Last night at the theatre I sat next to a woman (straggly blonde, crochet waistcoat,fringed skirt 1960’s reject) who put her heels up on the back of the seat in front of her and with her toes repeatedly tapped the grey curls of the bloke sat there.
It took him about a minute to turn around, I was amazazed by his forbearance. If a stranger placed her toenails on my scalp I would have sprung into action faster than that.
What a gent. He whispered “Would you mind?”
So she slid her feet down about eight inches and hooked them, monkey style, over the back of his seat.This meant that her big toes were pressing into his shoulder blades.
I waited for him to take off one of his shoes and bang it down on her feet in a frenzied resonse to her space invasion. He didn’t.
The play, True West at The Tricycle, couldn’t begin to compete with the toegate drama in the stalls.
Last night I went to the cinema to see ‘Before I Go to Sleep’ and was shocked by just what a bad fringe, bad coat loada hokum film it is.
I won’t do any spoilers; lets just say us cinema goers were spoilt with snort-fest moments. My favourite is when Nicole Kidman gets chased down a pier by a Doctor who is holding a hypodermic syringe aloft. And I’m guessing she was being paid per pout? Ker-ching.
The novel by SJ Watson, which I gobbled up,is a literary phenomenomenomenomena (that’s a huge phenomena) and shows that the power of a good book can usually smash a film, even when a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Brownie ice cream is factored in.
Ten minutes into Strictly and it was a case of Brucie who? It was only when he wasn’t there that I realised just how much he had slowed the show down.
I’ve dumped Claudess for Tessia to describe the lashes and lips combo of Tess and Claudia. I liked them last night even though Claudia seemed to be having an out of body experience and kept a too beady eye on the autocue.
And so the line up lined up:
Boiled egg head Gregg was obvs the booby prize for the female pros – and Aliona carried on like her puppy had died when she was paired with him. Doesn’t she know that the first rule of Strictly is that you carry on like you’ve won the euromillions when you’ve been paired with a fat, bald lech?
Jake Wood is aptly named for Strictly. And what a great skull he has for Halloween week. The first look at him in the group dance suggests he is an early contender for the 2014 Fiona Phillips Dance Like a Fridge Freezer Award. And gosh isn’t Jeanette fizzy. This could be explained by the fact that she is Alijash’s bedmate.
Wildlife bloke to dull to merit a sentence other than is Ola wasted on him?
Thom needs to stand up straight so we can get a good look at his navel and surrounds.
New dancer Joanne from Grimsby (Kevin’s sister) is small and mighty
Which brings us to Alison Hammond who is mighty smiley
Rachel Riley must be thrilled her Pasha got the short shorts wearing Caroline Flack
When Irish legs are dancing – I predict Jennifer and Tristan will be a good laff
Pixie and Trent – blonde bombshells of the world unite
Simon Webb says he’s there to win and is the 62nd sexiest man alive. Yawn.
Tim Wonacott will answer one of the great unsolved mysteries of the universe – how do you stop your glasses sliding off your nose when you sweat
Who is the Pilsbury Dough boy they called Scott Mills?
Mark Abitofallwright got Karen, Judy Murray is going to be ballsy and I’m liking Sunetra
How did Frankie get time off school to do Strictly?
Smokey Robinson and Dot Cotton – spot the difference?
And the group dance made the year’s wait worth it. The fear, the footfaults, the terrified smiles and having a poo faces – it was short but so sweet.
I’m back! Want to know where I’ve been? Google ‘Stevens Johnson syndrome’ – nuff said.
And so is Strictly this Sunday.
Thick and Thin will be the new presenters and I’m giving them a big chance. It’s great that Claudess* have got the primetime power, but only if they’re terrific.
*Is there enough jewel coloured satin in the entire world to keep that pair floor length frocked up for 12 weeks?
Poor Brucie. I never stopped laughing at his jokes. But that was because I never started laughing at his jokes. Now he can be grumpy on Saturday nights off the licence payer’s shilling.
The 2014 line up makes me feel like Mother Time. It wouldn’t get sponsorship from Sanatogen. The BBC’ll be recruiting toddlers from Play Schools next, sticking tots in sequinned babygros and teaching them to do ‘Head,Shoulders,Knees and Toes’ for the group dances.
And the wonderfulwonderful Dave Arch and his band will be fully defrosted and ready to cook by Sunday at 6pm.
Yippppppppppppppeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! See you On Monday to chew it all over.
It’s all India Knight’s fault.She recommended Lord and Berry’s eye kohl in her Sunday Times column and like the product lemming I am, I ordered it. She praised how deep black it is, and easy to apply.
It’s not in pencil form but comes in a lipstick case.
The other night I went to the theatre with a friend to see ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ being slaughtered by a cast of British hammers. When the end was thankfully nigh I reached into my bag found my lipstick and applied it in the dark.
The lights came up and my friend turned to me, raised her eyebrows and said “What the F**k?” I nodded and said “Totally” thinking she was referring to the stoopid interpretation of the play. Outside the theatre we air kissed and went our separate ways.
On the bus home I was thinking to myself that I must be looking mighty fine in the hair, face and clothes departments because I got a lot of looks, and second looks from my fellow passengers.
Mr Anna May was asleep when I got in so I made a cup of Horlicks watched Celebrity Big Brother for the first time and thought Kellie Maloney was Lorraine Kelly’s grandma. Then it was lights off downstairs and up to the bathroom to do the teeth and hair brushing and face wash routine.
I am still laughing at what I saw in the mirror. In the theatre I hadn’t applied my fuschia pink lippy, instead I had slathered my lips in creamy black kohl.
It’s that time of the decade – Mr Anna May needs a new pair of Sandals for our upcoming mini break in the Midlands. The ones he has been wearing for nine and a half years have splayed out like kippers.
He won’t shop for anything at all, so the way we roll is that he describes what it is he wants and I go get them for him – either online or in person.
What do you think was the man’s number one requirement for a pair of summer sandals ? Mine would be lightweight, or cool, or colourful, or stylish, or maybe strappy.
Mr Anna May wanted his sandals to be waterproof.
Do you see what I am dealing with?
If you have been wondering where I have got to over the past three weeks I can tell you – I have been everywhere. Well, in every London borough at least.
My daughter, hoping to buy her first home, used a spreadsheet to identify where it’s cheap in London and then hauled me along to do a recce in her chosen hotspots. My other job, other than riding shotgun, was to buy the coffee and muffins.
So after hundreds of miles driving, six parking tickets and nine congestion charge payments I am now in a position to tell you where is cheap to buy in London…….. Ready? Steady? Da Da Da…..NOWHERE.
In London and surrounds even the cheap flats aren’t, and other than learning that sad news we have discovered that this city is stuffed with fruitloops selling their properties.
There was a man who showed us around his poxy flat wearing only his boxers and holding a bottle of baby oil. There was a chap who french kissed his Siamese cat for our delectation and delight and a woman who got her chichuaua to pee on command into a milk saucepan.
We’ve been in bedrooms that reeked of rubber, kitchens where cockroaches where having a party on the gas hob and seen knock offs of Tracey Emins unmade bed everywhere from Enfield to Earlsfield.
The search goes on….
Wot a tennis week.
Tuesday I was super lucky to have a ticket for Wimbledon and, other than the great tennis, I enjoyed watching Katherine Jenkin’s make up. I think she must have put her face in a kiln and fired it because the woman sat in the royal box under the glaring sun for several hours and nothing – eyeshadow, liner, lipstick, blusher – shifted.
Kyrgios the 19 year old Australian wildcard rocked upon Centre Court with his pink headphones and sparkling earring and played at such a pace it was as though he only had the court for half an hour, like down the local park. It was so thrilling to see him boot Nadal’s very pretty ass out of the tournament that we clean forgot to eat our coconut mushrooms.
Wednesday Raonic stuffed poor Kyrgios, so I backed him as the overall winner.
And then 48 hours later Raonic walks out onto Centre Court to meet Roger Federer in the semis like he’s a Zombie with a tennis racquet. His 150mph serve deserted him and he played a baseline game so dull that all I could think about what was gel he uses to keep his Tin-Tin style hairdo in place. It didn’t move. I wasn’t moved, and judging by the lack of ooohs and aaaahs from the 15,000 people on Centre Court, they weren’t either.
I have booked my seat on Centre Sofa for Sunday and want Federer the ole bloke of tennis to win because he has two sets of twins. And my snack of choice will be cherries and Waitrose Almond Viennese biscuits.
And in more sports news: my family dog is currently holding hot ticket Brazil in our Family World Cup Sweepstake. We have all approached him offering either to buy him out, or buy a share in his team, but he is staying mutt on the subject.
Tis the season to be terrified. Moths are back.
Late last night I was in the bath reading when momentarily everything went dark and I thought the bulb in the ceiling light had blown. But no. A moth as big as your average chicken drumstick and with wings the size of a sheet of loo paper was circling overhead.
I abandoned the bath, and my kindle, my iphone, my moisturiser, my Revitalash (for making my eyeslashes longer, it works) – all that I hold dear at bedtime and galloped out of the room dripping wet and naked banging the door shut behind me.
This morning the moth dropped into the sink where my husband was stood shaving. He said he almost cut his throat in fright when he saw the size of it. Now he’s scared too, and all hope is lost.
Went to see ‘The Pajama Game’ at the Shaftesbury Theatre yesterday. I was so excited to go because I am a musicalaholic and the show got a lot of 5 star reviews in the national press.
My excitement vamooshed fast thanks to the flimsy story that took at least 40 minutes too long to tell. I spent most of the night wishing I was at home in my own pajamas in front of the telly.
Michael Xavier, who was a swoonalong as Captain Von Trapp in last year’s Sound of Music at the Regents Park Open Air Theatre, brought to mind a singing, dancing, snogging plank as Sid, the male lead.
And Joanna Riding the female love interest is gorgeous but hair, make up and costume did a sterling job of making her look like Popeye.
The rest of the cast, bar Gary Wilmot who did a lot of over energetic winking and grinning, seemed tired and ready for their own pajamas and cocoa.
They turned up, they sang, they danced, they jollied – but still I’d only give this thin story 3 out of 10. The show had more smarm than charm.