Being Bo-ring

I accidentally ended up in a party last night with Jodie Marsh.  She is tiny.  She was wearing an all black, tight outfit, high heels and long dark extensions. It's a sin to see someone so young wearing so much make-up.  There were other famous people there, like that blond woman who's always on TV shows about music, and that older guy with long hair and a moustache, and those young people who are probably in Skins or something.  And I think I spotted the actress who used to play Ian Beale's wife and died falling down the stairs.

It was the press night for The Most Incredible Thing at Saddler's Wells - a dance piece collaboration between the Pet Shop Boys and coreographer Javier De Frutos.  Purely accidental - the £10 tickets we had were arranged by our friends Vini Bambini and Bia months ago and nobody warned me to dress to the nines.  Suburbia was absent.  Everyone's life there was on show, flamboyant clothes below those so hard smiles.  Every actor needs an audience; every action is... a performance. West End girls mingling with Dalston boys.  Two kisses on the cheek.  Very thick quiffs.  Expensive midriffs.  Sugar and daddies.  Buckets of champagne everywhere and me with my large glass of white wine.  A few people from my past: that woman from the NT who is so nice; that girl who assisted the directors (now busily working the cord that separated the riff raff from the VIPs.)  Avoided them both.

Sadler's Wells gets hot when it's full. I thought of fj and how he should be there with us. We sat near the roof, our view the beginning of a roller coaster's descent.  The show started well, with robotic domino dancing to a disco beat swelled by the orchestra.  Then tedium set in: uninteresting fairy-tale, lame jokes about reality shows, gaps that were far too long, clichéd choreography (apparently, full of references to famous classical ballet, but who cares?) and a limp climax.  What have I done to deserve this?

Outside, we met Bia's uncle and his friends - an older generation that loved the piece. It massaged their brains with all the classical references it threw on the stage.  But to us, with our ignorant gut reactions, it didn't say a thing beyond "is it Christmas?"  Left to my own devices, I'd have taken the show's music to a smoky nightclub. The sun would welcome me from the club's gloom to where the streets have no name. I'd end up home and dry.