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