I ain't no Bridget Jones...

Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks...

Lying on my floor, bundled up in quilts, sipping from an extra value bottle of fake Martini, my eighteen year old eyes scanned the screen and my heart missed a beat as Billy Zane stole the scene in Titanic. His floppy brown barnet… his dark, piercing eyes… that mean, chiselled jaw just begging to be grabbed as Celine hit the high notes of that heart-wrenching theme and Cal surrendered Rose to the arms of her true love, Jack.  It was all too much for my hormones. As that ship sank, so too did my heart, in the knowledge that such a treasure could never be mine.

That was a while ago now, but it all came flooding back when I heard my first love was hitting the London stage in a new play. Could it be that the hands of fate had, at last, delivered us both to exactly the same room?  As I took my seat in the Theatre Royal Haymarket last night, I remained the cool, calm, (if badly in need of a haircut and nicer shoes) representation of my company. But on the inside I was screaming his name. “Billlleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Shame that when he swaggered in, he was gay.  Well, a gay character. We all know that in reality this heartthrob has signed himself off to fat, ugly, unsuccessful Kelly Brook, (oh whatever, it makes me feel better) so I wasn’t expecting such a homosexual sashay. But in an instant, he had totally stolen the stage, just as he steals the screen in his movies. Just as he stole my teenage heart. Charm, confidence and pure American sex appeal oozes from every pore as Zane makes this troubled, solicitous, yet playful character his own.

Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks has just two characters - Zane and Claire Bloom, best known for various roles in British television and theatre. There’s just one set too, the somewhat Ikea-in-style Floridian living room of Bloom’s character, Lily - a minister’s wife with more than a few secrets bottled up inside. The lonely retiree hires a dance instructor, (Zane) who we soon learn is not entirely necessary.  But as the unlikely couple spar and bicker through the tango, foxtrot, cha cha and waltz, a friendship forms that although unacknowledged with words, is silently cherished by both.

The script, by Richard Alfieri, is full of fabulous one-liners that take your emotions on a rollercoaster of ups and downs.  Just when you want to dislike Bloom for lashing out at the (albeit) insensitive Michael, the roles are reversed and we see each person in a brand new light as another aspect of their past is revealed.  Lines such as “He had the kind of lips you just wanted to kiss, or to keep on talking - anything to stay connected to, you know”, are delivered by Zane with such passion, intensity and honesty that they catch in his throat and it’s hard to believe he’s not drawing it all from a real, personal experience.  Quips such as “Only my ass can hear you now” as he struts towards the door get you laughing out loud and the vulnerable Lily is conveyed by Bloom as the kind of huggable grandparent we all want to become as we dance through our winter years without regret.

The only downfalls of this wicked play are Claire Bloom’s inconsistency in remaining a retiree from South Carolina – she spent most of the production sounding like an upper-class Brit, before apparently remembering she was supposed to have an accent - and the excessively long scene changes. At times an entire song was played between acts. Perhaps the idea was to portray the transcendence of the characters’ thoughts and feelings towards each other after every song and dance, but the stage hands moving about against a ‘sunset’ in a giant window really just comes off as clumsy and as a result, the audience grew fidgety. For a play in which only minor props are moved around the same set, this seemed an unnecessary hindrance in what was otherwise a very smooth production.

All in all, it’s Zane who steals the show. In spite of equal stage time its impossible to imagine the play with another man in the lead, although we could perhaps replace Bloom without losing any of its magnetism. Still, we defy you not to shed a tear as the couple take their final dance to God Only Knows, by the Beach Boys – their unlikely friendship firmly cemented by the events of their brief encounter. 

It’s true that whilst Billy might not have the full head of hair, availability factor, or sparkling assets aplenty that my eighteen year old imagination allowed him, he’s sure as hell gonna sell some theatre tickets.

SHAMEFUL PLUG ALERT:

Get your tickets for Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks here

totally inZANE...

Last night I saw the show 6 Dance Lessons in 6 Weeks and I have to say, I wasn't expecting it to be so bloody GOOD. And I really wasn't expecting to fall in love all over again with BILLY ZANE. I mean, true... I sat for a minimum nine hours on my uni halls of residence floor when I was 18, watching Titanic on loop. He played the mean man Cal who tried to come between Jack and Rose. I remember thinking he was fit, and that was when HE HAD HAIR!!!

Man, Kelly Brook is a lucky bitch - even though they're clearly minted but still getting married in an English pub. Not sure I would have stood for that when they can eff off to Fiji for a month of frolics whenever they damn well like, but then again, I guess she doesn't give a crap, coz she's scored the biggest prize in Hollywood.  I WANT TO BE HER!!!

Aaaaah, he may be suffering premature hair loss but with a smile like that, he can board my sinking ship any day.

the best laid plans...

I have to admit, my "not drinking" thing isn't really going very well. I haven't actually been DRUNK since my birthday, but I have had the odd alcoholic beverage to ease the pain of a very stressful week. Aaaaah, shite, I know, I know,... what a lame-ass attempt that was. I didn't even last a week.  But you know what... I have come to the conclusion that it's pretty much impossible for a twenty-something career woman in London to be tee-total. Especially in the "media industry". I mean, what with Christmas approaching and the aquirement of a new boyfriend, and all these free things I have been forced to blag because I'm simply not being paid enough to live the lifestyle I desire, I just can't resist the temptation of such alluring, soul-soothing nectar, ESPECIALLY when most of the time, it's free.

Anyway,... because I know those silly lines aren't enough to justify my actions, I have compiled a very detailed list of why exactly I have fallen off the wagon and back into the clutches of drinking:

1) PERIOD. If you're female, you know what I mean. Take Tuesday for example. I woke up after quite a reasonable, happy Monday and had to struggle to see my bedroom ceiling through the thick cloud of inexplicable depression that hovered right above my head. After just five minutes of  existence in the realms of consciousness - my lower half aching with the wounds of general womanhood - I was battling with the usual monthly bout of questions, such as "WHY ME?" "WHY DID I HAVE TO WAKE UP?" "WHY IS EVERYTHING SO FCUKING SHIT?" "WHY AM I SO POOR AND WHERE THE FCUK IS ALL THE FCUKING LOO ROLL, AGAIN??"  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGHHHH" It's not even 10am and I'm needing to numb the pain...

2) THE TUBE. Having struggled down the street in my new ill-fitting but very cool black boots (which were only a tenner so they're worth it), I reached the tube, only to discover there was A VERY INCONVENIENT FIRE in the station. I mean,... come the FCUK ON. I need to get to work and there's A VERY INCONVENIENT FIRE in my 'already totally longwinded and practically unbearable' path.

A couple of days later I queued for 20 minutes with Andy to get a travel card, enduring shoves from people pushing through the middle of the line, only to be told he couldn't have one, because he needs an Oyster Card. Even though his nearest station doesn't accept Oyster Cards. Or have an Oyster Card swipe machine. WTF??? So we waited for the bus for another 20 minutes, only to learn the number 24 was on strike. ON STRIKE!  Perhaps the driver didn't have an Oyster Card and just couldn't get to work?  (sigh) So we walked to Victoria and waited ANOTHER 15 minutes to get ANOTHER ticket and wound up an hour late for a restaurant review, which consequently was mediocre, but they gave us wine. And it was free. (Are you getting my point?)

3) WORK.  Now, I like my job, but sometimes I want to feel as though I am actually doing it to fund the enjoyment of my precious life, rather than line the pockets of a company that's already totally minted. Therefore, on days (like today) when I actually had to dodge the barriers at the tube via a careful "non-laser-breaking strategy" as devised by Andy, involving his King Kong satchel and clever slight-of-hand, simply because HSBC told me FCUK OFF again, (in flashing lights), I feel a little used and abused. Soooooooooooooo, when I'm invited out for a free lunch because my colleagues can't bear to see me eat my last Chicken Fajita flavoured Pot Noodle, I'm damn well gonna order something expensive, AND A BOTTLE OF WINE....

I could go on, but really, it's getting late and I need a drink. Perhaps when I go to New Zealand in February I will lay off the booze, because I really do think that Londoner's drink to mend their broken souls. It's one bloody thing after another here and I'm not just making it up!!!

don't drink and drive this Xmas...

EX-HASPERATING...

Well, it's one of those nights where I'm supposed to be working but I'm actually staring at my screen, not really seeing anything, having one of those "thinking" moments. You know the ones,... they come around every few weeks, months, years, whatever,... I dunno, maybe it's because I sat up talking till 3am about life, love and dreams and I'm actually half asleep.  Maybe it's because I'm 27 now? Do people think a lot more when they get old?  Hahaha!! Well, you know what I mean.

I was just looking round myspace, thanks to Andy who's set me up with a really awesome page - it's even got a Scorpio background, WOO HOOOOOO, and,... um,... well, then something horrid happened. I stumbled upon the ex's profile, only to discover this girl with long, dark hair, who looks a bit like me but more Americanised, is all over it. She's pretty... I think prettier than me. And she's littered his page with comments like "Baby, we scored that night", and "baby, I think I'm the luckiest girl alive". And on his page... on HIS page... on the page of the boy who would never commit, the boy who told me he loved me only AFTER I left the country, never to return, is the confirmation I dreaded my whole life. Well,... since I met him and left him with my heart in NYC. On his status window read the words 'In a Relationship.'

Of course, my heart stopped, then started pounding. I felt sick. A hundred butterflies surged through my stomach and almost brought back up the pathetic oven chip dinner I had to cook myself to stop my insides eating themselves. His stupid voice rang out through my ibook speakers because of course, he loves himself so much that his myspace song is one of his own - dreary and monotonous, as usual. I clicked her profile, needing to know all about her. Is she funnier than me, is she cleverer than me, can she sing, can she dance, is she heiress to a chocolate company and a small island in the Philappines??? WHO IS SHE??  But the cow has got her profile available only to friends. (As if she has any. Hmph).

I know I shouldn't have cared. I really shouldn't. But what is it about ex boyfriends that stays with you? What is it that survives, long after you think you're over it, way past the point when you thought you were happy? What is it about the one you once loved that flies away, only to buzz right back into the hole you never realised was perhaps, still, if only partially open, and torments you as you fight to tell your brain you're not bothered?

I know I learned a lot from that relationship. How to walk away being the main lesson. I've always thought the hardest thing about falling in love was letting yourself go, giving yourself to another person, laying it all on the line. I did all of that for him. And he never gave any of it back. He never even changed his myspace profile status for ME!! And in this day and age, I think we all know that changing your myspace profile from single to 'in a relationship' is the quencher. It's an announcement to the world. It's a testament to the fact that you're proud, a part of something good, and not alone. It is, in essence, A PRETTY BIG DEAL. 

Still, I suppose it's nice to know that he's happy. Even if it's not with me. Not that I miss him. I know he was wrong. WRONG WRONG WRONG. And a Libra for a start. And totally self-obsessed,... and he wore checked shirts. Oh who am I kidding, he was gorgeous. (In spite of the shirts). I wanted him. Forever at the time. And I wanted him to want me. Maybe the lesson he had to teach me is that you can't always get what you want. And even when you do, there's no guarantee you can keep it.

Man,... it's way late to be getting into this deep and meaningful stuff with you, blog. What a ranter I am lately, I swear it's my age! haha! It's just that sometimes you can't help but look back on all the things, and the people who had a little part in making you who you are. I guard my heart a little more carefully now. I keep my mouth shut when it used to go ranting. I spill my soul only to you, my blog, and the rest of myself is a secret (even though I clearly don't know what that is). Error.

Yeah....seeing his happiness is hard you know, but not because I'm not happy. Not because I don't have a nice guy who doesn't wear checked shirts, and nice friends and a nice myspace song and Scorpio profile. Nope. It's just because it reminds me of how UN-happy he made me, and how stupid I was to let such boy-inflicted misery consume me when really I should have just turned on my heel, accepted the fact that he wasn't the one for me, and run for the hills.  Ooh it's like that cheesy song by wasserface, that girl on the piano...

"If it's not what you're made of, you're not what I'm looking for,
You were willing but unable to give me any more,
There's no way you're changing, some things will just never be mine
You're not in love this time. But it's alright."

Yup,... where were those pearls of wisdom when I needed 'em huh?  You live and learn I guess. Or love and learn, perhaps.

I still hope she gets herpes though. Bitch.

we all have guilty pleasures...

....mine is Subway. I know I've blogged about their salubrious sandwiches before, but every time I go past a hallowed store I cannot help but stretch my nostrils towards the door, give an almighty sniff and take a fleeting glance at their specials board.  But there's something else that renders me guilty every time, and that's my love of cheesy music; music so stinky you could wrap it up in foil, put it in your fridge and feast off its mouldy remains for a decade. Just like George Michael's wondrous collection.

On Saturday night I am taking Ebeth to Guilty Pleasures at Koko in Camden, for a night of getting down to all those numbers we should have erased from our collections, and collective memories ages ago. It's a trend you see, started by those people who felt no shame at standing proud behind their ghetto blasters, hitting rewind, fast forward and play on loop until the world agreed to disagree on the fact that some tunes should never die. Some tunes should never sit tight in their cases, gathering dust as the dancers who once loved them shake their moves to other music.

Ebeth doesn't know I am taking her yet. She doesn't know she's in for a night of me jiving next to her in a Rainbow Brite skirt to Bon Jovi, or Andy busting moves to her right in a Teenage Turtle jumper as Steps blurt out Reach for the Stars. I only hope she doesn't hate me. She's from LA you see. Well,... Kentucky, but I met my Scorpio sister in NYC and when I left she fled to California. We may now live miles apart, but I hope Ebeth's appreciation of the kooky un-coollness of retro tunage will never stray too far from my own...

Spotted....

So last night I got two texts from people saying they had seen me in TNT magazine and I just went out to get a copy, only to find it's true. It is me. Not once,... not twice, but three times, on the SPOTTED page. Aaaaargh!! Nightmare.

The pics were taken a couple of weekends ago at the Comedy Carnival in Clapham,... which... consquently was only mildly funny, and had I been riddled with the frighteningly persistent case of PMT that's invaded my body these past few days, I might not have even laughed once.  And to top off a miserable day in poor week, when everything sucks (except my lovely boyf obviously - bleeeuurrgh), I look minging in every single one. Sigh. Oh, AND they didn't even bother to circle my face, so I wasn't the one to win three Lonely Planet guides of my choosing.

Bastards. 

They gave them to some fatso with two of her mates who look like the Dixie Chicks gone wrong. Not that I mind, actually. If they'd tried to give me the Lonely Planet guides in the mood I'm in right now, I probably would have laughed in their face and told them to come back to me when they had an actual HOLIDAY to part with. What the fcuk do I want a BOOK for??? Jesus. I can't see the floor of my shoebox bedroom as it is, never mind adding more useless junk to the pile.

Check out that pic. Seriously. Minging.  But at least my face isn't as shiny as Daniela's, hahaha!!

god I feel so OLD...

I wanted to blog on my birthday yesterday, but to be honest I felt as rough as a dog and didn't manage to drag my ass out of bed till gone 2pm. Why is it that as I have grown older, I've become less wise, less coherent, less graceful and less able to deal with a few glasses of wine? Er,... bottles. BUT STILL. It's got to be done on your birthday. I felt like total pooh after KARAOKE CARNAGE PART TWO. I don't know what Lucky Voice were expecting on Wednesday night but it probably wasn't a gaggle of 12 drunk randoms squeezing into their biggest room and continuing to drain the bar. Or maybe it was. That's how they run their business. Who wants to blurt out the Spice Girls in a blue clown wig when they're stone cold sober?

Luckily I managed to blag an hour off the price, saving us about £70, but we still racked up over £250 in musical torture and a further shit-load of alcohol.

It's time to stop now. I'm still feeling haggard and what with all this talk of Christmas parties it's making me wonder how I'll cope. I have therefore decided to QUIT DRINKING until December 16th. Which is a month since my birthday and consquently the eve of my Mountbatten Christmas dinner with the girls. I think that should be plenty of time in which to detox and prepare my innards for further fermentation during the festive season. Wish me luck.

Right. Thank FCUK the week is over. I'm off home to drink some orange juice and watch telly. Talk about a regression...

have a break, have a Kit Kat...

This morning I got asked out officially by "persistent and probably unsuitable boy", via MSN. This approach didn't really surprise me, as to this date we have exchanged more words via our rickety work PC's than we have in person. And in essence, it seems only right that a relationship which blossomed from misunderstanding, into acceptance, into appreciation, into friendship in the mysterious realms of cyberspace, should lead to official "partnership" via the same path. And so it is that via the means of multimedia,... the ties of technology,... the intrigue of the Internet,... I am officially labelled as a 'girlfriend'.

I have been too busy to think too much about it today, but clearly with GREAT POWER comes GREAT RESPONSIBILITY. I have not been a girlfriend in so long that I've forgotten how, really. It's all too easy to say, "nah, can't be arsed to do that tonight, I'm gonna go home and watched the X Files", as I usually do at least once a week.  But now when I want a night in I have to think things like:

a) What will BOYFRIEND think if I watch another episode of X Files instead of shaving my legs..

b) What will BOYFRIEND be whinging about when I'm whinging about him to Lucy in the ad breaks?

c) What will BOYFRIEND be doing while I'm sprawled out on the sofa in my pyjamas, staring at Mulder over a burnt out candle, a cheap bottle of red and a Tesco's Finest Lasagne, (and a kilo of Galaxy Bars). .

...and on and on and on.  I'm just not used to thinking for two. But I suppose it's only right to give it a go, as he really is "persistent and infuritingly suitable". He is in fact, the only boy I know who will willingly stand in a house of people he's never met, dance with me on his feet until I almost crack a limb trying to do the twist, put me in a cab home and then challenge me to a karaoke sing off before I'm allowed to go to sleep.  And that's a good thing, really. Plus he plays guitar. But not like hot musician. Better. Although I would never tell him that because he'll get a big head. Sssssh.

I've told him he has to ask me properly though, in person as well as over MSN. I mean, come on. I want him to ask me out like Ian Smith did when I was 7. That was so romantic...in the playground, whilst handing me a Kit Kat to ensure I said yes. Oh yes. It became apparent at a very early age that once you throw food into any offer, I'll be there with bells on.  I took the Kit Kat from Ian, said yes very quickly and ran off with the goods. I don't think he was very pleased with me as it emerged l ater, via his sidekick Julian Morris, that he'd wanted to share it, as a sort of way of consummating our new romance. I just split it with Claire Sturgis in the girl's loo and then cried because I didn't really like him - I'd simply wanted his chocolate bar.  That Kit Kat wasn't worth the hassle, lemme tell you.  No sooner had I crept back out of the bathroom than Ian had painted a giant love heart in chalk on the playground, rounded the school choir to sing songs of Wham, and called his mum to make an extra plate of alphabites and spaghetti hoops for dinner.

I made the last bit up.  It was only primary school.  He'd gone back to beating people up by the time I ventured out with the empty wrapper. Clearly.

I guess it's a little scary, really, this whole BOYFRIEND/GIRLFRIEND thing. Not that I can't handle it. Obviously I AM READY!!  But you grow up, you get burned, you walk in too fast, you get dismissed too quickly. Things change you.  And I've not encountered too many Ian Smith's in my time, not lately anyway.  I've not encountered too many people who put their hearts on the line in exactly the same way as me, who don't then run away... or more recently, who don't then have to stand there and watch me run away. Kit Kats come in many forms, as you grow older. 

And even though my Kit Kat now stands as a metaphor for the many thousands of things I've grown to look for in a relationship - it's funny how the urge to run a hundred miles is still the same as it was 20 years ago, when I think about it. (gulp).

one meeeeeeeeeeeeellion dollars...

Actually £100 million English pounds,... but hey, when the numbers go that high, who gives a shit? Me and a bunch of other suckers here just invested three quid each and a bucket load of dreams into winning the Euro Lottery Jackpot.

I'd better win. I'm sick of not winning, even though I never actually buy a ticket.  Hmmmm,... yeah, even though I never buy a ticket, I'm so sick of never winning. I'm sick of this 'poor' bollocks, quite frankly. I'm 27 next week and I'm still waiting for all my plans to work out.  Seriously,... when I was 16, standing in that goddam flower factory, plotting out my life, I made up my mind to do all, or at least some of the following by the time I was 25:

a) get married to funny, cute, talented, charming, rich Mr Personality/Prince/Heir to an island/Chocolate Factory

b) get rich by writing series of best selling novels about young wizard called Harry. (Well not really,... OK so I never had the stupid idea first but if I wasn't so busy wrapping bloody bouquets in a factory I might have done. Stupid Rowling. Stupid wizard).

c) own my own luxury flat in either London or New York, but preferably one in each

d) still be size 8 with long glossy hair

As it stands, two years past my deadline, I have achieved one of the above - still size 8 with long, sort of glossy/slightly greasy(?) hair.  And I'm only part way through the rest. I am not married, although I do have a Mr Personality. (He will quite clearly comment on that because he likes to be acknowledged, he's a Scorpio).

OK, um, what else,... oh yeah, so I kind of wrote part of two books but neither have been published and neither are about wizards. BUT SCREW IT!! I'm destined to be rich, I know it. I have always known it.  OK so this knowledge is based on the simple fact that I'm a totally pathetic poor person, who teeters on the edge of the poverty line and whinges constantly about having to eat toast, when she's just bought a brand new coat (it's red, mummy, it's hot!) and boots instead of a stable lunch. BUT,... I'm allowed to do that. I'm a girl. I've worked (sort of) hard to get this far, dammit. I mean today I wrote ten emails to Sarah AND made my team coffee. And yesterday I had a three hour lunch break in a hotel restaurant and then refused the commencing spa treatment because I didn't bring my bikini, um.. I mean, I had to write a proposal for production for an upcoming project.  So,... yeah.... HARD, dammit. I work hard.

Anyway, tonight, if I win, I will jack this life of tourture in, buy a gaggle of geese, paint them gold and parade up and down the Kings Road looking down my surgically enhanced nose at all and sundry. And then I will set about making the other dreams come true. Oh and I'd give some to Oxfam, and maybe buy a brown baby like Madonna....

PLEASE GOD PLEASE, ME ME ME MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE