October 30th - November 5th 2006
Sunday Needs rocket
Saturday Farewell to Canary Wharf (set)
Friday C U there?
Thursday On the Thames
Wednesday Bovvered?
Tuesday Canary Wharf
Monday Donne deal
Sunday 5th November
Backside firework prank backfires
Saturday 4th November
Farewell to Canary Wharf
(click for pix)
Friday 3rd November
Another year, another bloody birthday.
Ho hum.
This year, at least it's a Sunday - so I can simply invite everybody to Horse Meat.See you there?
Thursday 2nd November
On the Thames, Autumn 2006
Wednesday 1st November
It was at The Swan, some random Wednesday, several weeks ago. The Amateur Strip Show has already started by the time I worm my way, careful pint in hand, to my standard spot outside the toilets.
Sophie is hosting, or hostessing, or whatever, and about halfway through the identical baritone rendition of Sometimes When We Touch with which he starts every show.
I gave up waiting for comedic overtones on that number several years ago, and I've seen the frock before, so I'm not paying a lot of attention to the stage, settling myself instead into familiar territory, nonchalant against the fruit machine, scanning the crowd - which, though dense enough elsewhere, seems a trifle thin just where I'm standing.
And the reason soon becomes clear.
As Sophie takes the punters through the familiar routine ("I say, Good Evening, and you say, Hello Sophie You Goofy Old Cow, now let's try it again..."), I see that the two extra-extra-large guys standing somewhat apart from the rest are, this evening, extra-extra-drunk as well.
As one of them barges unsteadily past me on his way to the Ladies, it's easy to see that he's not only drunk, but upset about something too. His mate attempts to say hello to some other people, but that doesn't take, and by the time the first (weedy, wild-eyed, middle-aged) stripper is on stage the two big boys are reduced to muttering angrily amongst each other in the middle of an increasingly vacant hole in the crowd.
A third beefy bloke, somewhat more attractive, materialises somewhere nearby. Judging by the slanted glances Mr and Mrs Big are casting his way, he has something to do with their dissatisfaction. Any later, and any nearer the West End, you'd maybe suspect a drug-deal gone wrong, but this looks more domestic than that. An ex-boyfriend perhaps?
Something bigger than a spilt drink, that much is clear, because the really drunk, really big guy is now gesticulating over his mate's shoulder, while the rest of the crowd keep themselves busy pretending to concentrate on the second stripper (a Brazilian, or is it a Pole?) whilst straining to hear what's being said over the music.
The altercation fades at much the same time as the second contestant reveals his (minimal) assets, the object of the big boys' wrath melts back, unabashed, into the crowd, Sophie coaxes some reluctant applause and moves into her equally familiar second act, pleading for more contestants ("You, sir, in the wheelchair..?").
And someone steps forward, and it's the object of the big guys' ire, and now he's chatting to Sophie on stage ("Minnesota, you say? And is everything mini, you know, down there?"), and the beefy boys are pushing nearer the stage, with their empty glasses held high, and it all starts to get a bit interesting.
The music loudly starts, the competitor begins taking off his tee-shirt, the derisory shouts from one section of the audience go largely unheard.
Sophie stands by the side of the stage doing her best to pretend lewd interest (although, in truth, there are some people who really should keep their clothes on). She knows there's something kicking off, but she's ignoring it.
The looks that flit across her face as the first drunk big bloke looms towards her are a pantomime of social embarassment: feigned delight as she first sees him, stuck-jaw dismay when she discovers how drunk he is, head-tilted repugnance as he launches a tirade into her ear, fixed stare at the stage as she tries to imply she has work to do, and then a lot of concentrated nodding as she senses the impassioned speech, with much wild sideways gesturing, coming to an end.
Perfect timing, as it happens, because the Minnesotan is now naked.
"Stay there dear, stay there," says Sophie as she hoists herself, with as much dignity as a fourteen-stone man in a floor-length sequinned frock can muster, up onto the stage.
"Well that was very nice. Now where did you say you were from, dear? Minnesota, that's right. Mini-whatever.. And are you gay, dear? You are? You're here on holiday? Not quite familiar with our local customs yet though, are you dear? No?
"Because when you're having a piss in a gay pub, dear, in this country, in the toilet in a gay pub I should say, though Lord knows..
"When we're having a piss, and somebody leans over and says 'Nice cock!', what do we say? No, we don't tell him he's being rude, do we? Do we, audience?
"No. We say - altogether now, audience - we say 'Thank you very much!'"
And she turns to find the big bloke in the crowd, now grinning wildly, and mouths, "I don't think it's that nice."
The big blokes dematerialised a short while later; the man from Minnesota didn't win.
Tuesday 31st October
Canary Wharf, Summer 2006
Monday 30th October
This remark, thrown off in passing as part of an LRB review of a biography of John Donne (something of a hero), struck me with particular force:
That's the kind of thing nobody ever thinks to teach you at school - they can't, of course, because who's going to respect a teacher who admits the entire point is not to know?
......previous week
