Beauty and the Bitch

These Boots Are Made For Walken

2005-05-14T02:11:00.000+01:00

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 ...

2005-04-07T12:01:00.000+01:00

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

2005-04-02T17:43:00.000+01:00

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

2005-03-12T12:58:00.000Z

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

2005-02-23T22:57:00.000Z

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!

2005-02-14T20:39:00.000Z

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

2005-01-11T15:31:00.000Z

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

2004-12-29T17:30:00.000Z

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:

2004-12-18T02:49:00.000Z

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...

2004-12-18T01:32:00.000Z

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!

2004-12-11T20:40:00.000Z

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

2004-11-15T01:29:00.000Z

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!

2004-11-14T21:28:00.000Z

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

2004-10-27T23:17:00.000+01:00

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

2004-10-25T08:30:00.000+01:00

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 ...

Where's Eddie Izzard when you need him?

2004-10-19T13:20:00.000+01:00

Thursday night was supposed to be a strategy meeting for next week’s glittering ten minutes at Get Your Glitz Out, which it sort of was … except that we held it on the Battersea Barge, during Cheese ‘n’ Crackers, the monthly cabaret night. To be fair, we were also scouting for talent for next Friday’s Night With B&B and Toby and Some Other People at the Others (address under Reel Take header - sorry, it's the best I could find ... it's so cool and underground and avant-garde that it doesn't even have a website). We’re going to need a snappy new name too, but that comes later.

It was quite odd watching C&C without being sick and nervous because we had to go on. On the other hand, the quality of performances was not up to the usual high standard and I was gritting my teeth at the thought of the Camembert we could have chomped if it hadn’t been for a bloke with an amazing voice called Steve Dorsett. I suggested to Dave that Steve was the man he dreamed of being (still large and bearded, but with dress sense and a fabulous tenor). Dave looked mysterious and attempted to imply that he was the man Steve might some day grow into, if he worked hard and avoided the temptations of fame. Meanwhile, Beren was extremely smug at being the man every girl wanted a piece of (well, according to him) and I sat there being the girl who bought the drinks. Why is it always me? Oh wait, I have a job at the moment. That’s why.

Two things stand out that evening: one was that I bumped into (and subsequently failed to chat to) Nick from Bristol, friend of my friend Will, who was recording Mr. Dorsett’s performance for posterity. And the other was that I spent an excruciating fifteen minutes - while Beren and Dave giggled at the bar LIKE BASTARDS - being chatted up (I think) by a transvestite comedian.

Thursday night is trans night at the Battersea Barge ...

Poor J. had not enjoyed a three week run in Edinburgh, had not enjoyed dying on his arse in the first act, and had a polite little cough so regular it was probably a nervous tic. I’m not sure if he thought I was an agent, a manager, or merely one of the few actual women in the place (was he using me asa study in femininity? Good luck mate ...) He made noises about getting the last train home to Essex and then stayed there, staring at me and being unnerving. I am beginning to wonder if it wasn’t a brilliant Jam-style piece of performance art or exceptionally well-observed Alan Partridge character comedy. I hope so. I fear not.

Wherever I lay my hat...

2004-09-22T01:47:00.000+01:00

Profuse apologies, first of all, for the long gap between posts. I returned, glory-clad, from Edinburgh to discover that, for reasons far too tedious and lengthy to reveal here, I had 17 hours in which to find a new flat, pack and move before my beloved landlord changed the locks.

I freely admit that one does not find oneself in such a situation without a certain degree of fuckwittery on my behalf, however, stern measures were called for. This, clearly, was the time to prove my mettle. I steeled myself for action and did the only sensible thing - gibbered like a loon for about half-an-hour. After I had pulled myself together I called the angelic paragon of sweetness that we call our director, Beren. This heroically-endowed Titan of cool has the singular distinction of being the only one of my close friends legally permitted behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. In almost less time than it takes to grovel abjectly and promise away your first-born this latter-day saint had agreed to drive a van with all my worldly goods to the local lock-up, but even offered to let me crash at his until I found a place to live. Ladies, Gentlemen and Others, I give you this month's winner of the 'Give this man a Prize' award for conspicuous good-eggitude and all-around splendiferous behaviour - let his name ring proud in the halls of honour.

So, to cut a long story vaguely shorter, I have been without a computer let alone net access for a short while. However, since my new flat not only contains lovely, fluffy people whose inner beauty is matched only by their striking bath-robe deshabile chic, but also broadband access... Caloo, Calay! I am back! Let your wails of disapointment cease!

Ahem. The Battersea Barge gig went well despite a wearyingly familiar failure to win me any cheese. As my old granny used to say, "It's not the winning, but the free food that counts." For those of you gagging to see use live (as opposed to the countless hordes who want to see us dead) sadly we will not be returning for another bite at the dairy products next month, but we have been invited to partake of their first annual Christmas Cheese-off (see website closer to the time for details).

The crowning glory of our to-do lists, however, is undoubtedly the glorious 'Get Yout Glitz Out" gala. For this charity extravaganza we shall be storming the gates of heaven and rocking London's premier gay nightclub alongside yer actual celebrities. No kidding; I've heard of many of them...

I shall leave you now to continue the long, slow business of unpacking my life (not helped by discovering the Championship Manager CD that went missing nearly a year ago). Adieu, mein kinder and Shalom.

New gig!

2004-09-13T23:17:00.000+01:00

Well, all right, it's actually a gig that's been organised for ages but I forgot to big it up on the site (or rather beg Beren to) until now. Mea culpa, Bitchbunnies. So anyhow, here's the details:

Time: starts at 8pm, Thursday 16th September.
Venue: the delectable Battersea Barge
Programme: The night is called Cheese 'n' Crackers. Many and varied performers will sing for their cheese-based supper at this eclectic cabaret night. We are one of the acts and will be strutting our funky for about 15 minutes or three songs' worth.
Price: a bargain fiver. The last one of these nights sold out, by the way, so if you do fancy coming along I recommended booking on 020 7498 0004. No need to pay upfront - and if you're multiple and sensible (and want somewhere to sit down) I recommended booking a table at no extra charge.

See you there. It really is maaaarvellous ... it's where the party I went to the other night was. and now I have the theme from Around the World with Willy Fogg stuck in my braaaaaaaaaaain ...

Ciao now!

I am my own hero

2004-09-11T19:54:00.000+01:00

This just in, before I get pissed and go off to a party (yeah, I know it's usually the other way round, but I'm not really going to know anyone ...)

I took the Family Guy quiz.

Which Family Guy character are you?

I am Brian. Made my damn day.

:)

Bubbles and baubles

2004-09-02T21:14:00.000+01:00

Fame being the burden and distancer that it is, few people can honestly claim to have had a Perrier winner press free tickets to his show upon them in the street. Thanks to the until-now obscurity of this year's Perrier champion, an actor called Will Adamsdale, however, Beren and myself can both claim that honour. (Admittedly it was on the first day of the festival, but hey.)

Adamsdale's show is called Jackson's Way, and I've got to admit, professional crazed jealousy aside, that I enjoyed it a lot. I recognised him when we were flyered from a piece I'd seen him do about a month ago at the July BAC Scratch Night, about a man who finds a piece of paper which changes his life, and the boy certainly has talent, as well as an oddly charming onstage presence, both as American life-coach alter-ego Chris John Jackson and as the paper man. I did feel that the Edinburgh show stretched a great idea ten minutes past its natural length, but the Scotsman disagreed to the tune of five stars, and an Edinburgh fairytale was born. However, I now have the ultimate theatre-snob distinction of being able to say truthfully that I slightly prefer his earlier work.

What I love about the Jackson hoo-ha are two things:
1)Adamsdale is now the second famous alumnus that the Oxford School of Drama (or Barn in a Backwater) can boast, after Braveheart's Catherine McCormack. Go OSD! Proof that the talented can survive any amount of pretentiousness and poor teaching! (The usual apologies to anyone who cares.)
2) This magnificently naive quote from the Guardian article linked above:
"What's interesting about Will is that the comics love his work as well as the public. Given that he is not part of the comedy community there's a huge feeling of goodwill towards him. Who knows what he's going to do now?"
Oh really? Called me an old cynic who knows little of comedians but much of human nature, but I fucking doubt that goodwill is what Reginald D. Hunter, Sarah Kendall, Chris Addison and the rest of the nominees are feeling towards Adamsdale. Homicidal impulses, perhaps. Emerald envy, surely. A massive sense of "that actor stole my Perrier", absolutely. He came from nothing and defeated all expectations. He's not even on the comedy circuit! A bloody amazing achievement and one that may not be forgiven lightly.

"What's he going to do now?" Hide under the bed, Will, until Avalon and the avengers go the fuck away.

In Other News, the playscripts of my Samuel French one-acter Open Secrets arrived. Zoe Gardner, of the superb Congress of Oddities, (see, you'll find this next time you Google yourself) and Ray Newe, I need your addresses so I can send you your copies. Also I found out that the headmaster of my old school, who died recently, asked for one of my poems to be read at his funeral, which is an amazingly touching and sweet and slightly confusing thing. I had no idea he a) knew or b) cared that I still wrote. Or, if I'm unlucky, it was some of my adolescent drivel that had knocked about on a wall at Frensham for ages, and he never read Vertigo - still one of the ones I like best. And it's about love, and death, which is kind of fitting.

Checking out the competition

2004-08-27T18:12:00.000+01:00

There comes a time in every cabaret artiste's life when one has the hopefully pleasurable task of checking out the competition - which, particularly in Edinburgh, should be of a good standard and (more importantly) all in the same place at the same time. Since what we do is pretty specific, we'd drawn up a hit-list of people whose audiences might go to our stuff and vice versa and yesterday, rain or no rain, was the day of reckoning - mainly because most shows get more expensive on Friday and weekends.

So, my first task of the afternoon was to check out the apparently brilliant, witty, biting, satirical, topical, original cabaret show of last year's Best Fringe Duo, Topping and Butch. Camp as a row of pink tents, they have a huge gay'n'granny following and do two shows - one at 11 (which was obviously out) and a 4pm show called Afternoon Tease. Forgive me, Butch and Topping, you are lovely people with beautiful teeth and decent voices, but Afternoon Snooze would have been more appropriate - I only hope your evening show consists of more than reworked lyrics to Disney songs and tired knob-gags.

Innuendo and nudge-winkery are both fine cabaret traditions we are proud to uphold, but despite being blessed with a massively indulgent audience (and lubricating them with free sherry always helps), Topping and Butch barely raised a titter from me. Of an eight-song set one or two were original and the rest were old tunes with new - and not desperately hilarious - words. I went in really wanting to like them and left feeling rather cheated. Surely it can't be that hard to write something both new and funny? We give it a shot and we've only been going for eighteen months. The glorious gods of cabaret Kit and the Widow (of which more later) have been doing it for twenty years and they still come up with fresh and amusing stuff every time I see them.

(Kit and the Widow shown not actual age - but they do look lovely)

So, onto the next act of the evening, the Soubrettes. These two are a female cabaret duo from Australia who do (thank god) nothing but original songs. Again, lovely voices (and superb costumes, especially the wigs) but when we went the audience of twenty-odd felt lost in the dark and dank environment of the Gilded Balloon Caves. We were a much tougher crowd, too - while Topping and Butch's banter was (to be fair) polished and entertaining, the two girls had much fresher songs but seemed a bit lost between numbers. But again, while a lot of the songs were clever, or funny, or had a good idea behind them, very few managed to be all three at once and only the last (a song about oral sex) is still running through my head.

What was a bit more disturbing was that, looking at their CD (at £8, three quid more than ours - hurry, hurry, buy while stocks last!) everything on it was copyright 2001. This means that have been performing the same set for three years or more and haven't felt the need to add to or change any of the songs, which is a tad complacent given the hit-and-miss nature of the material.

I really wanted to enjoy them more. I really did. On the positive side, it makes me more confident in our own songs and show, and we've not being going long, so we're only going to get better as far as I'm concerned - but on the negative, I paid to be entertained by shows I was told were "hilarious" and, in the case of T&B "original" and was disappointed to various degrees on both fronts.

In conclusion, despite the fact that I had to walk three miles across town to see them, wait for an hour for a return, and have seen them twice before, Kit and the Widow are still the best cabaret in Edinburgh by a bloody long way, and I urge you to catch them before Apollo snatches them up in his golden chariot as being too good for this world. And if you can't get in (and they do sell out every single performance) - well, you know where Beauty and the Bitch are playing ...

I Believe I Can Flyer

2004-08-23T22:04:00.000+01:00

A short testament to the power of flyering, which, rather like prayer, occasionally appears to be effective but you have no way of telling if it'll work next time.

Tickets sold for tonight's performance at lunchtime today: 0

We took drastic action. We bought some 2 for 1 stickers from C, attached them to flyers, performed at Best of the Festival Musicals in the Radisson Hotel (only half a crowd, for a change) and targeted our potential audience. We carefully picked out punters, couples and friends walking in twos on the Royal Mile and explained that the flyers we were about to give them were very special, that they admitted two people for the price of one TONIGHT ONLY and that they must use them wisely.

Normal flyering is indiscriminate at the best of times (the only people I avoid are kids, the very old and the very foreign) but with only 18 2 for 1 special flyers to give away, I ebgan to hoard them. I made snap judgements about people's trustworthiness and likelihood of attending the show. I tried to work out if they would take the flyer to get rid of me and waste the 2 for 1 opportunity that another couple might kill for. So, after about eight hours of this nonsense, interspersed with watching a few shows, (shame on you, Four Sets of Lips, for magicking a "technical problem" to cancel the show when you learned you only had 6 audience members) we had allocated all the special flyers.

Back we went to C Venues, where I picked up the show CDs and enquired as to the number of tickets sold now.

Tickets sold for tonight's performance at 10.30pm today: 1

Well, the least we could do was give the poor bugger some company: what the hell, I asked for some complimentary free tickets to give out and managed to persuade a couple of lovely young locals (well, students at Edinburgh University) to come along. When we got to C 02, at about 10.50, the place was heaving. Surely this was not our audience? Ah but yes. It seems that (perhaps even without being flyered) the whole cast of Dracula at Bedlam had decided to come and see us, thus boosting audience numbers by about 400%.

Tickets sold for tonight's performance at 11pm tonight: 20+

How lovely tonight's audience were. Enthusiastic, loving it and so moved by our performance that they gave us a standing ovation, yelled for an encore, bought 5 CDs AND (the Dracula section anyhow) serenaded us with a moving song about necrophilia. After that the two students whom I'd lured in with comps grabbed us after the show and bought us cocktails and champagne all night. Thank you Gregor and especially Nick, you were adorable. And I hope you found your wallet.

A Week in the Life ...

2004-08-22T17:30:00.000+01:00

As Dave correctly observes, it's my turn to blog and has been for several days. (We take it in turns so that we don't turn this page into a titanic battle of the egos wrestling for dominance. Plus we have been SO spoiled by broadband that the dial-up here takes a little getting used to).

To be honest, it's not been the grestest of weeks so far, certainly for me, but as schadenfreude is a particularly 21st-century emotion as far as I'm concerned, I think it's only fair that you be allowed to revel in our pain blow by agonising blow, day by day...

So, counting backwards in traditional blog format, let me introduce you to the creeping horrors that lurk within

SATURDAY
Ah, it started so well. Lovely sunny day, twenty booked in to see us, Die Hard II on the TV - what could go wrong? I'll tell you what. Drunk people in the show can go wrong. Horribly wrong. See, the problem with drunk people is that they don't realise (or take any notice of the fact if they do) that they are:

a) not very funny (certainly not funny enough for people to pay to see them, as our audience had done to see us)
b) very loud
c) not supposed to smoke during the show (what with us having to sing and all).

Far be it from me to glare with mature disapproval upon young things taking their first taste of alcohol. I still remember with fondness that illicit Pernod and Black - and precious little thereafter. During cutting-edge comedy cabaret performances, however, I am with the Victorians in believing that they should be seen and not heard. The pissed-up kids in the front started off being a bit rowdy but in a laughing-loudly, enjoying themselves kind of way. They progressed to having loud conversations with each other in the middle of songs, and smoking fags, and annoying fellow punters. We soldiered on, but fuck me, it was hard. We tried embarrassing them and mocking them, Dave cut several minutes of his stand-up section to unleash three generations of schoolteacher genes' sarcasm on them, but they were possessed of the shame-proof incomprehension of the deeply sozzled. I suppose they count as hecklers (whoo! another first!) but hecklers usually have something sensible (if disparaging) to say, and with these guys, it was just ... um ... gibberish really. They had a brilliant time and showered Dave with kisses afterwards, but my apologies go out to the rest of the audience whose enjoyment was impaired.

Like I said at the end of the show, we've been Beauty and the Bitch, you (the rest of the audience) have been very patient, and you (waving the pointy finger of disapproving ire) have been very pissed. Good night!

(Next time, we are so hiring bouncers ...)

Now available in a store near you...

2004-08-17T19:48:00.000+01:00

The hallowed list of places that have witnessed a B+B performance now has a new name to add to the roll. Today we added the scalp of Edinburgh's very own Harvey Nichols department store. That is to sazy that I was rudely awakened this morning to the dulcet tones of my mistress screeching that I should "wake up, right now. We're playing in Harvey Nichols in an hour." I rolled off the capacious two-seater sofa that serves as my boudoir and realised that as I would be carrying the keyboard, I had better set off immediately.

Upon finding the shop (thanks to a curiously misplaced Cockney newspaper vendor) I was immediately approached by security. Not impressed by my claims that I was an artiste about to bless their halls with music, I was directed to the goods entrance. Around the back, I was met my another looming goon in a uniform that would have suited a banana republic paratrooper and directed to a security door and camera. Passing through this I was sent deep into the bowels of the building to the 'Security Control Centre' (and you just know that its inhabitants refer to it as the SCC). The Security Shift Supervisor (no less) then escorted me to the Staff Training Centre.

By this stage I was ready to deny I had ever been a member of the Comunist party and to denounce any number of my friends who had talked red at cocktail parties. Shine a bright light in my eyes and I would have freely divulged all I knew about Britains nuclear capability. With a glare, the officer locked me in.

Twenty minutes later I was released by a short, middle-aged lady who in my worried state of mind looked alarmingly like Rosa Klebb. She escorted me out into the store to find Katy sitting calmly in the middle of Men's Casualwear applying her make-up. No strip-search or detention for La Diva. Maybe I should lose the beard.

Anyhow, we delighted the purveyors of quality men's leisurewear, startled the three shoppers who passed through on route forthe discount rack, and proved without doubt that much of our material is ill-suited for busking. A triumph.

Next week I confidently expect to be dragged along to provide mood music for Millets.

Edinburgh Living

2004-08-15T17:05:00.000+01:00

There are certain things you don't find out about people until you live with them. Little things. Like, do they clean? Cook? Stay up late? Snore? Do they know how to roll a cigarette? Fix a toaster? Have they ever baked their own bread? Played the harmonica? Hand-washed an item of clothing?

It is only the last that need concern you, dear reader. Today being Fringe Sunday and most of the Fringe taking its traditional one day off, Beauty and the Bitch will plough ahead tonight as ever - and now Dave's much-abused show t-shirt (slogan: Are You Happy With the Size of Your Pianist?) will be sweet-smelling and shiny clean, thanks to an invention we in the civilised world call hand-washing.

See, thanks to the Monday-morning t-shirt printing paper we got from Jessops (shame on you, sirs: it was crap and probably several years out of date the T-shirt has up until now been deemed too fragile for the tender mercies of our washing machine. Fortunately Dave only wears it for an hour a night, but after what amounts to a long day's continuous wear it was in danger of breaking away from B&B and starting its own show. Likewise, the ribbons on my angel wings were starting to shred and have now been replace with sequinned elastic. Happy little homemakers that we are, we completed both tasks in between making lots of cups of tea and watching Spies Like Us on TV. As anyone who's downloaded the 80s Movie video from the main site will know, this is about as close to zen bliss as it gets chez B&B.

And now we're off to watch the allegedly brilliant musical The Translucent Frogs of Quuup at C too, for free! Watch this space for the inevitable review ...

Yes, you may all touch me

2004-08-13T17:21:00.000+01:00

Summer has finally rediscovered Edinburgh. The sun is bright, the air is warm, the streets teem with marks (sorry, tourists) and all is sweetness and light. There is a spring in my step and a song on my lips, my arms are spread with to cuddle the world. Yup, we had a good night last night.

Being the naturally shy and retiring type, a delicate social bloom, a wilting wallflower in life's rich dance, I am unaccustomed to unashamed praise, flattery and acclaim. Last night's audience were (amid fierce competition) clearly the most astute, perceptive and intelligent we have had to date. Barely had the applause settled into the dying echoes and we emerged from our dressing hole, when we were mobbed by what can only be described as fans. Real, honest-to-goodness, will-you-sign-my-nipples fans.

Okay, the nipples thing was a lie, but we signed programmes, cds and after several pints I may have signed a permission form for medical testing but my memory is hazy. There were none of the usual signs, no rictus grins, no thousand-yard stare, none of them had to catch a bus back to Broadmoor that night. These were simply people we had made laugh and who wanted to tell us how wonderful we were. Which was nice. Only trouble is, I have yet to decide exactly what to say to that after "Oh good, we're glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for coming."

"Yes, I know. Aren't we the greatest thing since perforated toilet paper" lacks a certain modesty and perspective. "Um, thanks. Er, I'm not much good unscripted" might be honest but it's a little bald and unfriendly. I think I settled for grinning like an idiot and being generally too chuffed to speak. Still, the free drinks were a real bonus.

Grateful thanks must also go to the cast and crew of Life 101 who were almost as good as audience members as they were in their show.

We relaxed afterwards to the late-night band at our venue: "Hexicon". Two young boys from the depths of rural Kent who almost made me too embarrassed to pick up a guitar ever again. Not content with covering all my favourites from the Pixies to P.J.Harvey, their own material was very good as well. Tuneful and complex, melancholy with a bite. To cap it all off, they took a break in the middle of the set for a performance unsurpassed amongst stuffed hand-puppets at this year's festival. A young lion and his 'brother', a penguin, performed with such brio and elan that I shall never be able to hear "500 miles" by The Proclaimers or "It wasn't me" by Shaggy in the same way ever again.

Off out again, gearing up to another show later tonight. Adulation is something I had better just learn to deal with. The hardship...

Rain drain

2004-08-12T13:17:00.000+01:00

You know, perhaps it's the eternally cheery memories of my youth: perhaps it's the rose-tinted spectacles we all wear when we come up to Edinburgh as a fresh-faced student, act in a four-star show, make money on it (that never happens more than once in a lifetime) and spend a lot of time with lovely people, but my memories of Edinburgh festivals past have always been sun-soaked. Ice-creams in the park, roasting days on the Royal Mile, jumpers for goalposts; all these fond recollections drove me in a fit of madness to pack my capacious suitcase with nothing but the flimsiest of tops and shortest of skirts - all the better to flyer in, I thought.

Reader, was I nuts? I didn't even bring a coat. Leather skirt - check. Thigh-high vinyl boots (surprisingly comfortable and waterproof) - yup. Angel wings - present and correct. Sensible warm clothing ... er ... no. And although the first week was as predicted, blazingly hot and lovely, since then the Athens of the North has been foggy, rainy, thundery, wet, miserable and drizzling by turns. If it weren't for the fact that our venue is snug and warm as a recently vacated duvet I would no doubt have caught my death by now, given the daring brevity of most of my performance outfits.

Flyering in the rain is a strangely numinous experience. It always reminds me of TS Eliot's line about the businessmen walking over the bridge into the city "so many ... I did not know death had undone so many". People are not in the mood to have a sodden flyer shoved into their hands, and even postering becomes pretty much pointless. The sellotape won't stick, the print comes off and all you're left with is a bag full of papier-mache and squelchy shoes.

But the show must go on, and to make up for my cruel neglect of the blog for the last few days, I'll give you a potted history. Night before last, I was surprised and thrilled to see the lovely Dan in the audience, along with his girlfriend Esther and her friend Johnny - especially as one of the judges for the Perrier Newcomer award was in the audience. It was a big, cheerful crowd overall and despite a slight technical problem I thought it was the third-best night we'd had so far ... but as ever, any individual's response comes down to a matter of taste. Lat night we had the Scotsman in along with a slightly older crowd, and it was a funny mix of those who hooted with laughter at our more tasteless gags (we sold a couple of CDs on the strength of the show) and those who loved the milder stuff but looked a bit stunned by things like a chirpy tune about eating disorders. It's not like we don't set out our stall (the show's on at 11, the blurb says "audio-fellatio for the discerning cynic") but there are definitely still parts of the act that are well beyond Graham Norton style family-friendly innuendo.

I want to print some press quotes for the poster today. (not that they'll survive the rain, but a girl can dream). So, I'm thinking, just to make things quite clear:

"Style and sass, with a dash of venom" (Three Weeks)
"Seduces the audience ... a shamelessly sordid alternative to the traditional cabaret glitz" (Fest)
"Sophisticated show with its mind firmly in the gutter" (Metro)

Ladies and gentlemen, leave your taste at the door. With touching songs about homosexual necrophilia, amnesiac sex and bulimia as a dieting technique, you can be sure we're not covering old ground. Beyond-the-pale pioneers, that's us. See you there .... if you dare. ;)

B+B - now in vision

2004-08-08T13:09:00.000+01:00

Slipping gently into a routine of flyering, schmoozing, flyering, watching free shows, flyering, drinking, flyering and chatting up the venue staff, our first week has passed all too rapidly. However, some of you poor readers unable to make it to Edinburgh may be gnawing at your knuckles as you sit at the keyboard, desperate to come closer to the B+B live experience. Have no fear, for through the magic of the cheap digital camera we can now bring you Beauty and The Bitch in living colour!

Mighty Power Duo

Just turn your head and cough...

Let's get ready to RAWK!

No fluffy animals were hurt in the creation of these images, although some squirrels experienced temporary hearing loss.

Cabaret in the afternoon

2004-08-07T16:55:00.000+01:00

This morning your hard-working, hard-drinking, PlayStation Who Wants To Be A Millionaire champions (thanks Dave) woke up to the sound of the door buzzer going off like an aroused wasp. Odd, as no-one except the venue and anyone who visits the website knows our Edinburgh address. I crawled out of bed to receive a mystery box from Marks and Spencer, addressed to me. A secret admirer? Our excitable reviewer from Three Weeks, who was kind enough to describe my performance as having a "sexual charge ... style and sass, with a dash of venom"?

Nope: as what remained of a rather nice potted plant and a lot of soil spilled onto the bathroom floor (it's OK, we hoovered it all up) along with a box of Belgian chocolates, I realised it was from my dear old Mum and Dad. Thanks guys. You know what a woman needs after a hard night on the tiles.

So, the hammer fell as predicted by Doomsayer Dave last night: although we had a good-sized audience again, the opening number was a tad compromised by the fact that our loveable man-child of a venue technician was kind enough to unplug the keyboard, which knocked us off our stride a bit; but we manfully struggled on and hopefully by the end had lulled them into a false sense of security. Yeah! You should see us when our instruments are working!

Fortunately the chocolate boost of this morning got us off to a decent start appearing in the Best of the Festival Musicals show at Sweet Venue (2.45 daily), where we shared a stage with the singing sisters of Nunsense the Musical and I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change (also on at C). The venue was fab - a bar, nice comfy chairs and intimate tables, and a baby grand that probably still retains traces of Dave's drool. Even the small children in the audience laughed along to If I Were Gay and our wide selection of innuendo-based gags, and we were quizzed afterwards by an earnest American chap about songwriting. Next year we'll just do a masterclass so that all can worship, sorry, learn at our feet. But until then we'll be appearing in Best of the Fest Musicals again on Sunday 8th and Monday 9th, attention whores that we are.

Topping the bill of today so far, however, was bumping randomly into Bjacques of Barbelith fame, who somehow recognised me from the exceptionally flattering pictures on the site and gave us a miniature of whisky in honour on my online alias. Score!

Before the inevitable crash...

2004-08-06T20:52:00.000+01:00

Some day I shall begin to hire the mistress out as a modern seer. The goose giblets may take her some time to get used to, but her track record is improving. Six people she said, maybe as many as nineteen... Close, m'dear. Thanks to a lovely group of people in matching tie-dyed t-shirts, we stormed to a rousing 23 in the crowd last night. Not only that, but they were all, as we say in the trade, 'up for it'. Milady strutted and warbled to perfection, playing the audience like an eight-year-old on a gameboy, dropping bon mots like seasoned old-pro and generally keeping them dancing with delight in the palm of her elegantly manicured hand. For my part, I lost a couple of stones in pure sweat and milked and mugged my way to an ego-gratifying number of laughs. A triumph, my dears. Positively a triumph! And they all paid!

As you can imagine, they self-congratulatory air of the post-show drinks was hardly reduced by the discovery that the bar that serves as our venue was prepared to offer us 2 for 1 cocktails as performers. I basked like a shark in the glory of last night. This morning we awoke and ventured into town to find that our posters were going up and our fabulous flyers were ready for distribution. Life is sweet and I am smug.

Clearly, this cannot last. Cassandra has not been able to tell me what calamity will befall us in the near future, but there can be no doubt that disaster is on the horizon, looming like a fart in a doctor's surgery. However, in the mean time I shall eat drink and make merry with the denizens of this fair town. Be warned, the Bitch is in an expansive, effusive and downright huggly mood. Approach with caution.

Sex, lies and gaffer tape

2004-08-05T21:07:00.000+01:00

All right, so I lied about the sex. And, fortunately, the lie about the sex takes care of the lies part of this generally misleading headline, leaving only the gaffer tape, which was definitely available on the night of our technical rehearsal a couple of days ago.

It's a little-known fact that much of Western architecture, and theatres in particular, and theatres hastily converted from the underbellies of bars during Festival Fringe time almost without exception, are lsrgely held together with gaffer tape. Gaffer does it all: stick it up, hold it down, bind it together, wind it round - it will do anything to anything. Even X the Spanish techie (think Manuel in Fawlty Towers, but with dreadlocks) knows the words "gaffer tape", the magic stuff with which 90% of theatrical problems can be solved. In gaffer we trust.

Reader, we had our first night. Despite the thumping bass from the bar upstairs, the low beam in the middle of the ceiling that lies in wait for unwary 6ft-plus heads, and the fairy lights (put up by yours truly, trusting in gaffer perhaps a little too implicitly) crashing to the floor in the middle of the dress, we managed to get through last night without major incident.

We remembered the words of the songs and the punchlines of the gags, (not to mention improvising a few more as the situation demanded) and didn't bump into the furniture, and so even though we started half an hour late (someone had cut off the electricity to the venue or something) our audience of five seemed rather entertained by the show, which is after all the whole point. As they say in showbiz, today five - tomorrow six! Or two, or nineteenL: you never know at the Fringe until the reviews come out, so cross all your digits for your hard-working cabaret artistes and watch this space ...

From our correspondant in the north

2004-08-02T23:12:00.000+01:00

So here we are in Edinburgh. Home of my forefathers; land of mists and mellow drunkenness. We have landed in that peculiar lull before the Fringe storm. As one wanders the streets of the capital (searching for a piece of black ribbon since you ask) there are the expected tourists, the busking pipers in their Black Watch finest and every third phone box has a sign outside reading 'Venue 437'. All this is true. And yet, in 36 hours, I have had only one flyer violently thrust at me.

Awake, ye hordes of student thesps! Arise, ye stand-ups formed in array! Stand forth, ye leotarded avant-garde and thrill our hearts once more! Bring me chain-saw juggling and Mormon choirs on the Royal Mile. Fill Princes Street with sunburned casts of rock musicals in suspenders. Come flyer bombs and fall on Cowgate. It's only fit for drinking now.

Actually, things are nice. Flat is lovely. Weather fine. Not missing work. Found nice pub with good beer. Sleep patterns awol. Wish you were here.

P.S.

Have formed a new plan to live exclusively off the free food offered during other peoples performances. Already aranged a deal to exchange use of my keyboard for chocolate cake. Now all I have to do is find a source of free alcohol...

It was all just a beautiful dream ...?

2004-08-02T14:07:00.000+01:00

By which I mean that we arrived in Edinburgh yesterday (Sunday) at about 2pm, drank, ate, went shopping for technical stuff (and came back with ice cream) rehearsed, had dinner, and then at the for-Edinburgh-early hour of 10.30pm, trundled down to our venue C o2 for the start of our four-hour technical rehearsal.

But to begin at the beginning. First, the flat. Now, anyone who's been to Edinburgh during Festival time knows that the traditional one-person-per-room sleeping arrangements usually found in the affluent West suddenly revert to the sort of pile 'em high, sell 'em cheap approach common to supermarket shelves, Third World refugee camps and Big Brother. I've now been up here four times and have rarely shared my room with fewer than three other people. Mattresses and air beds are the order of the day, if you're lucky: Four Yorkshiremen squalor one-upmanship and horror stories of flea-infested slums are rife whenever two or more performers are gathered together.

But apparently it doesn't have to be this way. Not only is it possible to rent a lovely one-bedroom flat right on the Grassmarket (Edinburgh's Covent Garden) for a reasonable rate, but if you sacrifice chickens and dance widdershins round the Pleasance, said flat will also come equipped with a lovely, courteous and friendly landlord who leaves food! in the fridge!! and instructions! for the washing machine!!! (exclamation marks mine). If you fall into a laudanum-induced coma and have the sort of visionary experience that inspired Samuel Taylor Coleridge to write "Kubla Khan", you will also find that there is a PC! with free internet access!! and a Playstation!!! and you're allowed to smoke!!!!

And then you wake up.

And realise it's all true.

Midway through the journey of my life...

2004-07-27T00:46:00.000+01:00

A spectre of a bard long dead
I slowly raise my weary head
And follow Beauty's siren call.

A gig, we had, last night 'tis true,
A concert with a wond'rous view,
And laughter spread to one and all.

I'd better stop there before you or I lose the will to live. Yes, last night saw the last B+B gig before Edinburgh and the long awaited test of the festival set-list and extraneous patter. For those of you of a legal bent (or members of the Fringe First committee) I should quickly point out that the event was by invitation only and no charge was made for the performance. We were offered some blueberry schnapps afterwards but that was purely medicinal and evidence of the warm-hearted hospitality of our hosts rather than some sordid financial transaction.

Katy may gush about having an illuminated Tower Bridge as a backdrop, or the windswept ambiance of performing in the middle of the Thames, but the Bitch's heart was set on playing the gorgeous baby grand.

No Bitches may be found in this photograph.

Now I may (alright I do, endlessly) complain that Madame's interest can be all too easily captivated, like a kitten with a piece of string, by the prospect of a high-tech, high-concept or highly expensive stage backdrop. For those of you who doubt by side of the argument I would remind you of the length of time it took your browser to download the moving image of the star-cloth below. However, even I would be forced to admit, that having one of London's most memorable landmarks floodlit behind you as the sunset fades in the sky was pretty damn breathtaking and is going to take some beating.

How did it go? Bear in mind that I was stuck away at the back of the stage on a raised platform, exposed to the wind and so could only hear Katy for much of the show. In lulls between gusts I could hear what sounded like laughter and they looked like they were having fun. From my point of view, I managed to rip the nail off my thumb strumming my way through an unplugged, acoustic version of 'Serious Song' and the power cut out on the keyboard at the climax of 'If I Were Gay'. On the other hand, the audience thought that was part of the act and I've never been one to turn down a free or unintentional laugh. Ignore me, my childhood hero was Oscar the Grouch. From all accounts, biased, honest, drunken and unsolicited alike, it went very well. It was quite a diverse crowd and everyone claimed to have enjoyed it and laughed a lot. Which was nice.

Disturbingly, in the last week or so I have acquired a brief stand-up slot within the act, otherwise known as Katy's fag break. As the last time I tried stand-up I was greeted with a baffled wave of confusion, apathy and drunken hostility it was something of a jolt to be well received. Funny even. I guess bilingual puns about obscure historical minutiae wasn't the future of comedy after all...

So, the wind is at our backs, our jib is cut and our eyes are fixed on the northern horizon. We are ship-shape and, if not Bristol fashion, decidedly bosomy none-the-less. I would just like to take this opportunity to thank everyone at the moorings for giving us such a wonderful welcome and the chance to play a venue unlike any other. I can't finish without mentioning that this community is currently under threat, despite support from the Mayor, Deputy Mayor, the local MP, many, many celebrity faces and much of the local community. It would be a crime to let this vibrant, thriving micro-culture die and to lose another part of London's history to the power of local development. Follow the link for more details, I shall descend from the soap-box now.

I shall probably not get the chance to write again before we're off so I shall say goodbye until Edinburgh. I suppose I had better go and pack...

Il miglior fabbri

2004-07-26T20:14:00.000+01:00

That's who I'm leaving the inevitable rich and detailed description of last night's triumphant Beauty and the Bitch Edinburgh preview to (Clue: that means you, Dave). I may well have spelt it wrong, as my Italian, mediaeval or otherwise, is weak as a kitten on crutches, but please just pounce on me in the comments if I am wrong, as I cannot be arsed to google for it.

Two words sum up the delicious, windswept and stunningly-viewed Arts Ark for me: floating bandstand. What do you get when you search for an image of a floating bandstand? Well, you get this:

Not only lovely, but strangely evocative of Sunday night's venue, despite actually being in Australia.

Over to you, Virgil ...

Tick Tock

2004-07-24T12:05:00.000+01:00

And the countdown to Edinburgh continues apace.

Accommodation and venue booked? Check - and our flat's in salubrious Grassmarket, just a hope skip and a jump from the venue. I WILL stop being smug quite soon, I expect.
Songs written? Check (I should bloody well hope so, by this stage). Although how we were going to fit our 15-song repertoire into a 55-minute slot was a profound mystery until we came up with the idea of having a couple of "swap songs" in the running order, whereby we could substitute one or more of the songs for a new one and, er, perform them for the first time in front of an Edinburgh audience. Eeeeek. Was that really a good plan? Talk about baptisms of fire ...
Technical equipment begged, borrowed or stolen? Check (mostly). I don't know whether other women enjoy shopping for gadgets and cool technical stuff as much as I do, but clearly when sperm and egg fused to create one-cell Katy, something went strange with the female shopping chromosome, which has somehow become inextricably linked to the male one for messing around with electronic toys. So whereas I should start salivating like Pavlov's dogs every time I see a bridal shop or nail bar, what actually makes me very very excited is something like a Treo mobile phone/PDA (sadly deceased), a digital camera (back when 2.1 was a lot of megapixels) or a starcloth.

So pretty! In fact, if for some reason the venue walls aren't strong enough to support its 9kg weight, I'm having it in my damn bedroom. So there. Oh, we also need a sustain pedal (or something), a radio mike and an electroacoustic guitar. It's a good job the car's big. Although whether it's big enough for all that, the keyboard, myself, Beren, Dave and my costumes is a rather more fraught question. If it comes to the crunch, I fear Dave may have to walk ...

Funny is as funny does

2004-07-24T02:07:00.000+01:00

I'd like, if you'd be so good as to oblige me, to conduct a little thought experiment. Think of your favourite joke. Something simple. Something funny. If you can't think of anything then you'll have to make do with the following:

The Pentagon today announced that it had uncovered a cache of text books, protractors, slide rules and calculators hidden in a cave in Northern Iraq. They are claiming the find as evidence of Weapons of Maths Instruction.

Sorry. Still with me? Okay then. Try memorising the joke and then repeating it endlessly over the course of six weeks varying the wording, trying to find the pithiest way of saying it. Run the joke over and over again until you can do it in your sleep (or in front of a paying audience). Still think it's funny? Even if you thought it was to begin with, how sure are you that it still is? What are you willing to bet on it's potential to get a laugh? Now imagine that rather than a joke you were told (and, if you bothered to remember it, chances are you laughed when you heard it) this joke is in fact, one that you have written. The only way to know if it's funny is to tell someone, but the only situation you have to tell the joke is one where you've not only told perfect strangers in advance that you can make them laugh, but you've taken cold, hard cash off them on the promise of doing so.

Still funny?

I'm not asking for any special pleading here. I can't imagine that there's any way round this. I doubt it's any easier if you're big-time stand-up headlining the festival or one of the writers of a tiny student sketch show. Funny is funny and in a market as crowded as the Fringe, there ain't a hell of a lot of room for 'nearly', 'slightly chucklesome' or 'good effort - I nearly smiled'.

So, yeah, the act is pretty much nailed down. The songs are written, the patter is polished, the scent of fear is in the air and it's one week to go. Do you feel funny, punk? I'll let you know...

Should I stay or should I go now?

2004-07-23T01:08:00.000+01:00

I mentioned earlier, the deep and abiding love that I feel for my job. That black hole that sucks 42 hours of my life away every week, exposes me to the bile and self-righteous anger of Joe Q. Public on a regular basis and gives me the sleeping patterns of an insomniac teething baby? Ah, thought so. Until recently, my sweet and understanding boss had taken my request for the month of August off (to enable us to take the show to Edinburgh) as a formal giving of notice on my part. Then, ten days ago, everyone else in the shop handed in their notice for the end of July as well. This, please understand, was not in some misguided attempt at solidarity but purely because no-one in their right mind stays there longer than they have to.

I am not Spartacus. However, this has caused a distinct sound of backsliding to appear in the air whenever I talk to the boss. You might have thought that, with my leaving at the end of next week, some final decision would have been reached - not with the shining example of staff morale-boosting that passes for senior management at my firm. The final straw was being phoned at work tonight to be asked if I would still be contactable by phone when I was away. Clearly, the little ferret is planning on hedging his bets until the last possible moment of my return. Still, I may just have the last laugh. If he has not officially terminated my employment before I leave, then any time I spend in Edinburgh is agreed leave and can be counted against the two weeks paid holiday I have coming to me. Think I'll keep that one to myself...

Anyway, back to the act. Preparations continue apace for Sundays 'secret' gig. I now have a super-sexy new toy to play with as we've acquired an electro-acoustic guitar to replace my elderly hot-pink electric. Not that it wasn't a talking point, but I just didn't give off the required Aran jumper and sandals aura that an acoustic provides. My life is turning into Bob Dylans in reverse. Shortly I shall change my name to Zimmerman.

Preparing to meet ones adoring public is always difficult, but for me the hardest part of the final preparations is looming on my 'to do' list for tomorrow. No prevarication, procrastination, or petrified posturing can conceal the fact that I have to get my hair cut. There is nothing in principle wrong with hair cutting. I have no wish to resemble an Old English Sheepdog and truth be told, it is getting a little warm up top with several inches of unwanted insulation. I don't have to look at the finished results and so the process should be relatively painless. The problem is that, in keeping with my generally clueless state over all questions of style and fashion, I have never mastered the art of going into a hairdressers and asking for a cut. The routine usually goes as follows:

Me: I'd like a haircut, please.
Hairdresser: Certainly, sir. How would you like it?
Me: Off.
Hairdresser: Erm. What do you mean?
Me: I don't know. Shorter. Kind of tidy.
Hairdresser: Would you like me to use the clippers?
Me: Yeah. That'd do it. Set it to 2 and stop when you reach the neck.
Hairdresser: (Wondering what they did wrong in a previous life) Right then.

You see, it gets the job done but I'm left feeling like an idiot. Which may be accurate, but dispiriting. I usually just hack it off myself which is both cheaper and better for the ego, but I've left it too long and I'd need a flymo. I was wondering, gentle reader, if anyone had any helpful suggestions for how I could translate "Just cut it short so it's out of the way and I don't have to come back here for a long time" into fluent coiffurese? And while we're at it, any tips for engaging in small talk when your glasses have been hijacked and some stranger with an aversion to the subtle application of perfume is buzzing around your head with either a shower nozzle or a pair of dangerously sharp scissors? Outside my head they're asking about my holiday plans, inside my head runs a chant of 'Struwelpeter, Struwelpeter, Struwelpeter...'

My head, dear hearts, is in your hands...

The joy of Blogger

2004-07-16T23:26:00.000+01:00

One of the things about Blogger, as I've just discovered, is that if you enter certain types of e.g. music in your profile, you can then look at all the other bloggers who've entered the same thing. As I tried to be as massively eclectic as possible in naming my three chosen music-makers, how freaked was I to find that I share at least two of my tastes (or are they?) with another?

How even more freaked was I to discover that this blogger who has indicated a fondness for Elgar and Del Amitri is 98-year-old Hugh from Indiana?

Hugh
98-year old male Aries
Greenwood : Indiana : United States
34 recent posts (505 total)

Fortunately I was joking, so we don't have to get married. Or was I?

Argy Bargy

2004-07-16T20:12:00.000+01:00

No, not yet another musical-related spat between myself and the divine Dave, but a reference to the surely significant fact that our next performance is also likely to be on the water. Talks are currently being held about doing a secret gig* on Sunday 25th July (i.e. just before we go up to Edinburgh) on a friend's barge, which comes handily equipped with a grand piano. Don't they all?

(Actual piano may differ from that shown)

There's something strange and lovely about playing a set with the waves lapping at the hull and the floor lurching gently beneath your feet. When I say strange I obviously mean nauseating, but apart from the whole trying to keep your voice in key and your breakfast in place, it really is rather special.

Cabaret Manners Vol 1:
Dave and I were privileged earlier this year to be dragged along to experience the full-spectrum musical psychosis that is Kiki and Herb: (see http://uk.gay.com/article/2537 for details cos bloody linky thing isn't working) playing on board the HMS President. Kiki, clawing her way onto tables and vocally raping such classic artists as Eminem, is fantastically disturbing and perhaps not to be emulated unless I want a hernia and a lawsuit; but Herb, who sits at the back, plonking away on his keyboard and uttering not a word from one hour to the next, really is a model of appropriate accompanist behaviour. Bitches take note.

*By the way, if you're wondering about the secret nature of the secret gig I've just told you about, it's secret because (as places are limited and barges have been known to sink under the sheer tonnage of our screaming fans before now) you have to contact us if you want to come. First come first served, last one to the gangplank is a tax accountant.

Such is our excitement at playing this prestigious venue (and piano) deep in the heart of London's glamorous Docklands, that we are giving away tickets for free. If you'd like a ticket (and a map) email info@beautyandbitch.co.uk and we'll send you details nearer the time, as well as putting you on our mailing list for future gigs and B&B news. If you just want a ticket or two and don't want to be put on the list, just holler. We will be playing our full Edinburgh set, having a drink and then singing more songs, some of which will be world premieres, until you beg for mercy. See you on the Thames ...

Back at the coal-face

2004-07-16T04:14:00.000+01:00

Well, the tart and the tramp were back on stage again tonight. We're right in the middle of organising production details, publicity and all the paperwork for our Edinburgh shows, but every now and again, you have to get out there and strut your stuff just so you don't forget why you're ploughing through the drudgery. There's no point in having the best organised show in town if you're so rusty performance-wise that it's no longer fun to watch. So tonight was our penultimate warm-up gig.

"Cheese and Crackers" is a monthly variety cabaret masquerading as a talent night down in Vauxhall on the Battersea Barge. It generates a really good atmosphere and has been very good to us over the last few months, allowing us to try out a lot of our new material in front of a live audience. Of course, by the time the voting comes around at the end of the night everyone's too pissed to care too much who wins, but dammnit, I could have done the the victory cheese plate tonight. Yesterday, I discovered that my treasured stilton was missing from the fridge and I have yet to track down the culprit. I don't know if you can experience dairy produce cold-turkey, but I was definately jonesing for some blue cheese this evening.

Back to the point, we got a chance to test our new opening number (Once More, with Feline) out as an attention grabber and dust off the old classic 'Just a Good Friend' again. I must say, it felt damn good to be back on stage. There are only so many times you can laugh at your own jokes (though I have yet to discover what that number is for Katy) and it's easy to forget whether something is actually funny once it's been rehearsed into the ground. Hearing people laugh in all the right places really set me up for the Festival next month. One more gig at the end of the month and we're off north. It's all too bloody close for comfort, but after tonight I'm a lot more confident and relaxed. Expect things will revert back to frantic soon, but for tonight the Bitch is in a mellow mood.

As Rumpole of the Bailey wearily climbs to his feet...

2004-07-13T23:02:00.000+01:00

Whilst I would be glad to place before the court several instances of my appreciation of forms of entertainment best described as 'kitsch', 'camp', 'ironic' or just plain bloody awful, I would table the motion that there are far better targets for your riposte.

A) I have yet to watch one episode of 'Tru Calling' all the way through and only tuned in for three. In my defence:

There are greater forces in this world than quality acting, writing or direction.

B) In the absence of a statute of limitations, I will be forced to plead my youth. It was a school production: I had a choice of spending time in the company of a rugby team of potential psychotics of questionable aroma or as one of the few 'artistic' boys in close proximity with 90% of the school's female population and being permitted to grow my hair beyond regulation length. I was seventeen. Think about it.

Frankly, the fact that the results were three-and-a-half hours of dubious artistic merit only serves to reiterate my position that children and musical theatre are a poisonous combination.

P.S. Chess sucks.

Outside. Now.

2004-07-13T17:07:00.000+01:00

Ha! Some people just can't take a bit of healthy competition. And moreover ...

a) I really can't believe I'm being lectured on taste by a man who has knowingly and willingly watched more than one episode of Tru Calling.

b) I really can't believe I'm being lectured on musicals by a man who played Dobbin in the for-some-reason-never-revived Bath production of Vanity Fair: The Musical.

c) There's nothing wrong with liking Chess.

Seen and not heard or Keep your bloody daughter off my stage, Mrs. Worthington

2004-07-13T00:21:00.000+01:00

I would cry genuine tears of collectible Bitch brine if I gave the impression that may place on this earth was merely to contradict and correct my esteemed colleague. However, there are callumnies and social faux pas so heinous that it would pain my tiny heart not to rise to the bait. Some of these, such as the wearing of corduroy cut-offs or busking to the works of Busted, can be settled with a smart open-handed slap to the temple. Some crimes of taste require me to don the cavalry-twill of avuncular wisdom and patiently explain to Katy the error of her ways.

So, to Alan Parker's paedophile paradise, the sacharine stage-Mom pleaser 'Bugsy Malone'. It is not true the Mr.Parker has never knowingly made a decent film. It just feels true if you've ever sat through any of the others. There was The Committments and er, um, you know, that other one, that one you enjoyed when it was on several Christmasses ago. Thingy. Admittedly, he's not exactly reknowned for his subtlty or avoidance of stodgy bombast but I don't think we can blame him for the sheer blood-curdling horror that this musical arouses in my blood. Indeed, were I to come face to face with one of Harry Potter's Dementors I can well believe that I would find myself playing piano at an endless audition for a provincial amateur production whilst an infinite hoard of precocious tap-dancing pre-teens squawked and simpered their way through the songs.

Further, it is not that all the songs of themselves are to blame. "Tomorrow" is a simple but effective smoky blues tune with workmanlike yet workable lyrics. "Bad Guys" may be as musically complex as Talking Heads' "Road to Nowhere" (the only top-40 hit I know of based on only two chords) but it has a charm and verve that it would be churlish of me to deny. The problem is not the material (although the weak one-liners, poor pastiche of pulp dialogue and ham-fisted slapstick of the book and screenplay can have little or no defence) but the fact that it is performed by bloody kids!

The 'joke' that all the hoods, swingers, vamps, heels and cops are just kids wears thin after the first thirty-seconds or so and yet is expected to sustain an entire evening of the under-talented, over-trained pitiful performances of pint-sized, painted, pre-teen preeners. If you want to see a dark tale of crime and corruption played-off against comic songs and genuinely inventive use of the musical genre to offer contrast, bathos, pathos and subjective commentary, then I suggest you try Brecht and Weil's Threepenny Opera. If you want a nice, simplistic film about Prohibition gangsters with clearly defined Good and Bad guys, try The Untouchables. Hell, if you want to watch Jodie Foster when she is far too young for the thoughts running through your head then just get hold of a copy of 'Taxi Driver'. This is the reason I cannot look at the picture Katy posted below with out visualising handcuffs on her upraised arms and a cigarette burning out in an ashtray off camera.

Put simply, I have yet to see a child's performance of an adult role or song that was improved by the age of the performer. A talking dog is of note, not for what it says, but for the fact that it talks at all. I am too scarred by memories of apalling TV 'Talent' shows from the late seventies that seemed to be populated entirely by fourteen-year-olds pretending to be washed-up divas; their voices an apalling mixture of middle-aged wobble and youthfull harshness. Bonnie Langford, I'm looking at you.

No, my Beauty, I will never cure you of your addiction to 'Chess', but I am determined that, in time, you will see that musical theatre is a difficult and demanding genre that requires talent, training and maturity. The skills needed are more than a winsome smile, perfect dentition and an unbroken voice (whatever the career of Darren Day seeks to prove in opposition). The time has come to put away childish things. Please, for the sake of both our sanity, do not bring that accursed tape with you to Edinburgh and finally, this is what prime jail-bait should look like:

He's a sinner, candy-coated ...

2004-07-12T23:06:00.000+01:00

God forbid that in these virtual pages I come across as some sort of misanthespian West-End-hating bile junkie, chasing an ever-retreating vitriolic high by pouring scorn on the work of my theatrical betters. I realise that there are more important things in the world than feeling a bit cheated upon leaving a place of cosy, middle-class entertainment.

On the one hand, the world is full of nasty things - disease, poverty, human cruelty and Council Tax (which encompasses at least two of the above). On the other, it is a place of unbearable beauty: of rainbow-coloured sunsets, of majestic wildlife, and of mankind's highest achievement: Bugsy Malone.

(This is my happy jpg. This is my happy jpg because when I googled for "manic grin" I got a picture from a Russian website devoted to PG Wodehouse. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.)

But back to the burden of my song ... which is that I love musicals. I love musicals more than I am confused by Pinter, amused by the Mighty Boosh or bored by David Hare. I'm basically a gay man trapped in a woman's body, that's how much I love them. And in Bugsy Malone there is a totally original high-concept (gangster movie with kids), a brace of brilliant performances and a score to die for. This music is so good that if I put it on when I'm doing the washing up, I hardly even mind that I'm doing the washing up. It's like drugs. Drugs made of song.

If anyone can look me in the eye and tell me that the thumping rhythms of "Down and Out" doesn't make them want to do a stomping dance routine on the table, or that "Bad Guys" is something less than a work of subtle lyrical genius, let them prepare to be poked in that very eye. How can you argue with lines like these?

We could have been anything that we wanted to be
With all the talent we had
With a little practice
We've made every blacklist
We're the very best at being bad!

You're rotten to the core
My congratulations, no-one likes you any more!

Bad guys! (JAZZ HANDS!)

We've made the big time, malicious and mad
We're the very best at being bad!

And of course, it contains every ten-year-old's female role model:

Some things just can't be improved on.

A load of Old Times

2004-07-12T12:28:00.000+01:00

On Saturday night I was less than privileged to catch a performance of Harold Pinter's timeless (or was that endless?) tragicomic masterpiece, Old Times. I'm not going to link to it because a) I'll only stuff it up and b) it really was, for an (allegedly) marvellous script performed by A-list Brit talent, about the dullest piece of theatre I've seen since An Inspector Calls. And my arse still has numbness flashbacks from that one.

Now, it's not that I've got anything particularly against Pinter: I saw The Caretaker a few years ago with Michael Gambon, and it was witty and funny and made some sort of sense, which unless (and even if, really) you're talking about wacky avant-garde stuff, a comic play ought to be able to do. However, the laughter generated by this production of Old Times was at best, relieved (i.e. the actors had said something lighthearted and easily understood) and at worst, born of confusion or incongruity in the characters and/or text. Both, if you were lucky.
Shame on you, director Roger Michell (responsible for such cinematic gems as Notting Hill) - everyone else tried their absolute hardest and you didn't even read the script!

I don't consider myself a particularly obtuse theatregoer and I've been watching and reading modern plays for a good ten years, but I must admit I was overwhelmingly relieved when my sister turned to me at the end of an hour and a half of what played increasingly like a senile dream-sequence and said "What the hell was that all about, then?"

Infinite monkeys and the modern movie script.

2004-07-10T00:12:00.000+01:00

Never let it be said that the Bitch is not practical. Whilst some would-be creative genii are content to be the middlemen in a direct transfer from Daddy's trust fund to the local weed merchant and some feel that money, food and minor luxuriant touches such as the avoidance of scurvy would interfere with their muse, I scorn such petty disdain for reality. No, the Bitch toils mightily and without thanks in the dank underbelly of entertainment retail. Yes, my friends, my younglings, I'm the manager of our local video rental shop.

This may look like the ideal job from the outside. I sit in a bullet-proof box all day, occasionally looking up from the Guardian crossword or some coroner-chic crime novel to sneer at the next fool to rent 'Love, Actually' or 'Haunted Mansion'. I stir myself, on occasion, to place a few titles back on the shelf and return to my busy schedule of staring into space. I even get free rentals and watch films before they are out on the shelves. Herein, dear reader, lies today's problem. For, not only may I watch next weeks releases, but I must. Let me just warn any avid fans of the cinematic arts that Monday 12th July is not a date for your diaries.

I have friends (I even like some of them). I have friends who travel. I have friends who have recently traveled to the United States. From their frenzied reports and from the reviews it garnered on its cinema release, I sat down to watch Jack Black in the 'School of Rock' expecting an experience approaching the Second Coming of Groucho Marx. What I got was 'Sister Act 2' with the black nun replaced by a fat, gurning fool. I have nothing against the well-built man. I, myself, am no stranger to the all-you-can-eat-buffet that is Somerfields 'reduced to clear' shelf. I greatly enjoyed the performance of Mister Black in 'High Fidelity' and regard his performance of 'Let's Get it On' at the climax as one of the highlights of my DVD collection. I am pestered by a warm and fuzzy feeling just thinking about it. However, Messrs Black, White and Linklater ("Why do I have to be Mr. Linklater - it sounds like a tardy sausage-maker? I want to be Mr. Red.""Mr. Red is on another job.") forgot to add a number of elements to the script; namely laughs, character arcs and any understanding of RAWK. Characters wander into shot, state they name and explain that they are archetype A. If we are lucky, they will attract our attention later and tell us that they are now archetype B. Our classical pianist is still the same 2-d Asian stereotype, but now he wears a cape and has spiky hair. Our fat, shy girl has discovered that she can sing and is now a fat, smiling girl. Poor Joan Cusack is stuck playing the same repressed School Principal throughout. Never forget, kids, women with a successful career and no children must be anally-retentive, lonely, unfulfilled and desperate to land our hero or any passing leather-clad rock poodle. Don't even let me get started on the 'gay' ten-year-old who makes John Inman look like a nuanced take on modern queer culture.

More to the point, why make a film about rock music, a comedy, no less, without understanding what might be funny about the music itself? Heavy metal parody, after Spinal Tap, may be redundant but it's hardly rocket science. Reprising 'Wayne's World' with 'Immigrant Song' replacing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' hardly illustrates an abiding love or interest in the music. The songs in 'School of Rock' range from the pathetic (Maths is Great) to mere pastiche. I know that the song at the end was supposed to have been written by a ten-year-old but I would happily have suspended my disbelief had it been a true parody, or, perish the thought, funny.

It may sound harsh to accuse a film about an unauthodox teacher bringing new meaning into the lives of a group of children for being formulaic. In fact, it may strike some of you as somewhat akin to denouncing the Pope for not being the greatest lay of all time. There is nothing wrong with openly producing a B-movie and selling it such. This film was reputed to be so much more than that. I should not have been able to anticipate not only the plot twists, but also most of the key lines of dialogue. I should not have suffered dizzying levels of deja vu throughout the film. I should not have been able to open my poke at the end and find a pig in it.

My theory is that, somewhere in metaphor-land, a group of monkeys unionised and realised that they were infinite in number. This lead to the motion that, given that infinity minus a couple of thousand is close enough to infinity so as to make no mathematical difference, they could lend some of their group (along with their typewriters) to Hollywood in order to script their movies. Rotating the monkeys on duty also led to odd mathematical result that, given their infinite number, the chance of one individual monkey being called up to active service was infinitesimally different from zero. The rest of the monkeys now spend their days in hammocks sipping Pina Coladas on the profits and we have to watch this crap. I don't imagine it's a long trip from metaphor-land to California.

Anonymity is for wimps

2004-07-09T16:44:00.000+01:00

After a prolonged, Jacob's Ladder style wrestling match between Dave and the dubious angels of blogger.com, I bring you ... me! No longer must I hide behind the collective pseudonym, because I've finally be invited to join my own blog under my own name. Whoopee! (I think)

The Bitch is Back

2004-07-09T02:31:00.000+01:00

First of all, apologies for launching in with an Elton John reference. If my ham-fisted attempts to bluff my way through the technology have worked I shall now be able to carp, snipe and correct my esteemed colleague and generally undo all her good work.

Profuse and insincere thanks to Beren for kicking us forcibly into the online world and may I just ask why you look so much like a young Michael Winner on the website ?

Hmm, an empty space and only the sound of my own voice for company... I think I shall be very happy here.

Better late than never

2004-07-09T00:56:00.000+01:00

I have at last parted with the twelve quid necessary to become a fine and upstanding member of edfringegroups.com. I am told that this bring not only health, wealth and happiness, but
Monthly Bulletins!
3 Fringe Handbooks!
(THREE? Three, for the love of God?! We're not trying to build a weapon of mass destruction, we're singing underneath a bar for goodness' sake! Why do we need three handbooks to tell us how?*)
Fringe Yearbook!
(Do they mean the Fringe Programme? Or is it like a high school yearbook - bad black and white pictures of the gormless and clueless with captions like "Most Likely To Commit Mime" and "Desperate for Attention"?)
Venue Lists!
(Hmm. Underwhelming. Again, a Fringe Programme without a comprehensive venue list is a bit of a crap Fringe Programme - so why do I need a separate one? You're not really selling this, edfringegroups. Unless there are secret underground venues known only to fringe performers and accessible via the back of wardrobes. Which would be quite cool.)

*Still, more for your money I suppose

Truth, kiss or motivational seminar ...

2004-07-08T23:01:00.000+01:00

Thrilling as the Truth Kiss or Dare and subsequent (nay, inevitable) nipple/jam interface on tonight's Big Brother is, I feel strangely inclined to turn it off and do something less boring instead. This is where the blog comes in.

When I was about 18 I kept a diary for nearly a year. It was my first year of University and I expected to have a number of reasonably formative experiences during that time - experiences worth recording, anyhow. I was not completely disappointed, but when I took it out and re-read it a few years later, the really interesting thing was not what I'd done or seen or had for breakfast, but what my first impressions were of people I still know, in some cases, nearly ten years on. Man, but I had some terrible judgement.

And of course, the irony of diary-keeping is that, unless you're a Kenneth Tynan or Williams, if your life's exciting enough to make interesting reading, you won't have time to write it all down. I'm hoping the blog will fall somewhere in between a diary and an appointments book. Not to mention an aide-memoire for when I got really drunk the night before.

Oh yeah, the motivational thing. I went to a "masterclass" in leadership today. Oh, sit up and wipe the hysterical drool off your chin. In my defence it was a) paid for by The Man (i.e. my employers, not my gangsta sugar-daddy) and b) featured a free lunch. Now, I'm sure I'm not alone in that when I see the words "Free Lunch" on a poster, all the words surrounding it sort of melt away and I feel compelled to sign up to hippo-massage or scrotal tattooing or whatever it is right there and then.

I didn't regret it though, although it's pretty much what I've heard before from other similar speakers: be all you can be, learn how to dream again, identify what's stopping you reaching your goals, visualise your future and it shall come to pass, saith the leadership guru. Not that it doesn't make a lot of sense, really - plenty of people are trapped by an oppressively pessimistic sense of what is and is not possible ... but it's just different sugar on the same pill, i.e. if you're not happy or successful, it's basically your fault, so stop blaming others/circumstances.

Now all I have to do is twist the above into a positive-sounding catchphrase and I'm made for life. But it's late, and I'm tired, and the cat needs attention and TV Years - 1985 just came on. I think it's the one that interviews actors from the A-Team. Now who wouldn't give up their future as a guru for that?

253

2004-07-08T01:20:00.000+01:00

Today I am mostly reading Geoff Ryman's groundbreaking-when-originally-published web novel 253. I'll link to it when I'm semi-competent at this game. Don't hold your collective breath. You'll be glad to hear that it's now available in dead-tree format so that punters can read it on the tube and feel all post-modern.

The gimmick is that a fully seated tube train has 253 people on board (including driver), and so each of these passengers (and driver) is given a short 253-word biography. The book's also got handy carriage layouts and small ads - the equivalent of site maps and pop-ups, I suppose. It's really rather good. Post-modernly, Geoff is one of the characters. Can you say Martin Amis? Dave hasn't read it but I promised to force it on him soon when we were rehearsing tonight.

I think the highlight of Dave's evening (apart from hearing me attempt unprovoked scat singing on Once More With Feline) was seeing his new headshot:

Did I leave the gas on?

and being strangely reminded of all those moody black and white shots of dead 30s poets that once adorned his English classroom at school. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em ...

Hi Beren

2004-07-07T15:31:00.000+01:00

Hope this works. Got to say the blog isn't very addictive yet, but I'm hoping to get extremely drunk either with or without Dave tonight and make up a lot of nonsense illustrated with unlikely pictures of my housemates/turtles.

Which is nice.

Like a virgin

2004-07-03T02:26:00.000+01:00

... blogged for the very first time.

Now all I have to do is work out how to use the damn thing. Luckee me!