The Dead Can Dance...
Feb. 10th, 2008 11:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootas I proved after a long day show in which I got myself told off again for dropping microphones (I only do it on one producer's shows, because he makes me nervous by never shuttng up about it). I was stupifyingly tired, have been for weeks. But a friend's party called so after a dodgy risotto with chums we went off to a party/bowling alley/karaoke room thing with lots of music and we danced, or rather they danced and I hid behind a pillar doing the zombie shuffle.
I am used to moshers and goffs. I am not used to a world of shinypretties dancing like S Club 7 with uppers in their J2Os. Were the Aids Aware 80s responsible for a generation of yoof who never move their hips just in case? But they jump around which is always good in a kicky wholesome lose weight sort of way. And mostly everybody got very very drunk.
I never got to the bowling alley because, to quote the same producer I had antagonised that day, if I could do so much damage with a microphone, it was just bloody dangerous to let me loose with a bowling ball. I didn't care. Some fool or demon or just excellent chum bought me wine and sambuca and I bopped from here to eternity.
Then our beautiful and beloved hostess made us all slaves to a karaoke machine, which kept cutting out three quarters of the way through every song. We were all too far gone to individually sing. Instead we melded into a discordant carousal entity, and yodeled horribly alongside each other until we were all bunged into cars and taxis in the early hours.
I didn't want the night to end like this. I left the others as quickly as I could, just wanting to wander the streets. Nothing to it, I thought, down to Trafalgar Square and catch a night bus...the venue was near Russell Square and I wanted to walk down by the British Museum.
But no. Here comes the producer (show's over buddy, we're miles from the studio and streets away from the party) and he asks me what the hell I'm doing and am I crazy? Don't I know this is the middle of London? They tell me it's changed. I remember an old friend who lives across from the flat I had in London 4? 5? years ago... She told me the kids carry guns around there now. But still, even supposing nowhere is truly safe, middle of London, it's going to be drunks and pickpockets. For real trouble, you want rabbit warren housing estates and quiet little sidestreets. I had nothing worth stealing, except my cash and my bastard mobile phone, and frankly, the latter is so rubbish I ought to pay someone to take it off my hands. I told him this and he looked at me as though I was a maniac. He said it was dangerous.
I didn't argue because he was a)well meaning, b)sober and c)perfectly capable of folding me up and putting me in a car boot. So I enjoyed the hospitality of friends, even though my nostalgic heart wanted to see the old stomping ground. It was a wonderful night, but I can't help wondering, has everything really changed so much? London is a capital city and of course there's always been crime, but I still love the place, or the memory of the place. I don't know which is which really.
Now I am back in Manchester, living in a dressing gown. Today the bathroom door clicked and locked behind me. I was trapped in there untillarians came home over an hour later. He had to nearly break the door down to get me out. Now that's what I call dangerous.
I am used to moshers and goffs. I am not used to a world of shinypretties dancing like S Club 7 with uppers in their J2Os. Were the Aids Aware 80s responsible for a generation of yoof who never move their hips just in case? But they jump around which is always good in a kicky wholesome lose weight sort of way. And mostly everybody got very very drunk.
I never got to the bowling alley because, to quote the same producer I had antagonised that day, if I could do so much damage with a microphone, it was just bloody dangerous to let me loose with a bowling ball. I didn't care. Some fool or demon or just excellent chum bought me wine and sambuca and I bopped from here to eternity.
Then our beautiful and beloved hostess made us all slaves to a karaoke machine, which kept cutting out three quarters of the way through every song. We were all too far gone to individually sing. Instead we melded into a discordant carousal entity, and yodeled horribly alongside each other until we were all bunged into cars and taxis in the early hours.
I didn't want the night to end like this. I left the others as quickly as I could, just wanting to wander the streets. Nothing to it, I thought, down to Trafalgar Square and catch a night bus...the venue was near Russell Square and I wanted to walk down by the British Museum.
But no. Here comes the producer (show's over buddy, we're miles from the studio and streets away from the party) and he asks me what the hell I'm doing and am I crazy? Don't I know this is the middle of London? They tell me it's changed. I remember an old friend who lives across from the flat I had in London 4? 5? years ago... She told me the kids carry guns around there now. But still, even supposing nowhere is truly safe, middle of London, it's going to be drunks and pickpockets. For real trouble, you want rabbit warren housing estates and quiet little sidestreets. I had nothing worth stealing, except my cash and my bastard mobile phone, and frankly, the latter is so rubbish I ought to pay someone to take it off my hands. I told him this and he looked at me as though I was a maniac. He said it was dangerous.
I didn't argue because he was a)well meaning, b)sober and c)perfectly capable of folding me up and putting me in a car boot. So I enjoyed the hospitality of friends, even though my nostalgic heart wanted to see the old stomping ground. It was a wonderful night, but I can't help wondering, has everything really changed so much? London is a capital city and of course there's always been crime, but I still love the place, or the memory of the place. I don't know which is which really.
Now I am back in Manchester, living in a dressing gown. Today the bathroom door clicked and locked behind me. I was trapped in there until
larians came home over an hour later. He had to nearly break the door down to get me out. Now that's what I call dangerous.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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no subject
Date: 2008-02-11 12:16 pm (UTC)You dance, stumble, and boogie lightly through life with your feet barely touching the ground and your head in the blissful clouds of whichever sky the Boot inhabits when skipping down the fast lane of the M6, joyously unaware of the juggernauts, so entirely oblivious to the speeding chunks of metal swerving aside at the last minute that the illusion of utter freedom suffers not one jot not tittle. This is one of the reasons I love you.
There are others.
To defeat evil doors, invest in your own person freedom!
Also, Coffee?
For I am greatly desirous of catching up with a certain Boot, talking nonsense and flattering her outrageously until she is putty in my hands.
Putty I tell you! Mwaahahahahahahahhaha!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-11 04:58 pm (UTC)Coffee would be lovely. Putty? Let's get to marshmallow and not quibble about texture...
xxx
no subject
Date: 2008-02-11 05:09 pm (UTC)Oh Boot, you know me too well...
Darling Boot, I shall send you secret texty messages forthwith.
Well, for a certain value of secret.