couldn't think of anything more entertaining to do...
But I digress. I've been dithering about my Valentine's show for weeks until today when inspiration struck at the ballet. Normally most of the routines I perform are flirty, tongue-in-cheek and rather cute (for want of a better word) little pieces and I suppose I'm rather bored of this persona I've created for myself. I want to push Kitty to somewhere she hasn't been before. My idea thus far had been to do some sort of balloon-busting act with red heart-shaped balloons. Nothing I haven't done previously if I'm entirely honest, but I can be terribly lazy when it comes to thinking up new material. The audience generally want you to skip around a bit then tassel twirl. Do that, they clap, job's a goodun'. But this Valentines show will be the very first burlesque evening that I have helped to bring about and I suppose for that reason I actually (whisper it) care about the act that I will be performing. Also more prosaically, all my mates have promised to come and most of them haven't seen me perform before. I am shitting it.
So, in the spirit of my Valentines Day hatred, drumroll please......... I'm going to 'Kill Cupid'. I plan on starting dressed up as the little be-winged bugger - all festooned with hearts and flowers, brandishing my bow and arrows. I'm going to flit around the stage en-pointe to the strains of 'Cupid, draw back your bow...' and then I'm going to become disillusioned with the whole notion of love, produce a knife and hack my wings off. Feathers and blood everywhere. Brilliant! Obviously I need to work on the finer points of how the piece will work as a whole, but I like the concept. That I enjoy the notion of Cupid ripping his own wings off, speaks volumes about the tatters that my love life regularly finds itself in. Although, for the first time in a while, I do actually have a boy in tow. That fact that he also has a girlfriend in Russia is a matter of concern but not, it has to be said, a primary one. When I mentioned the Valentines night to him, he asked if he could attend. I think I may exclude him on the grounds that a) he probably should spend his evening on skype talking about vodka or whatever it is a 30 year old English man talks to a 23 year old Russian about. Ahem. and b) I'm not sure I want him to see me ripping my own wings off with gusto while flashing a blade around. It might make me look both bitter about love and a teensy bit mental...
Besides, I figure Valentines Day events must work slightly like weddings. In so much as all the couples feel smug and all the singles copulate furiously in the bathrooms to reassure themselves that while they might not be married, they're still attractive alright? My theory may come to nothing but a girl has to keep her options open, but not in the bathroom you understand. That was hyperbole.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Vogue Front Cover
My yen to blog was nearly struck down in its infancy. Last Monday I curled up in front of my laptop, fingers poised. Ready to take down the words that had been milling around in my head as I had dragged myself home from Brixton Hill. Honestly, I even had a title 'Rainy Days and Mondays', cracking stuff*. And then came my undoing. Blogger asked me for my password...
Much racking of slightly befuddled, hungover brain produced no results. Further racking of the slightly less befuddled and hungover brain the following day produced more nothingness. Dammit. For some reason I couldn't seem to get blogger to let me change my password to something more memorable and had given up quite frankly, as I am wont to do with most things. My original post seemed destined to exsist as a manifesto for a campaign I would never follow, until today! I found my password scrawled across the cover of this month's Vogue. Excellent.
My mild excitement at getting back to blogging is dimmed somewhat when I read this back and realise I have just blogged about finding my blogger password. Not the most exciting of events all told. Eh, I 'll write something substantial tomorrow because I have a job application to fill in and I'll need something to help me procrastinate. Productive creative procrastion. Perfect.
*Probably. I'm not all that sure I remember what I was going to say if I'm honest. I had a monumental hangover because I'd stayed at my best friend's house and we had between us consumed 3 1/2 bottles of very cheap white wine and a few gin and tonics. So 'cracking stuff' is merely conjecture and probably only asserted because a) I quite like the phrase and b) I wanted to make myself look good. Sorry.
Much racking of slightly befuddled, hungover brain produced no results. Further racking of the slightly less befuddled and hungover brain the following day produced more nothingness. Dammit. For some reason I couldn't seem to get blogger to let me change my password to something more memorable and had given up quite frankly, as I am wont to do with most things. My original post seemed destined to exsist as a manifesto for a campaign I would never follow, until today! I found my password scrawled across the cover of this month's Vogue. Excellent.
My mild excitement at getting back to blogging is dimmed somewhat when I read this back and realise I have just blogged about finding my blogger password. Not the most exciting of events all told. Eh, I 'll write something substantial tomorrow because I have a job application to fill in and I'll need something to help me procrastinate. Productive creative procrastion. Perfect.
*Probably. I'm not all that sure I remember what I was going to say if I'm honest. I had a monumental hangover because I'd stayed at my best friend's house and we had between us consumed 3 1/2 bottles of very cheap white wine and a few gin and tonics. So 'cracking stuff' is merely conjecture and probably only asserted because a) I quite like the phrase and b) I wanted to make myself look good. Sorry.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Voted 'Most Likely To End Up As A Stripper' - Upton Hall Convent Yearbook: Class of 2000
One of the first questions that people ask upon finding out that I am a burlesque dancer is "How did you get into that?'
And the answer is, I tripped. Fell and landed in a heap of silk knickers and rhinestones and decided to run with it. Serendipity has always been a friend to me, and a chance encounter with a lovely young lady who wanted help choreographing her very first burlesque routine has somehow led to something vaguely approaching a career of my very own. Although, I do bandy the term 'career' around here very loosely...
But the seeds of burlesque were sewn a long time before I even knew who Tempest Storm and Sally Rand were (look it up burlesque neophites). When I was 16, while my contemporaries toiled away behind the tills of Tesco and Primark for a measly £2.22 an hour. I worked as a dancer at a gay club. For the princely sum of fifty pounds I was expected to wear all manner of spangly, camp, top-hat-and-tailed tomfoolery and dance as well as I was able in the world's tallest heels. As a first job, I fear it ruined me for life. Who wants to WORK for a living when it transpires that there are people who will pay you to dress up and run around their club doing exactly what you'd do anyway? AND, you get drinks vouchers. Woo and indeed hoo my (much thinner and cuter) 16 year old self thought. Ten (*cough*fuck fuck fuck*cough*) years later the venues have changed, I no longer have to get up for school in the mornings and the drinks vouchers go on decent rioja rather than smirnoff ice; but the essence of what I do remains the same. I get to play dress up and party like it's 1999. (Reading this back, it reminds me of the line in Anchorman where Ron Burgundy asserts that they've all been attending the same party for the past ten years and in 'NO WAY is that depressing' but fuck it, I'll review my chosen career path when my tits drop and not a second before.) I don't give a shit that my former classmates are buying houses and marrying the boys they snogged behind the bike sheds when we were 16. I live in the greatest city England; and very possibly the world has to offer, I have amazing friends, a wardrobe full of vintage tat and I burst balloons for a living. Sex, dugs and cab-ar-et my dears. What's not to love?
Don't get me wrong, this hasn't always been the plan. I coasted through university believing that a career as the next Hunter S. Thompson was beckoning. However, it turned out that my only marked similarity with Thompson was my exceptional capacity for the consumption of narcotics. A 'talent' that generally hampered (and continues to hamper) my ability to write anything sensible or hold down a job that requires me to be in an office during pre-prescribed times, five days a week. But I've missed writing. I have a yen to scribble down all the mundane and not so mundane shit that happens to me on a daily basis. So this is it. Until such a time as I get bored or buy the pug I keep threatening my housemates with and have to take it for walks and clean up shit in my spare time..
Hang on to your proverbial hats
And the answer is, I tripped. Fell and landed in a heap of silk knickers and rhinestones and decided to run with it. Serendipity has always been a friend to me, and a chance encounter with a lovely young lady who wanted help choreographing her very first burlesque routine has somehow led to something vaguely approaching a career of my very own. Although, I do bandy the term 'career' around here very loosely...
But the seeds of burlesque were sewn a long time before I even knew who Tempest Storm and Sally Rand were (look it up burlesque neophites). When I was 16, while my contemporaries toiled away behind the tills of Tesco and Primark for a measly £2.22 an hour. I worked as a dancer at a gay club. For the princely sum of fifty pounds I was expected to wear all manner of spangly, camp, top-hat-and-tailed tomfoolery and dance as well as I was able in the world's tallest heels. As a first job, I fear it ruined me for life. Who wants to WORK for a living when it transpires that there are people who will pay you to dress up and run around their club doing exactly what you'd do anyway? AND, you get drinks vouchers. Woo and indeed hoo my (much thinner and cuter) 16 year old self thought. Ten (*cough*fuck fuck fuck*cough*) years later the venues have changed, I no longer have to get up for school in the mornings and the drinks vouchers go on decent rioja rather than smirnoff ice; but the essence of what I do remains the same. I get to play dress up and party like it's 1999. (Reading this back, it reminds me of the line in Anchorman where Ron Burgundy asserts that they've all been attending the same party for the past ten years and in 'NO WAY is that depressing' but fuck it, I'll review my chosen career path when my tits drop and not a second before.) I don't give a shit that my former classmates are buying houses and marrying the boys they snogged behind the bike sheds when we were 16. I live in the greatest city England; and very possibly the world has to offer, I have amazing friends, a wardrobe full of vintage tat and I burst balloons for a living. Sex, dugs and cab-ar-et my dears. What's not to love?
Don't get me wrong, this hasn't always been the plan. I coasted through university believing that a career as the next Hunter S. Thompson was beckoning. However, it turned out that my only marked similarity with Thompson was my exceptional capacity for the consumption of narcotics. A 'talent' that generally hampered (and continues to hamper) my ability to write anything sensible or hold down a job that requires me to be in an office during pre-prescribed times, five days a week. But I've missed writing. I have a yen to scribble down all the mundane and not so mundane shit that happens to me on a daily basis. So this is it. Until such a time as I get bored or buy the pug I keep threatening my housemates with and have to take it for walks and clean up shit in my spare time..
Hang on to your proverbial hats
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