There Ain't No Sleeping Beauty Here

Natalia has now been properly introduced to British culture (i.e. I made her watch Celebrity Big Brother tonight.) I warned her that it was trash, and she'd probably hate it, but she was laughing from the start, and so it's all good. We are predictably hooked, specially because there's a chick in there who has to fake she is a celebrity (and if one of the others finds out, she's outta there.) So far, she's given Dennis BigRodman the eyes, and vice-versa, so it looks like it's going to be our must-not-miss-car-crash. Or maybe it will get boring by day 4 and we'll switch off.

However, I'm glad I went to the ballet last night. Beforehand, while we were drinking our pints at the Marquis of Granby, we thought it likely that we'd get bored and even leave during intermission. It was a nice surprise to discover that The Sleeping Beauty was good: the production was beautiful, with plenty to watch and swoon over; the audience was respectul and nobody's cellphone rang; the dancers never missed a step or fell on their faces. We even had a good conversation about the cocks on display: do you think male ballet dancers pad their crotches to make them look bigger, or it just so happens that most of them are well-endowed? And don't you just find their butts the hardest, squishiest things on earth? They remind me of the white cheese made in the region where my mom's farm is located: it's a hard type of cheese, round and white, that would probably bounce off the floor if thrown against it.

One particular cool scene involved the evil witch, who looked like a zombie Queen Elizabeth I, arriving at the court with her bald albinos from hell and cursing baby Beauty. She made it almost feel like Panto, but never in a bad way. When Beauty pricked her finger on the needle, trees grew and a mist descended on the kingdom. The music, composed by Tchaikovsky, seemed familiar at certain points (I probably overheard it on Classic FM or BBC3). Sadly, I couldn't watch the orquestra musicians this time like I did with Billy Budd because we were sitting further away from the balcony's edge.

During the second intermission, we ran to the nearby pub for half a pint of lager. Paul O'Grady (aka Lily Savage) was standing outside having a ciggie. About 10 metres away was a drunk man, swinging wine and shouting his miseries to the world. When the show ended, and we were making our way home, we saw more of them, huddled in alleys, insulting passerbys, all over the place. I got home, had a bowl of cereal, and passed out on bed. I've felt like a zombie ever since.

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You must have this feed: cuteoverload

Thanks roguejournal!