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.
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