I ain't no Bridget Jones...

my own, true, spooky story...

My exchange student friend from Virginia brought it over. They're not sold here because they're considered black magic, but in America you can buy Ouija boards in Toys R Us, made by Parker Brothers with 'AGE 8 AND UPWARDS' on the box. As if the kid's new hobby is contacting the dead in their bedroom when they could be rolling spliffs and setting fire to bicycles. Anyway, once we started messing we couldn't stop and it was weird, because only my friend Kelly and I seemed to be able to contact anyone. But my fingers on the planchette went cold, and the cat ran out of the room, and we started getting whole sentences from various "spirits", some of whom had proper personalities that we could feel. There was one kid, would only call himself 'X', who couldn't really spell. He'd tease us, telling us his hair was blue, but he kept spelling out the word WATER. We reckon he'd drowned at a really young age.

Of all the spirits we contacted that summer, Kelly and I were most caught up in the life and death of a certain Edward Beck, who'd visit us every night in the summer house and spell out reams of information on the family he'd left behind in Arizona. He was 84, with a wife called Mary, and a son Gary who was missing him a lot. He'd tell us his favourite drink was beer and used to laugh with us by moving the planchette from H to A really quickly. We spent hours with Edward, we even found proof he'd existed on the Internet by going into the records for Arizona, but then I started to have weird dreams.

A black man started following me. Not in a weird way, but you know in dreams when people are just there, hanging out for no reason, sometimes people you've never even met? He was just there, all the time. One night he sat down next to me on a bench in a chocolate factory (random!) and I was stuffing sweets into my mouth. I told him I felt sick, and he just smiled at me.

The next day, Kelly and I were on the Ouija Board and Edward came through, and spelt out "FEELING BETTER BECKY, YOU SHOULDNT HAVE EATEN ALL THAT CANDY"  I freaked out, I hadn't told Kelly about my random dream, and yet I knew I wasn't pushing the planchette. There was no way she was pushing it either, not when he'd picked up on something only I could know. I asked him what he looked like, and he spelt out "PIGMENT ENHANCED". And we realised for the first time that Edward was a black man, and that he'd been coming into my dreams.

I'm not making it up. I think about it a lot, but I guess sometimes there are some things that are best left alone. Maybe we're not supposed to know what else is out there, and rather than let the questions drive us crazy, we should just wait our turn? I asked Edward there and then to leave me alone and sure enough he never contacted us again. But I know what I saw, and I know what I dreamed was real. And that's all the proof I need for now.

it's all hallow's eve...

There’s no other day of the year you can nod and smile at a band of witches by the cash machine, or say excuse me to a pirate at the bus stop, or ask a man in 5 inch heels and a pink wig what time it is as you settle down next to Spongebob Squarepants on the tube. 

I’ve loved Halloween since I was a kid and my mum sent me and the brother out dressed in bin-liners and shaking a yogurt pot full of 2p coins. We weren’t exactly in an affluent area. In fact, I distinctly remember getting a bollocking when we got back because we’d “gone too far beyond the garage where the hit and run’s occur”, but I used to look at the images on TV, of those huge American houses with their beaming Jack-o-lanterns sitting on the steps, and the inflatable Satans in the gardens, grinning manically from behind white picket fences... and I used to think “Wow, Halloween is AWESOME!”. Even though my brother and I only scored 26p and half a Kit Kat.

Anyway, the last time I left the house dressed a fictional storybook character was in 2003 as I skipped through Brooklyn in my Little Red Riding Hood costume. That was the night none of my friends wanted to join me, (too ruined from the night before), and I was forced to head to a party alone. I was still exhilarated from my first Halloween in America – the America I’d seen on screen – the one with the grinning pumpkins, blow-up creatures from the underworld and real cars wrapped in toilet paper. I arrived at the party and befriended a whole load of weirdo’s just like me, and ended up back at my boyfriend’s (who organised it) where he almost broke his leg in the kitchen after tripping over a little spillage that may, or may not have been my fault. (hiccup).

So ruined was I after two nights of spooky celebrations that I had to answer the door to the paramedics at 5am looking like the Riding Hood who’d already been eaten, and regurgitated. Not a pretty sight. But that was America. That was a real Halloween. That was as good as it got. Until this year.

I knew it was gonna be a good night when on Friday, we were forced to steal a shopping trolley in order to carry all the alcohol “persistent but probably unsuitable boy” had bought for his party. In broad daylight. By the time we made it back to his pad with the karaoke machine, we were well and truly ready for a drink. I’m not entirely sure how I was roped into helping.  All I can say is that “persistent but probably unsuitable boy” and I have at last surpassed the cyber-slating incident and taken a few tentative steps on surprisingly common ground. It appears we’ve reached the friendship zone, which is probably a good thing, because while it’s good to keep your friends close, it’s best to keep your enemies closer.

When he put his clown mask on I remembered why I hated him, but that’s another story.

Anyway, it got a bit boring waiting for the others to arrive, so once I’d donned my lucky Riding Hood ensemble we set about terrorising the locals in the pub downstairs, and even ran on a spontaneous screaming spree through Sainsbury’s.  Of course, no one batted an eyelid. This is Herne Hill after all. It doesn’t exactly have to be Halloween for you to feel as though you’re living the ‘Night of the Living Dead’. In slow motion.  The only thing we heard as Pennywise chased Red was “No running in the aisles please.” Losers.

The karaoke began, the drinks flowed, there was an improvised orgy on “unsuitable’s” bed involving three ladies in fishnets, and I woke up in what can only be described as some sort of Halfords store. And I couldn’t find my socks.  Another excellent Halloween, and it wasn't even the real Halloween. That's today!

As my friend Grisha and I scraped ourselves together I realised I was supposed to be spending the day wine-tasting with mum in Islington, and my liver sang a song of sorrow as I stumbled into Brixton and ate a McMuffin to take the pain away. I got through it somehow – a whole day surrounded by cackling vintage. And it was fun. Once I was drunk again. Oh liver,… you can do it, I KNOW YOU CAN!  You’d better hold out for the party tonight.

Although the party spirit surrounding Halloween in the UK has never quite matched that of America, I’m starting to think it could be catching up. And I definitely got more than 26p and half a kit kat this year. 

I got some Jaffa Cakes.

wow, this is very weird...

I always had a thing about songs playing backwards. It's freaked me out ever since I watched Ghostwatch when I was about 10 and Michael Parkinson and Sarah Green started chanting stuff like kids nursary rhymes and all that...

Well anyway,... JUST LISTEN TO THIS. Turn the sound up and concentrate really hard. It freaked me out!

a little of the land down under...

Do you ever have those days, or periods in your life, where on one side, so much is happening all at once, and on the other, everything seems to be standing still?  I think I'm going through one of those phases right now. You know, I'm not really sure if I'm coming or going!  Yesterday I booked our flights to Sydney, which I'm sooooo excited about. Me, my bro and the parental units are travelling from Oz and across New Zealand for the entire month of February, and today I counted it as 99 days before take-off. Woo hoo!! Feels like a world away but for some reason it's kind of made the world I'm in right now stand still. 

I mean, I always wanted to go Down Under. Some of the best friends I've made over the past few years are from Oz and NZ and way back in 1999 at Camp Kweebec I met a guy called Matt who told me he would wait until I moved to Melbourne and then he'd marry me. I remember thinking "WOW, Oz men are so hot!", but then of course he got a girlfriend and I moved back to the drizzle with the same boyfriend I'd had for two years and never really gave it much thought. Until I met Pip, my crazy friend from Brisbane, who answered my ad for a flatmate in Loot, moved into our dodgy rent-a-dump in Kentish Town and turned my world upseide down. I never met such a party girl, but she was so cool she convinced me I should move back to NYC. So I did. And it didn't work out. And now she's in Brisbane. London was never as fun after Pip left.

Then of course, there was Pam, and Susie's boyfriend Tim, and my old boss Verity and another old employer Jonno,... and the Ozzie's and Kiwis kept coming and leaving while I just thought,... "maybe one day. Maybe one day..." 

After visiting an Expo the other week on migrating to New Zealand I started to wonder whether the itch that's cursed my feet ever since I first left Uni was never really itching for America at all... but maybe something else entirely.  Somewhere less crazy, where the sun shines most days and the  temperatures soar. Where most people are friendly and cool and the boys wear shorts and grow their hair all scruffy, and men and women my age don't cram themselves on tubes and grow bitter at the world at large - they work to play and don't just live to work.  Maybe I wanna be somewhere with houses near beaches, where all the rooms have views and all the views have so much room that it's hard to believe you squeezed yourself inside a city so small, for so long.

Maybe that's always been my dream, and Manhattan was just another cloud in the smog-filled sky I couldn't see through. I just never really knew it before...

Do you ever just wonder?

a day of bleuuurrrgh...

Woke up at 8.45 this morning to the sounds of Zoe's flatmate making her lunch, inconsiderately bashing a knife against a plate at high volume. Did she not know I was sleeping??? And then it registered that I was actually on Zoe's sofa, with one dead leg, the other hanging off, wearing an oversized purple t-shirt. PURPLE!!! Ugh. I knew it was gonna be a bad day. 

We went out at 2pm yesterday in the pouring rain to do a restaurant review, during which we ate an incredible roast dinner and consumed far too much wine for a Sunday. Ended up leaving in a most un-glamorous fashion at 11pm with a long haired lothario called Steve and his "big-boned" sidekick, who'd previously bought us both tequila to go with the white wine we'd been drinking for hours. God knows what happened to them after we got in a cab, but I did get a random text that said "You gotta love those juices..."

Odd.

When I couldn't find my contacts I rememberd us carefully laying them out in two tea-cups at 2am, but when I located them in the kitchen I couldn't remember which was the left and which was the right, so my vision was slightly off till I got to work and took them out. Had to throw them away in the end as they dried out, (tut) and I don't have my glasses with me either, so all day I've been squinting into this bloody screen,... aaargh. Worst day ever. *sniff*

I'm supposed to be going to the theatre tonight, but as I can't see it would be pretty pointless, so I gave my tickets to Lucy, who's probably going to take her hot new boyfriend while I go home and do more laundry. I can't even go online coz our rubbish Internet provider went on the blink and they can't send the little man out till Wednesday. Arse. Oh and to top it off, I'm skint till Thursday and I have a big spot forming on my chin. Perfect.

I love Mondays.

how Wicked is this...

Today I got my very first quote published from one of my theatre reviews. Woo hooo!  It's on the official Wicked website, ABOVE the Daily Telegraph's quote. I'm so excited. If it's taken 18 months of working here for that, how long before I get a tube poster? Hit the pic below to enlarge it, or click here for the actual review page. If you scroll to the bottom and then up a few, you'll see mine. They even included a link to my actual Wicked review! WICKED.

 

Dirty Dancing - worth the wait?

Cheesier than a cauldron full of four-cheese fondue, if you loved the movie, (I mean really loved the movie), you’ll soak it up like a fresh, crusty baguette from Sainsburys.  It’s the film, basically, word for word, scene by scene, unravelling before your Hungry Eyes and spinning with it some of the hottest, leanest, fittest bodies you’ve ever seen. The skin-tight leotard modelled by the troubled Penny is enough to make a girl weep into her bucket of chicken and wonder where she’s going wrong. 

All the best bits are there and as the fans explode in fits of giggles at the scenes that probably once made them cry with pre-teen, hormonal lusting, it’s apparent that no matter how corny the dialogue, how cheesy the tunes, Dirty Dancing is a legend.

Set in Catskills holiday camp, Kellermans, we follow ordinary girl Baby as she becomes entwined with the entertainment staff, after carrying that infamous watermelon.  (We always knew fruit was good for us). Losing her virginity and finding a hunky, funky first love was never part of her plan (yeah, right), but she can hardly refuse swaggering, sexy Johnny, when he teaches her to dance in ways that would make her beloved daddy weep. There are sub-plots galore but let’s face it, all us ladies care about is seeing Johnny with his top off.

There’s a surprising lack of celebrity presence, considering how many fans would (and probably did) pay through the roof for tickets. But the show has sold on its name alone, with forums and chatrooms buzzing in anticipation months before the London show had even been cast.  It seemed that whoever was set to star, the audience would flock for the flashbacks alone; for those moments jumping on the sofa, clutching a hairbrush and singing along, wearing leggings, the first time they were cool.  They seem to have gone for an almost mirror image of Jennifer Grey’s Baby, played by a wholesome Georgina Rich and complete with appalling perm.  She even sounds like Baby, which is weird.

Former ballet dancer Josef Brown – he of “body to make grown women quiver” throws himself into the role of Johnny.  And although his questionable American accent oozes desperate, earnest pantomime cheese, no one gives a crap when he ditches the shirt and thrusts his groin at the audience in the glare of a perfectly placed spotlight. Come to mummy.

It's pretty hard not to laugh when the log lowers in from the left, right down in front of a projected lake. Well, how else were they supposed to do “that scene?”  The part where Baby and Jonny practice dancing away from camp is actually really cute and they get through the field and water scenes using similar projections, clever lighting and some smoke. You’ll have to see it to understand!  Also, look out for the pause before Baby pleads “Jonny” - a moment which sends the audience into hysterics, just because the same line in the movie is so utterly cringe-worthy.

No matter what the press hounds think when they get their grubby paws on tickets, sales for Dirty Dancing have already exceeded £6 million, making it the biggest box office advance for any show in West End history. The guy next to me said it all when he turned and announced – “There was a ticket tout outside, selling two for £50 each. You know you’ve got a hit on your hands when you see a tout at a preview.” It’s true. Dirty Dancing opens its doors to the public one month after word’s already spread about preview performances and still, it’s the hottest ticket in town. 

Yes it’s cheesy, yes, most blokes will hate it, (go with your girls, ladies), and yes, it’s taken a god-awful 80s movie and made an even more puke-inducing show out of it.  But for some strange reason, you’ll still have the time of your life.

another addition to Satan's garden...

I had to fork out 70 QUID for the dentists yesterday because I chipped a bloody tooth on an apple. Yes, an apple.  Of all the bottles I open with my teeth, the lollies I suck, the steak I chew (when I can afford more than Tesco Basic "made from floor sweepings" Mince), it's nature's toothbrush that strikes the final blow and RUINS MY FACE.

Apples are evil.  Not quite as evil as coriander, although coriander never forced me to pay out quite such hefty dues. Seriously, now when I eat an apple I have to cut it into mini slices so it doesn't hurt me. And because I'm skint and apples are free here, I was forced to scrounge the last one from the fruit bowl. At least I got to attack it with a knife.

I ate each slice slowly, carefully, alongside my bagel. Oh, I'm pretty impressed with my lunch-on-a-budget this week actually. I bought 4 bagels for £1.05, a tub of basic cheese spread (basically lard) for 34p and a pack of basic ham (reformed pig intestines) for 86p. So for less than £2.50 I got lunch for a week, for the price you pay for one filled bagel in EAT. Bonus. Granted I don't know what I'm eating, and the apples are from Satan's Garden but still...

OK,.. so now it's like 4 hours till Dirty Dancing... woooo hoooo, bring it on!

when good dates go bad...

I've decided not to see "hot guitarist" anymore. This is because of a few reasons really:

1) I took him to a restaurant launch on Thursday with Koulla and her friend Alks and whilst the cocktails flowed, the music pumped and people chatted with gay abandon, "hot guitarist" sat sullenly in the corner in silence, chewing on a meat stick. Fair enough, he didn't know anyone, but neither did I. And in those situations I really think I need someone I don't have to babysit.

2) He borrowed my biggest jumper when we last hung out and was reluctant to give it back, which either means he'd done something dodgy to it, or he reeeeally loved it, which is equally worrying as it's at least three sizes too small for him and makes him look like a 12 year old car bomber.

3) When we departed after the restaurant launch he almost turned the other way without kissing me goodbye. NO ONE DOES THAT. This is London - you kiss everyone goodbye. EVERYONE. I kiss girls, guys, randoms on the tube,.. hell, you gotta show affection in this cold, soul-destroying city, else we're all doomed, right? But he was about to leave it with a simple nod and wave which not only means he doesn't like me, it probably means he doesn't like anyone. I like more sociable beings, personally.

4) After I grabbed him and planted a smacker on his cheek, I said "Call me on Sunday, we can go to the cinema?" I said this because after his display of meat-chewing boringness I decided that the perfect 4th date would be to place him beside me in the darkness, somewhere I wouldn't have talk to him, where I could watch a film I liked and not look like a billy-no-mates.  And he said, "Yeah, great, that would be cool."  Well of course, Sunday rolled around and I went to the cinema to see The Devil Wears Prada with Sarah and got no phonecall. Not that I even remembered he was meant to be phoning until 8pm when I was chatting to Lucy about our flailing love lives. Hmmmm. By then we had reached the conclusion that he was probably not my type, so I wasn't actually bothered, but now I am of course, because,... well,... what if I had liked him??? How dare he not like me?

5) On Monday he sent me an MSN message to say "Hi, how was your weekend?"  So I thought, aaaw, maybe he does like me. YESSSSS. So I said "great thanks, how was yours?", thinking that any minute he would say the obligatory "sorry I didn't call, I was really busy doing hot musician stuff, you know what it's like," but nope. Nothing, nada. He sent me a nudge after he wrote something boring like "I went for dinner with my dad", so I wrote "Nice," and then AN HOUR LATER he wrote "Ha ha".
HA HA?  Ummmm,...sorry, but what was funny?  Definitely not the hour's worth of witty banter that passed between us and made me fall ever more in love with your interesting soul. In fact, I was so bored I forgot you were there.

YAWN. So anyway, I have a date on Thursday with a South African guy who is taking me for Sushi, and he sounds interesting. He called me up and we chatted randomness for 20 minutes. Yay to randomness!  It's a shame that me and "hot guitarist" didn't work out but to be honest, he did wear a tank top on one date and the one time he picked up my guitar he didn't even sing!  What kind of a musician was he anyway? Hmph.

I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your... um...

All girls know that Halloween really isn't about covering yourself in gross fake blood and scaring the shit out of people anymore. It's about how to look hot. For girls, this is the one time of year when we can dress like a total tart and get away with it.

Work Colleague: "Why are you carrying a duster with your arse hanging out below your skirt?"
Employee: "I'm a French maid you naughtY, dirty little man. Give me a payrise or I'll dust your unmentionables in front of the accounts team."

There's been a lot of talk today about the impending lastminute.com Halloween Party, (in aid of Help a London child) which is taking place in The Old Monk on Tuesday 31st. Er,... Halloween, conveniently. Come come come! It'll be awesome.  And everyone's invited.  But as I'm going as Little Red Riding Hood - a costume I bought in NYC two years ago and haven't worn since - I desperately need someone to be my wolf. I'm trying to convince Tim as he's quite hairy, (snigger) but he thinks it's "too much effort". TOO MUCH EFFORT?  Stick a mask and a fur coat on boy, then get huffing...

Seriously, girls think long and hard about these things. And most boys just wait til the day and go to the pound shop to buy whatever shit they can find to make their existing outfit more cheery. The girls and I are all very excited, but so far in boy-ville only Andy has made an effort with his puke-inducing Pennywise costume. I have told him I'm not going near him if he dresses like a clown. Ever since one tried to make me enter the ring at Alan's Travelling Circus when I was little, I've hated anything in a mask that squirts water. And even though I know Andy will only be squirting beer, once he's drunk, I'm still very, very, very, VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY frightened. (Gulp). I mean, look at it!

I take it back boys. Why make an effort anyway. What's so wrong with a wizard?