Blag Lady has been away. Change has been happening. My life is now wheat, dairy, caffeine, bacon, sizzle fat and alcohol free. Once you crack the back of the great fermented prawn cocktail it ain’t so tough. Although bacon is divine. As is God. I saw some piglets this summer just two hours old. They live down the the lane from this swimming pool (as pictured). The sows roll around in mud and the piglets scud about in little gangs snuffling. Oink. How I miss my happypig-bacon.
On the subjects of alcohol and divinity. Nothing could have been more timely than the final instalment of the Divine David’s ‘Magazine’ at the Vauxhall Tavern. 10 shows in 10 weeks. Each cabaret/comedy/communion is themed. I saw one, the last one: ‘Alcoholism’. I wish I had seen them all. As the crowd burgeoned and swilled (including the uptight arsehole who sat next to us in a raincoat clutching his copy of the new Naomi Klein which he even had the faux-audacity to read during the show despite having fought tooth and fingernail for his silly little seat) David pushed on with the white wine and the interview with a Mr Dick Douglas a 70-year old AA mentor: who had lived rough on the streets as a tramp for fifty years and, unlike most of his generation, sobered up and lived to tell the tale. He was Irish, left home to work when he was 12 and had suffered the worst the hellfare state had to offer. It was a tough switch from camp uproar to challenging confrontation with the corrosive truth, that required a little wit and guile from the audience. At first they responded well, and were sympathetic and attentive, but then it all went a bit Pete Tong when one ex/non/sub-alcoholic upped the ante from the ‘laugh/sympathy’ emotional range and suggested in the Q&A – respectfully – that he believed ‘AA creates alcoholics’. The audience didn’t hesitate and shifted stick to spit and bile: ‘You’re a cunt’, someone screamed. ‘You’re not even gay’ was also lobbed into the crowd like a beer bottle. Thankfully the Divine One cut the rope hanging from the tree and told the lynch mob to shape up or ship off. Dick was unphased. For the grand finale TDD was joined by Stuart (hotrockchickonguitar) …a ‘live’ painting which included the slogan ‘be yourself but don’t be a cunt’ (take note arsehole in raincoat). The Guardian say he is ‘quite the scariest, funniest, smartest, truest, noblest thing you can see’. Time Out declare him ‘a genius’. Blag Lady plumps for ‘divine’.
There was a starfish, a zillion Star/yucks but no coffee not even decaff at Prince, who donned his raspberry beret at the O2 Centre. I should add here that Blag Lady has a new job as a brand new brand lady supremo. ZedBed and I arrived at said auditoria -my inaugural trip to the Millennium Dome – where the corporate branding is such you could be walking into a hybrid screening of Metropolis plus Blade Runner crossed with Neighbours. ‘So, who owns this place now?’ La Blag enquired. ‘Vodaphone?’
So, bacon, alcohol, caffeine. I have nothing to report on wheat. Thus I’ll veer off-topic: I also met the very very Shane Solanki at a read-through for a multi-authored performance piece exec produced by Don Letts on slavery for the bicentenary of abolition celebrations that Malika-Buddy is in. Shane is great and I will link to his lovely blog Last Mango in Paris.
Blag Lady also ‘discovered’ Liverpool this summer on a trip to see some of Dr Blog’s folks. It was the most CULTURAL weekend I’ve had in ages. (There! I knew I’d get dairy in somehow.) Yoghurt aside, LooLoo bought me a vast block of parmesan for my birthday on her trip to Rome. I said it was a karmic incident relating to the time I bought her 200 Mayfair back from Crete the week after she gave up smoking.
Finally, what’s all this got to do with a nice house and a pool. Nothing, except for the fact that I’d like one.
