These Boots Are Made For Walken

I know, I know, I should really be telling you all about the fabulous explosion of glamour and talent that was last Friday's Cabaret Sauvignon. But fuck it, I've been busy writing job applications, plays, short stories and my CV, (and I'm not exaggerating either - I've had a full week) - and if it hadn't been for this little gem from the divine Popbitch, I probably wouldn't have blogged for another week or so. But some things you have to share with the world.

So, there's this conceptual artist/prankster chap called Brandon Bird and he has a website (clicky linky on his name). He likes to organise weird art shows, which have included painted tributes to Edward Norton and of course the inimitable Letters to Walken exhibition. Have a poke around and then remind yourself that, contrary to appearances, these letters were not written by small children but by Cornell undergraduates (insert standard gag about the American education system here). However, there are some truly marvellous fakes in the collection, of which my favourite is the below:



You know how some things just make you laugh and laugh for pretty much no reason? Like that.

Here is another gem from the collection:


And some of Bird's own, rather magnificent art. This one's called "Elysium". If only I had £750 to spare ...


What I particularly love is his wilful abuse of both the school of photorealism and his own talent. There's loads more on the site, and if any particular one tickles your irony/po-mo gland, naturally you can order it as a t-shirt ...

What? What about the title of the post? Oh, you want pictures of a heartbreakingly lovely young Chris Walken? And some boots? Oh, all right then:

(courtesy of linkmachinego, who give great Walken).

One out two ain't bad.

Check those phat beats ...

I love the internet. How else could I have ever found out my true DJ name?

Katy Darby spins tunes as DJ Dark Jail Bait Get your dj name @ Quiz Me

Apparently two million people have already done this. Not a bad way to get someone to your site. I am sorely tempted to set one up for Drag Queen Names ... if only I had the expertise. Any offers of help welcome: you bring the know-how and I'll bring the names.

Secret of comedy? Time Out

Or that's what I reckon, anyway, as perhaps thanks to the lovely Malcolm Hay's nice little pic and piece about Cabaret Sauvignon in Time Out, we had a good big crowd show up to laugh at us for money last night. I was particularly resplendent with two costume changes and one ridiculous feather showgirl headdress, but far be it from me to take away from the glory of our other acts, who were all unique, special and - more to the point - funny in their own ways.


Me last night, pretty much. Give or take.

First up there was Stuart Goldsmith, a fine young gentleman who was flitting butterfly-like between two (count 'em) gigs last night, but I think gave of his best, as was only right, to us. Comedians' Graveyard got the dregs, naturally. After Stuart we were as ever proud to play host to country music's very own Lily Savage, the lovely Sammy Mavis (played by Sarah-Louise Young) for whom I was very flattered to be mistaken at the bar after the show.

After the interval Cab Sauv recidivist Paul Foot did a great set involving improvisation, audience banter and not knowing when to stop (to be fair he did ask how long he was on for - to which the reply was "We have no idea"). Paul is verily like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates - you never know what you're gonna get, which is why he is endlessly watchable. If you missed him last night, he's got a solo gig at the Hen and Chickens on Monday so pop along - he's well worth it.

And now ... what you've all been waiting for ... the Time Out article!

I know you're all dying to read it so I will reproduce it word for word for those too poor, mean, or locationally challenged to rush out, buy a copy of the magazine and turn to page 68. (Sorry I can't link to it direct, but only parts of the comedy section - i.e. an interview with Shazia Mirza, yawn - are online)



UNCORKING THE CABARET GENIE
The monthly show by the name of Cabaret Sauvignon at The Others in Stoke Newington has more or less anything and everything on offer: sketches, songs, physical comedy*, magic, ventriloquism, pole-dancing - even stand-up.
"We wanted something with a bit more variety to it than the usual one-man-and-his-mike nights," says Katy Darby (pictured, right), who hosts the night along with Dave Key-Pugh (left) Toby Smith (centre) and Natt Tapley. This time round the speical guests include Sammie Mavis Jnr.
Why Cabaret Sauvignon? "We wanted to emphasise the two things that are most important to the average audience member - booze and entertainment. We are dry, fruity, intoxicating and, and in some cases, full-bodied with a cheeky finish. The format's a bit like the Muppet Show," she adds. So, if any performers or Hollywood celebrities fancy appearing, they're welcome to get in touch via the website - it's www.cabaretsauvignon.co.uk

*Paolo Ferrari please stand up - Ed.

Another PR triumph to add to my collection. Potential employers please take note - I hold down a day job, run and publicise a cabaret night, write and perform comedy, pay my bills on time and give excellent head. Job offers to info@beautyandbitch.co.uk or cabaret.sauvignon@gmail.com. No timewasters or perverts.

Saturday night's all right for singing

The Pentameters Theatre is a lovely little Fringe place in Hampstead, right above the Three Horseshoes pub and run since the 60s by a lady of surpassing loveliness and resourcefulness called Leonie Scott-Matthews.

The reason I mention all this is on Saturday nights after the show, (After Intimacy) they have a free cabaret night consisting of music, songs, poetry and all manner of nonsense, and last week we performed there. In fact, we're performing there again tonight, and next Saturday 19th March, so if you want to see Beauty and the Bitch for free, haul your arses up to Hampstead pronto.


A theatre above a pub - who'da thunk it?!

Despite a certain amount of late-breaking keyboard trouble and poor Dave having to drag himself clear across London from the fathest reachest of Richmond, we took the stage for three songs at about 11pm (it goes on late - and you can take your drinks in!) and experienced a highly gratifying response from the 50-odd audience members.
Even when we shamelessly plugged the next Cabaret Sauvignon (Friday 1st April, fact fans) they didn't turn on us and hound us out of the theatre. The other performers were damn good too - although a song about sperm donors is a pretty tough act to follow ...

Checking out the competition 2

So, last Thursday night me and my friend Dan went for a drink and decided to enliven the evening with some Modern Comedy, in the shape of Club le Strange at Lowdown at the Albany. This is of course the club/cabaret/variety night of 2003’s Perrier Newcomer Gary le Strange, a blonde, berouged and vinyl-trousered living tribute to All That Is 80s. If Spandau Ballet had a test-tube baby with Annie Lennox and asked the Pet Shop Boys to be the godfathers, Gary is what would result.

Don’t be scared. He’s actually rather funny. As Dan whispered in the interlude between “Modern Disguise” and the chaotic reappearance of Gary’s former bandmates Far Kinell, “This man may be my God”. Gary, crushed like velvet under the weight of his own electropomp, was a winning host, adorable as a kicked puppy as he related his riches-to-rags story of bent managers and sleeping on park benches. The other acts were varied: a guitar-strumming cowboy with an unconvincing accent was far outshone by the musical stylings of DJ Danny Robbins. But then the man who co-wrote Paperback Hell and We Are History could never be less than damn entertaining.


Machine-crafted from finest acrylic ... a lasting reminder of the laughter brought to you by Radio 4 ... available exclusively from QVC and the Viz Tatalogue ...

We had an excellent night, the joy of which was only compounded by my totally unexpected win of Gary’s latest CD Face Academy in the competition round (saved me a tenner …) and me getting to touch Gary’s face with my lips. I expect he’ll never wash again …

February Sauvignon!

And it came to pass that February 4th was the third Cabaret Sauvignon in the time of the second millennium. And, affrighted by the dearth of guest acts in January, Katy and Beren and Simon and Toby and Dave did put many, many acts upon the bill, yea unto all the beasts of the earth and the birds of the air, from Paul Foot at the going down of the sun to Nice Mum at the rising of the moon. And the audience looked upon it, and it was good. Long, but good.

For it came to pass that the first upon the Bill was Tom Price, formerly of the Stickmen, and his humorous yet gentle observations upon incest in the audience were much laughed at, and but for that he had to go off and do something else, he would have been bought a drink.

Tom begat Paolo Ferrari, (well, not literally) who went well beyond the call of duty (and his allotted five minutes) in calling the people up upon the stage and doing unspeakable things at them with Mars Bars. May they rest in peace (the bars, that is).


Chocolate, thy name is terror ...

Paolo gave way unto the first interval, and as is the nature of things, the first interval ceded place to Trevor Lock, the comedian’s anti-comedian, and one-time Small Faced Boy on Lee and Herring’s This Morning With Richard Not Judy. Perhaps his face grew, perhaps Lee and Herring’s contract ran out, but he retains his youthful charm as well as a beguilingly offbeat set, and the audience fair wet itself, and it was good. Paul Foot (of whom more in posts passim) succeeded to the stage and built upon the laughter until it was a tower of Babel; mighty yet destined to crumble into Interval 2.


Lock 'n' Load ...

Wonders were to come! Wonders and terrors … none could forget the gentle advice on fistfucking doled out by the genial Nice Mum. These boys will go far, we opine, even unto Stoke Newington, and damn glad we were to have them.


"Nice" Mum. Hmmmmmmm ...

So, with a typical line-up of such quality, what can we say but “Come worship at the Church of Sauvignon, sinners! Verily, all comedy life is here.”

See y’all on March 4th. You know you want to. We know where you live.

Guardian? Angel

I had an extremely nice surprise wiggle through my letterbox on Saturday morning, and I’m going to share it with you all – those averse to gobsmackingly brilliant feats of self-promotion should probably look away now.

Thing is, just before Christmas the Cab Sauv performer hardcore (plus the lovely Zoe Battley of Dirty Blondes, seen below in Absolute Hell, and that’s just the name of the play)



gathered in a noisy pub to meet up with Mark Kebble, the editor of Angel Magazine. I’d pitched us to the Guardian but apparently they were busy dissing C’est Barbican instead.

Now, if you live in the Camden, Islington, Holloway, Highgate, Bloomsbury, Farringdon, Stoke Newington etc. etc. area you may be familiar with Angel – it’s one of those local free glossies that is slightly more full of interesting articles and less full of property adverts than you might expect. This month’s issue, for example, has an interview with Rowan Atkinson in it and a terrifying article on post-Christmas detox.

It also has, on page 8 or something (I dunno, I didn’t really read it, let alone make colour photocopies and laminate them for publicity and posterity) a double-page full-colour, three-photo spread about Cabaret Sauvignon. I will link to it as soon as humanly possible. Apart from their being far too much of Dave and not enough of me (plus ca change) it's a very nice article indeed.



We are super chuffed by the whole thing (especially a judicious call-out quoting Natt as saying that what we do is very like the Muppet Show) and I’ve already had two mates who live in the delivery area email me to alert me to its existence. Whether this will lead to a massive influx of audience members dressed as Miss Piggy, Fozzie etc. remains to be seen. Watch this space on Feb 4th for the answer …

... and a Happy New Year

I suppose it's about time that I crawled blearily from the post-Christmas torpor and wished all our friends, lovers, fans, well-wishers and mortal enemies a damn good New Year, having failed in time to wish them a happy Christmas. I'm sure you don;t need our help to have a super yuletide, but just in case, here's an appropriately festive photo from a German cabaret-cum-freakshow.



There. I don't know about you, but that really puts me in the Christmas spirit. God bless us, every one!

And now, here is the news:

Since we last spoke, mein Kinder, continents have risen from the seas, deserts have grown and spread, mighty mountain ranges have crumbled into dust and the final extended version of "The Return of the King" has been released. Anyone unlucky enough to have checked the photo on my account here will have spotted immediately that I fall into the category known as the common internet fatbeard. As such, the prospect of an additional 48 minutes of footage to an already buttock-numbingly lengthy film about hairy men with medieval weaponry fills me with near-orgasmic anticipation rather than dread. Some day soon, now, I can spend twelve hours in a darkened room watching them all back to back with only a small packet of rolling tobacco for company. Ah, bliss.

But back to the blog in hand. Aside from gazing longingly at the shiny, shiny dvds of Christmas, like Tiny Tim at girls gymnatics competition, recently I have also been annoying the general public with our comedy double act. My beloved mistress (I am contractually obliged to refer to her this way) has already told you in excruciating detail all about our Canal Cafe residency. I note, however, that she left off mention of last Sunday's gig.

Our bearded friend and serial pseudonym thief, Mr.Michael Caines, Esq. had arranged an afternoon of light-entertainment, comedy and music aboard the floating pleasure palace that is the Battersea Barge (see blogs passim). Our host would favour us with many of his own compositions and the scurrilous antics of ourselves and Nathanial and Tobias would fulfill the comedy requirements. All was well and normal until Her Majesty reminded me that she could not make the gig. Unable to argue against such a cast-iron alibi and unwilling to let our neo-Trotskyite pal down, I found myself, thanks to the exigencies of our Canal Cafe commitments, with twenty-four hours to re-tool our double-act for presentation by one, solitary individual.

If the gig went well, and the reaction of the delightful and drunken beauties that I met with afterwards seemed to indicate thusly, this is lovely and I am growing less afeared of the stand-up. On the other hand, I have a newly minted appreciation for the advantages of not being the only person on stage. Double acts are good. Especially when you have to fiddle around with multiple instruments that can only be connected to the sound system one at a time, in between songs. It is so much simpler not to have to juggle a microphone and keep talking whilst elbow-deep in cabling. The truth has dawned upon me at last. Milady is not only a lyricist, vocalist and clothes-horse par excellence, she is also a vital audience distraction. Not so much the left hand of God; more the left hand of Paul Daniels as I attempt some electronic sleight-of-hand. With this new spirit of appreciation and deep professional love we launched ourselves into the last week of our pre-Christmas bookings. I'm not sure Katy noticed the detente, but I am definately less bruised than usual.

I shall save the hard-core pimping of January's exciting installment of Cabaret Sauvignon for the next post. Suffice to say that it will be a notable evening of drunken debauchery and effulgent bonhomie. Basically, not to be missed (and dead cheap). I would heartily recommend your presence and in the meantime commend your souls to the benevolent bosom of your chosen spiritual construct.

Ann Mayall
York Reece
Mrs. B. White

Out of the darkness came a voice...

Ah, yes. I had dozens of posts for this blog. Simply oodles. They were warm, wise and witty, erudite, erotic and educational. Sparks fairly flew from the verbal pyrotechnics and spontaneously combusting Socratic dialogue. They was ace. And my dog ate them.

Not a genuine dog, per se. Nor did they, in fact, bud and grow so far as to reach the bleak and scary world outside my head. But my intentions were good and, may I add, they were bloody funny. In mitigation and as an apology for those of you less adept in E.S.P. and distance mind-reading I proffer this bunch of flowers:

In addition, I humbly submit this post. Carefully delayed until all the interesting events and performances have occurred and I have little to nothing to speak on. Enjoy!

Actually, I think that any useful or informative content would spoil the zen-like irrelevance of this entry. Let us instead dwell for a short while longer on my sad and inexcusable absence and my profound and abject shame therefore. I can always bump this further down the page later...

Today the Canal Cafe, tomorrow the world!

My apologies, my dear reader(s) for having been too long absent from these pages. Fortunately the reason for my lack of irrelevant comments and cabaret-related nonsense has been because a few weeks ago we unexpectedly landed an eight-night run at the lovely Canal Cafe Theatre in London's Little Venice.

Tragically, it took me the whole two weeks to discover that the Warwick Castle pub nearby does bottles of wine for only £1 more than a large glass costs at the Bridge House (the pub under the theatre) - but rest assured I will use this knowledge wisely and frequently now that I have it.


Colin and Fergus, one (two?) of our amazing guest stars!

So, yeah, I kept meaning to plug the show on the blog, but I was too busy doing my day job and then dashing over to do the show to do much else, and for that I sincerely apologise. On the plus side, we did get some fantastic acts and lovely audiences, and might even have enough to pay for the printing of the rather magnificent flyers when we get the money from the theatre. Our cup runneth over, and all that.


Paul Foot, another of our laugh-a-minute luminaries, looking deceptively winsome. He's an animal really. An animal with a beautifully-maintained mullet.

And to cap it all, the tireless Beren has also built us a little site for Cabaret Sauvignon with his own fair hands. Click on the link to be transported to a world of louche ecstasy you never dreamed possible, and to see when our next Cab Sauv gig is. (Hint: 7th January)

So, it just remains for me to thank (and to post pictures of, if I can find them)
- sexually ambiguous, brilliantly funny, remarkably cute sketch duo Colin and Fergus!
- deceptively assured newcomer Gary McPherson!
- profoundly disturbed and disturbing comedian Mike Flexer of Insult to Injury!
- surreal improvisational genius/madman Paul Foot!
- confrontationally-bearded and hugely talented singer-songwriter Michael Caines!
- right reverend and right entertaining fundamentalist preacher the Rev. Dick Tate!
- proud-to-be-posh Moore/Blair lovechild Will Goodhand!
- brilliantly unique and uniquely brilliant freak-sisters the Congress of Oddities!
- you've seen him somewhere before, was it on telly or was it at a drunken university party? It's stand-up Dave Skinner!
- iron-lunged, potty-mouthed saucy songster Steve Dorsett!
- sketch duo with a difference, breast gymnasts with a vengeance, Faultless and Torrance!
- the name says it all and the sketches say more than you ever needed to know - Zoe and Nat of Dirty Blondes!
- adorable Shoreditch comedy cherub Dan Peake!
- witty observational stand-up and potential sugar-mummy Maureen Younger!
- sounds like Bjork, moves like Lee Evans: unforgettable physical comic Paolo Ferrari!
- angel-voiced singer with more gags than a fetish shop - Sammie Mavis Jnr!

If I've left anyone off the list it's because they were shit. JUST JOKING! It's because my memory's shit. By the way, if any of our lovely guests google themselves and find this, send me a link to your website, agent, or online dating profile and I'll add it so that your fans can indulge in a bit of virtual stalking.

Only connect

A wise man once told me that blogging is all about the linkage. With this in mind, I went into my profiles and changed my interests to "cabaret, singing, theatre" etc etc you get the idea, so that I could find related blogs to link to in that cute little side bar that so many experienced bloggers have. Most of the cabaret-lovers turned out to be gay men (no surprises there), and they tended to mean the musical rather than the art form, but hey, it's a start. And hell, one of them is the magnificently-named Big Fat Hairy Dave. Of course I'm linking to him. How could I not?

First off, let's see if this works ...

blogroll

My mate Tim told me to go to blogrolling.com, and somehow in the course of blog-browsing for links I cam across a site called Slow Children At Play, which is the diary of a special needs teacher. It's rather well-written and extremely interesting, as well as occasionally hilarious (see below). Here's an excerpt:

Entry 6: J.D. and his Dad: The Entrepreneurs

J.D. is a beefy 12 year old with an underbite, a pot belly, and huge canine incisors. He looks exactly like Pumbaa from the Lion King. Our consulting psychiatrist called him a "feral child", the first and only time I've ever heard him use that term.


(My image: I couldn't remember which one Pumbaa was and thought others might need a visual clue too)

One day we took J.D. and some other kids to the rec room where we have a pool table, ping pong and some donated video games. J.D. took one look at the pool table and yelled, "You rack'em, I crack'em!" and proceded to run the table. Every time he made a shot he would feign breaking the cue stick and drink a beer from the short end. That led me to strike up this conversation:

Me: Hey J.D., where'd you learn to play like that?
Him: The Showdown Tavern, baby!
Me: What are you doing when you pretend to drink something?
Him: Downing some beers, what the hell do you think?
Me: Aren't you a little young to be drinking beer?
Him: No. I drink whiskey, too. My dad wanted me to get wasted.
Me: Jesus Christ! Why?
Him: So I could kick some ass. I could kick anybody's ass.
Me: What are you talking about?
Him: Me and my dad made lots of money that way. If I was fighting, everybody had to bet on me cuz I got so crazy.
Me: Who did you fight?
Him: All the kids who lived there. I beat some ass.
Me: It sounds like a pit bull fighting ring.
Him: That's how it started, but our dog got his ass beat and died.

I ended the conversation after that little gem.

I am bloody glad I just ponce around in feathers for a (sort of) living. 'Nuff said.

Watch the birdie!

So on Hallowe'en Sunday, irrespective of ghosts, ghoulies, witches and the spirits of evil that lurk in Stoke Newington, we created a horror show of our very own at a photo session in The Others.

The below pictures are for publicity purposes: we wanted some that included everyone involved in Cabaret Sauvignon, i.e. me and Dave and Toby and Natt. This was a grand plan until Natt failed to materialise, due to nursing an ailing girlfriend. So we just ended up with me, Dave and Toby arsing about. Another Sunday bites the dust ...



Rock 'n' Roll Made Me Do It!

x k

Cabaret Sauvignon

So anyway, Friday night. Friday, as is traditional, followed right on from Thursday night and I think the morning vanished entirely in a white-wine haze. Not so much a hangover as a sleep-in, which was absolutely the best thing for me - I only wish I could do it more often. But as an owl condemned to live in a lark society, mornings, along with my beauty, talent and susceptibility to champagne, are simply another cross to bear.

I tore myself away from Quincy shortly after lunch to pop round the corner to the Royal National Throat, Nose and Ear Hospital, where I had an appointment at 3.10pm. The dear old NHS being what it is, I didn't actually get seen until 5.15, but fortunately the hospital (well-prepared for fractious patients) had a large stock of books for 50p, so I passed the time with Ali Smith's rather-good-so-far Hotel World.



Hotel World uses the trick common to writers who'd rather be doing short stories of telling a series of linked tales and tying them up neatly - or very tenuously, in some cases - at the end, to drape a modesty-saving veil of theme over the essentially episodic structure: a neat and sadly necessary trick to worm said book into the Novels section of Waterstone's. See also A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters and Ship of Fools (link). God forbid the public should suddenly realise it's actually reading short stories ...

But nuff of that. Our inaugural monthly Beauty and Bitch/Nathaniel and Tobias co-hosted night, Cabaret Sauvignon (don't get me started on the name* ...) awaited. I tootled up to Stoke Newington in time to find the lads of Insult to Injury perfecting their spontaneous interruptions (including a call mid-song from Mike's girlfriend) and generally larking about: the lovely Maureen Younger, (stand-up) and Nat Tapley, international playboy and Ubiquite of the Night, were rehearsing in separate corners, and balloons waited like strategic military targets for me to blow them up. I had intended to bring a proper sign, but balloons are the international symbol of Party and everyone we knew had the address anyway. However, venue owner Simon casually mentioned that he had a laminator so who knows what I might not knock up for next time ...

Billed as an 8.30 start, naturally enough nothing much (except drinking: an event in itself, I hear you cry ...) happened until 9.30. Repeated overrun warnings were issued. Our 90-minute show ended at midnight, and drinking was resumed. A whole bunch of people came in for the late-night booze at 11.15, and stayed for the comedy. That, in my Aspinal's book, is the true meaning of success.

* Dave claims to hate this name with a fiery, fiery passion. Over a night of so-called rehearsal, other names suggested included:

Pick ‘n’ Mix
The Wannabe Club
Shocking and Fupping
Shame Academy
Puppet Dictators
Accrington Stanley – who are they?
The Disestablishment
(The) Casting Couch
The Diogenes Club
The Potterers and Friends
Lovable Rogues
Special Babies
The Wrong Element
There Goes the Neighbourhood
The Out Crowd
Thespian, Biennial and Fey Night
Minimum Wage
Look but don't touch
Two drink cover
Stoke Newington Ramblers Association

Want to have a say? Too late. Offer your opinion anyway - it's all part of the demotic process. info@beautyandbitch.co.uk gapes wide for your messages ...

Glitz and Pieces

So, last Thursday night was not only Katy's last day in her current job, but also the gig we had been looking forward to for so long ... the night of stars and glamour that was Get Your Glitz Out at Heaven. Topping and Butch, the excellent Four Poofs and a Piano and Jimmy Somerville were headlining, and this meant fortunately that we were on early (8.30 or so) and could spend the rest of the night getting pissed in a good cause. Which we did.

Such was my level of relaxation that I even bought a raffle ticket (first prize queer skiing holiday, second prize two nights in a love hotel ... wish I could remember the name) in the honest and sincere belief that I might actually win something. On the plus side, I did very much enjoy watching Shazia Mirza get into an argument with a transsexual on the front row as to who could lay claim to being the most oppressed minority. And let's face it, you've got to respect a woman who (unlike T&B or Somerville) not only showed up, but showed up willing to confront not just her fears but the audience ...


Shazia: Edgy. Urban. Richard. Judy.

Vast quantities of white wine, technical problems and the disappointment of not seeing extracts from organiser Michael Dresser's new musical Marilyn aside, we had a great time: very few evenings end with Beren and Dave slow-dancing to the strains of the rather fantastic London Swingfonia, and those that do, we usually must not speak of. There was, of course, no payment (this is becoming something of a feature of B&B gigs) because it was all for charidee: namely the 21st birthdays of very good causes GALOP (combating violence against gay, lesbian, bisexual and transpeople) and Stonewall Housing. On the other hand, we did get goodie bags as we left, which contained, among other things, rather posh 2004 diaries generously donated from their stock of unsaleable wares by leathermerchants Aspinal of London.



Good for only two more months they may be, but they are nonetheless rather lovely things which would normally cost you 25 quid. I may use mine for writing down lyrics: it's certainly far superior to the current scraps of paper/back of hand method. To summarise, a good time was had by all and we can now add London's premier gay nightclub to the list of venues we've played. Today the West End, tomorrow Stoke Newington. Of which more later ...