On Saturday I went to a comedy show at the Union chapel, Islington featuring Mark Watson ("Mark Watson makes the world substantially better" and "Can I take a few moments to tell you the meaning of life") and Chris Addison("The ape that got lucky", Chris Addison's civilisation" and Ollie in "The thick of it"). Since it was comedians best known for their work on Radio Four appearing in Islington, it was probably the most middle class event I've ever attended. It was, however, hilarious and at least I got a thank you from the compere for giving him 20p to buy a drink. Didn't get my 20p back though. Chris Addison was my favourite of them and surprisingly savage and political. My favourite line was from an extended rant about the terrible state of news media in the western world "Natasha Kaplinsky -- skin stretched over ambition."
But I will add that Chris Addison is damned shaggable and younger and less portly than Marcus Brigstocke. Ranty comedians give me the horn and no mistake.
After the comedy I headed to Canal 125 for the last ever B Movie where I managed to pull a man who looked vaguely familar. It took me a whole hour to realise he looked like Rimmer from Red Dwarf perhaps because I was distracted by some of the horrors on display. I shook him off shortly after the realisation struck me and headed to Slimelight with despina, ed_flay and steer. Yes, gentle readers, I managed to hit two goth clubs in one night. Slimes actually has good music on the main dance floor and even better, harder, music on some other floor that I only found on my way out. I got hit on by two men with very long hair and surprisingly short legs so started dancing-with-intent round Steer like we were attached again (it should be noted I never used to do this when we were actually attached as his grand-mal-seizure-whilst-driving-the-spe
There were some unfortunate errors of sartorial judgement at Slimes too. The darkness ratchets up the horror, too, as expanses of pale flesh/forehead loom up at one out of the gloom. At the Betty Ford Club there are weird electronic mirrors that flashes up adverts and flyers as you peer into them. I want to get one of those for old timer goth clubs but instead of ads I want it to flash the following messages:
1. Just because you can get into it doesn't mean it fits.
2. If you consider yourself a transvestite/dragtastic/whatever don't expect me to refer to you as 'she' if you haven't bothered to shave.
3. Animal Farm is not a guide to purchasing corsets. Do not assume 'four tits good; two tits bad'.
4. If you are four foot tall and three feet wide please don't dress like you are five feet ten with a waist. You will not end up looking willowy and glamorous, you will look like the venus of willendorf in cheap lycra.
5. The kinderwhore/goth lolita look is not appropriate if you have a face like a wasp chewing two bulldogs and your stomach sticks out more than your breast/s. There is the risk that you will look tolerable from behind but a lot like the scary dwarf from 'Don't Look Now' when you turn round. In a environment where people are consuming artificial stimulants this may result in terror and panic attacks.
6. If you have fat, sweaty, hairy breasts please keep your top on. Especially if you are female.
7. If your head is white and your hair is retreating faster than the French cavalry dying it black will only draw attention to this fact.
8. If you don't have a neck, don't draw attention to this unfortunate omission by tying a scarf around the curious gulch where your neck should be.
On Sunday I went to the VNV Nation gig, though I hasten to add I did not pay for the ticket. I have previously desribed them on LJ as 'music for prementrual role-players' and most of the lyrics are self-importantly portentous and gloomy, e.g. 'I lost my dice and someone mocked my manboobs so now I am in a mood for total war. Hmmph' or something very like. I went with lovely despina who said, as each track started 'ooh this is my favourite'. It was very difficult to tell them apart, and for some folks this is as good as getting a box of Quality St comprised entirely of green triangles. The lead singer, like most of the audience, was short, rotund and bald, but he bounced about the stage like a weeble on speed. I was too far away to see if he did actually have any legs. He was very chirpy and happy (despite the turgidity of the lyrics) and managed to carry off three encores without trying the patience of his audience. It is probably a testament to my age or degree of sexual desperation but I can't watch a band nowadays without fantasising about fucking the drummer. Drummers and comedians. What next I wonder?