Sunday 16 August 2015

Actual Size


Mackay, Me, Jay, David, Sally, Sally's tit, Dillie, Hatchet faced mermaids


I have just arrived in Edinburgh and am sat in the vast kitchen of the house on Albany street that 

David, Mackay, Jay and Spud the dog have taken residence of for the month of August.
David is telling me about a show they'd been to see the previous night.
'There's this man moving about mid air and he has the most perfect body – and no tattoos which we thought made it even better really. The woman next to us is screaming her appreciation and we're all very impressed -
'You were screaming too,' Mackay interjects.
'I was just joining in,' David mutters. 'He really is quite godlike. And then the other performers join him on stage and we collectively pause. He's about four foot tall. I hear the woman next to me say 'Oh.''
They show me the flyer and point out the tiny perfect specimen. Over the course of the next couple of days a note is stuck under the image with the words 'Actual Size'.
It's hot and sunny in Edinburgh and everyone's suspicious. Based on last years experience I'd packed a winter wardrobe. No one really trusts that this weather will last and so we broadly ignore it and continue to wear our coats certain that it will rain at any moment.
Mackay and Jay
They have a number of guests who pop up for a few days here and there over the festival and in addition to me they currently have Jane Beese staying. I've met her a few times in passing over the years but this is really the first time we've ever spoken properly. She is a constant vision entirely clad in black (I don't know why but the black she wears is somehow blacker than usual blacks. Raven like.) Her lips are red and a vogue cocktail cigarette is elegantly draped in her fingers. Whilst clearly a very successful woman with an impressive career Jane's sole responsibility whilst visiting is to make a full cooked breakfast for everyone, every morning. She does so gracefully whilst sipping tea and frying individual eggs in a tiny one egg frying pan which she so loves that Jay actually makes a trip to Peter Jones to buy her one of her very own. Jay isn't as loud and dramatic as the rest of us. He quietly observes the madness and




is a sort of behind the scenes angel who keeps everything in the house running smoothly with constant trips to the shop for more tobacco, bacon and anything else anyone mentions even in passing. I spend a bit of time alone with him chatting and discover he's very funny and has a sort of light in him that makes you feel good just to be around.
The only chink in the house is the wifi which is running at dial up speed and intermittently sends David in to a giddy fit of rage. He holds court in the kitchen anchored behind his computer with an overflowing ashtray and a cup of tea or a screw driver that we have renamed The Jab - Johnson's All day Breakfast. He works, plays us music, chats and smokes whilst Mackay leans against the counter sipping coffee and making arid comments. We're a happy little group.
Jay and a dog that isn't Spud
After a couple of hours of catch up Mackay whisks me off to see Dillie Keane perform in The Cow. I hear her before I see her, she has the most recognisable voice. We go over to say hello and there's a quick hug and a 'drink later?' before I find a seat and watch the audience file in. I like that bit between pre show final checks and curtain up. Everything transforms in an instant and you're cocooned in the world that's been created for you for an hour or so. That's where the magic is. Dillie moves seamlessly from funny to tragic and back again. She sings a song towards the end about people of a certain age attempting adventurous sex and I see couples nudging each other in the audience “You do that.” She is performing without the rest of Fascinating Aida this year but she mentions them frequently and it feels as though Adele is with her watching the proceedings. Her accompanist, Gulliver, compliments her. He's posh and sweet and sings wistfully about the benefits of being a lesbian.
As soon as it finishes David is there telling me to hurry up if I need the loo because the next show is starting in minutes. We go in to The Box, a tiny space, to watch Alfie Brown do stand up. It's an intimate space and I spend the first five minutes sat rigidly with my bag clutched in front of me like a barrier but he's funny and charming and I soon forget how close he is and just enjoy his clever set.
We all head to The Abattoir for drinks afterwards. I've been given a pass to get in to these places. Well, actually it's the dogs pass as evidenced by the rather smart photo of him on it. I wave it at the man on the door and he stops me.
'That's Spud.'
'We're here together.'
'I see.'
I say we're here together but he has been completely ignoring me since I arrived. Until the third day when he starts licking my neck which I take as affection but turns out to be the most cursory foreplay before he tries to violently stick his penis in my ear. You get what you can.
I'm aware that I have a very blinkered view of the Fringe. People pore over the program, queue for tickets, look for a free space anywhere to sit and eat their wraps and drink their pints. I only go to see the shows David and Mackay are producing. I see them free of charge. I'm driven from place to place. I don't queue and I get to drink in the cordoned off little enclave set aside for artists and professionals. And that is absolutely fine by me. David and Mackay are so good at spoiling you that you quickly forget how privileged the position is and become vaguely shocked that your bed hasn't been made by some invisible force whilst you were out having fun. This is why I'm not allowed to have nice things all the time. I'm fairly certain I'd become a despot within weeks. I text my mother:
“Everything is splendid. I have my own room and a very comfy bed.”
She texts back:
“That's good. Pity no men to share it. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
I tell the others and they talk (a little too earnestly) about the possibility of getting mum up next year to do a show.
'Have you and your mum watched Grey Gardens together yet?' Mackay asks.
'Fuck off.'
It's my birthday the day after I arrive and despite my phone being broken I somehow receive an email from 'Weight loss surgery support' wishing me a Happy Birthday! This is followed quickly by another from 'Pre arranged Funeral Insurance.' I'm not feeling too celebratory by the time I roll down for breakfast (Pot of tea, 15 fags).
No one up here knows it's my birthday which I don't mind at all because, let's face it, they flew me up here and treat me like a queen. I'm already having the best birthday by virtue of location and company and I don't want for anything. Except possibly a martini at some point during the day.
But David finds out via Facebook pretty quickly, tells me I'm naughty and after a brief discussion with Mackay books us all a table at Ondine for supper.
I tell Mackay I feel a bit guilty about all this expense on my account to which he responds:
'Don't be a cunt. David loves any excuse for a celebration.'
Dinner is perfect. We have a private dining room and are joined by Jane, Dillie and Sally who is Stewart Lee's PR. I get my martini and am levitating with happiness. Dessert arrives and there are candles and Happy Birthday is sung.
Birthday dinner
I have a strange little moment when I remember finding a Fascinating Aida CD in the library aged about 14. I took it home and learned all the lyrics to Dillie and Adele's songs which I can still recall instantly. And here I am at 41 being sung Happy Birthday to by a group of lovely people including Dillie. 14. 41. Ha. I think I actually grab Dillie's arm and sing part of 'Saturday Night' which she tolerates graciously.
As we leave we notice a criminal piece of art on the wall. A huge and terrible painting of some very skinny mermaids thrusting their breasts out whilst staring at us with hatchet faces. We pose beneath it for a photo and it isn't until later when I upload it on to Facebook that I notice Sally has whipped out a tit in protest. It quickly spreads like wildfire on Facebook. Sally calls the following morning and speaks to Mackay.
'She says she took her tit out on the understanding that this was a private joke to be shared amongst intimate friends,' Mackay conveys.
'Tell her Graham Norton 'liked' it,' David says.
Mackay tells her and there's a seconds pause before he confirms:
'She says it's fine. Leave it up.'

Me and Mackay

The following day is David's party celebrating 25 years at Edinburgh. His friend Fiona hosts it at her house and we all dress up and make our way over to be greeted by young men brandishing cold champagne. A rumour quickly circulates that the hired chef is gorgeous and so in small groups we make excursions to 'admire the garden' which is only accessible through the kitchen. He is quite gorgeous but in a slightly 'actual size' sort of way.
Jay and I are hiding in the corner with an ashtray chatting when David sees us from across the room and subtly screams: 'Get up and Mingle!'
We both shoot up like Jack in the boxes and frantically throw ourselves at some guests. I take lots of photos and chat to people and it's a fab evening. About halfway through I notice most of the single women are 'admiring the garden' in a very blousy way.
David makes a speech in which he forgets to thank anyone he'd intended to thank but it's good and fun and everyone whoops and claps and raises a glass to the joy of it all.
The time, as always, flies by too quickly and now Richard and James have announced they'll be arriving the following day for a visit.
'Change your flight,' Mackay says.
'You have to stay,' David says. 'Jane is leaving and who the hell is going to make us breakfast?'
The flight is changed for the following day at great expense and I hear David say drily to Mackay:
'Perhaps it's time we got Thea her own Amex card...'
Richard and David
Mackay, Jay and Spud
Richard and James will arrive to a big lunch cooked by Jane. Whilst everyone is out doing other things I run the hoover around and over David who spends the entire time screaming 'Turn it off! Infernal noise! Bloody hell!' The boys arrive and James immediately sets about fixing the wifi whilst Jane cooks and we drink and exchange stories. Chicken is eaten, champagne drunk and the afternoon glides by in a hazy alcoholic blur of laughter. Mackay observes that I seem to have gay men secreted everywhere who host and indulge me. In fact he and David have been referring to me as: 'Around the world in 80 gays.'
The day before I leave Jay and Mackay take me and Spud for a walk up a lovely hill with views of all of Edinburgh and Arthur's Seat. It's hot and sunny and I'm so happy to still be there with them. Mackay knows a shocking amount about the history of Edinburgh and points out castles and streets and tells me about them.
Richard and James
We head back and I make breakfast for everyone. Richard who has been welcomed back in to the arms of inebriation after two years dry had gotten phenomenally drunk the previous evening and adopted an angry scotsman persona that was luckily caught on film and played back to him as he morosely tried to shovel bacon in to his mouth.
All too soon it's time to go home and I crawl to bed at 3am with an alarm on either side of my head to wake me for the taxi 2 hours later. I haven't gone to bed before 4am for the entire visit. Most people head off to bed by two and then there's just David and me in the kitchen talking for hours, listening to music, dancing with arms only, smoking endless cigarettes and having one more Jab before bed as the sun rises.
'This is my favourite bit,' I tell David.
David
'Me too,' he smiles. 'Now listen to this...'

Tuesday 5 May 2015

Bast and Bertie's

 
'I like your name. Love Sx'

That was the first of many emails I would receive from Bast over the following two years.

I only met him a handful of times but he was quite the gentleman of letters.
I had been helping Richard on an opera he was writing about the life of Anna Nicole Smith when my cousin called and invited me to an exhibition of Bast's paintings in Soho.
'There'll be lashings of Absinthe!' I'd never heard of him but she had me at 'lashings.'
I enjoyed the exhibition and I really enjoyed the steam punk contraption dribbling green liquor through strategically placed sugar cubes in to small glasses. But the real piece of art was Bast himself who arrived to much fanfare wearing a red sequinned suit, black hair spiked up, tall and very handsome. A crowd of people cocooned him and I watched at a distance as he made his way through the room acknowledging everyone individually with kindness and charm.
'He's a Dandy,' my cousin said.
'I didn't think they existed anymore.'
I never approached and after we left my cousin told me he had written an autobiography which had been recently published.
'I think you two would get along,' she said.
I bought a copy the following day and saw that it had been signed by the author:
'I'm good between the pages of this book but I'm even better between the sheets.'
Apparently if you can find a copy he hasn't signed it'll be worth an absolute fortune.
I devoured it in one sitting. It was hilarious and disturbing in equal parts. His world compared to mine was fearless and nihilistic. He painted, wrote, wore only the finest bespoke clothing, spent an absolute fortune on prostitutes, had an on off love affair with drugs and lived his life philosophically as a Dandy.
I wrote to my cousin: 'His life is fit for an opera.'
She forwarded him the email without my knowing and an hour or so later I received the first of many brilliant letters from him. He was excited about the idea of being an opera.
“The opera,” he wrote, “is when someone gets stabbed in the back and instead of bleeding, he sings.”
And he liked my name. I learned over time that he held a lot of stock in names. He was very fond of his own and always addressed me without abbreviation.
After a week or so he invited me to his home in Soho for tea. Ostensibly to talk about the opera.
“I live on Meard Street. Yes, Shit Street. Black bell. There's a sign on the door but don't believe everything you read.”
I knew from the book that he loved sunflowers and Quentin Crisp. I owned a first edition of Crisp's How To Become A Virgin and wrapped it in brown paper, bought a bunch of sunflowers and made my way over at the appointed time.
Once I was actually stood on his doorstep I was suddenly gripped with unease. His emails had never been less than utterly charming but the contents of his life made him appear like a wolf, someone dangerous to be alone with. I rang the bell. A moment later a head appeared through an upstairs window wearing a gigantic black top hat.
'Do come up!' The buzzer rang.
I walked in to find him resplendent in a three piece suit. Behind him a wall of shelves lined with human skulls, the floor beneath him covered neatly with newspaper reviews of his book and other sundries.
'What lovely flowers!'
'They're for you.' He had the grace to look pleasantly surprised, as though it wasn't screamingly obvious. I handed him the book.
'I thought you'd like this.'
He unwrapped it and looked suddenly very moved.
'How absolutely wonderful of you! You must sign it for me.'
That was the thing about Bast. He was clearly and always the brightest thing in the room and yet he made you feel as though it was you that provided the colour. You could judge him by the contents of his book but he did himself a disservice really. I think it was impossible to meet him in person and not love him. There are a million people I'm sure who were closer to him, knew him far better than I but we all knew what it was like to bask in his kindness. He was one of the few people I've met who really listened to you.
The flat was tiny but exquisitely decorated.
'Would you like a tour?'
I nodded toward the skulls.
'What's going on there then?'
'I collect them. Only ones with holes in – gun shot, trepanning, that sort of thing.'
He took the flowers in to his tiny kitchenette which looked as though it had never once been used. The idea of him stirring a pan was ridiculous.
His bedroom contained a tiny antique looking double bed that was too short for his tall figure.
'I sleep at an angle.'
On the bedside there was a small revolver.
'Is that loaded?'
'Yes. I keep it there because I'm a firm believer in safe sex.'
He goes on to tell me an hilarious anecdote in which he accidentally got shot with the damn thing.
'Pop it in a drawer would you, its making me nervous.'
He smiles and hides it.
'Shall we go out?' He asks.
We step out in to the sunny streets of soho and walk along to Madam Bertie's, a tea shop he frequents. Tourists stare but everyone else seems to know him and greet him affectionately. It's wonderful walking down the street with Bast and I'm relieved I had the presence of mind to wear my reddest lipstick.
As we sit ourselves down outside Bertie's to wait for our tea I notice two American tourists (fanny bags and sports caps) staring at him open mouthed from across the street. He seems oblivious but they're irritating me. Eventually they approach.
'Hey, why you dressed like that?'
Another thing about Bast. The moment you meet him you feel oddly protective of him. I want to tell them to fuck off but Bast, much lovelier than me, smiles and says 'Well, why ever not?'
They wander off looking confused and our tea arrives.
We talk about the opera. In August of 2000 he was preparing to do a series of paintings about the crucifixion. He traveled to the Philippines where an annual religious event took place in which you could be crucified yourself. You can watch Bast being crucified on youtube. I can't. As soon as I see them hammer the first nail through his hand I have to switch it off. I tell him that I have this image of the opera starting with him on the cross saying to the audience: 'You may well ask.' This makes him roar with laughter. We're getting on so well he suggests we pop to his favourite haunt, The Colony Rooms. It's one of those old parts of soho that now sadly no longer exists. Tiny, hedonistic and deeply eccentric. I drink red wine and he drinks nothing. He tells me that Tim Fountain is writing a play of his book, Stephen Fry wants the film rights and I can have the rights to the opera. Just like that. No business savvy at all.  He once wrote to me saying:
“Kindness is the only thing you can give without having.”
After about three glasses of red in which we talk about everything under the sun I state, in that tipsy declaratory way, that I believe he is the kind of man that separates women in to two categories: Sex and Mother Figures.
I say this because he asks me lots of questions. He looks uncertain and wants to know if I think he's right or wrong. I feel like a mother around him and I'm drunk. He lets my statement sit between us for a moment and then he leans over very slowly, sticks his nose in my neck and smells me.
'You're wearing Chanel,' he breathes. 'Delicious.' He leans back stares at me intently and says 'And what kind of man am I now, Alethea?'
A wolfish one, I think. And then it's gone. And the gentle, sweet, vulnerable Bast is back.
We part ways and I head home full of ideas for the opera. Richard asks to borrow my copy of his book. I say no.
'Don't be ridiculous I'll return it!'
'You'll lose it. You know what you're like.'
'I won't! Lend me the fucking book.'
I lend him the book. He loses it. At an airport.
The next time I speak to Bast I tell him and when we meet again he gives me another copy, this time inscribed personally.
He called me one evening whilst I was in a supermarket.
'Where are you, Alethea? I'm having a crisis of confidence.'
'I'm in Asda.'
'Oh my god, are you okay?'
Another few weeks pass and the three of us meet to discuss the opera at Bertie's and he and Richard hit it off fabulously. He wrote to me that night:
It didn’t surprise me that Richard and I got on. There are chains of beauty aren’t there? Me, You, Tim, Richard, David Johnson, Mr Fry … we are linked together like mountaineers heading for the summit of beauty. If you like someone I will like them and if I like someone you will like them. Aren’t we clever! I wish we could sleep with ourselves.”
Over the next two years we wrote frequently, saw each other rarely and he occasionally signed his letters off with:
'Where's my fucking opera you cunt? Lots of useless love, S x'
His book was being published in America and he flew out there with painted nails only to be held in customs for several hours before being put back on a plane to England on grounds of 'Moral Terpitude'. They'd googled him. “There is nothing worse, Alethea, than being rejected by a country you wouldn't be caught dead in.”
The play was opening in Soho and life became a whirl of activity but he always found the time to write and offer advice, kind words, hilarious anecdotes and great ideas.
On the night before the opening of the play he sent me a missive:
Darling. Bad news. I have got you a ticket for the show tomorrow. Will you come? Definitely. Sx”
I wrote back that I couldn't wait but that I was sure the actor wouldn't have an ounce of his beauty.
He responded: “That was the right thing to say. Flattery has to be pretty thick before I object.”
I saw him after the show and he put his hand on the small of my back, he always did that, and led me to Stephen Fry and made introductions because he remembered me saying how much I liked him. So thoughtful always.
Twenty four hours later he was dead and a horrible gaping wound was ripped into the fabric of life. Two weeks after that I sat and listened to Stephen Fry's eulogy. His funeral was packed. He had so many friends and he was so loved. I knew almost none of them, I was by no means a big part of his life. Soho felt abandoned and all those whose lives he'd poured colour and light into knew that it couldn't be replaced. Sometimes lovely things are just lost and there's nothing to be done.

Wednesday 29 April 2015

A Star Is Born

 
Only yesterday I discovered Judy Garland, and more importantly, Judy Garland in A Star Is Born.
I had been having dinner with three friends who are all very successful in their fields. I have a lot of friends who are successful in their chosen fields and I'm very happy for them. And somewhat bewildered and ashamed of my own failure. There is the risk or fear perhaps of eventually becoming a person who is around success but that no one any longer expects anything from.
To get to the knot of the thing; I missed my last train and stayed at the house of one of my friends. A wonderful man in his early fifties.
I woke in the morning and my host put on some Dusty Springfield. He starts telling me an anecdote about when Dusty came out.
'She was gay?' I mutter.
'Are you FUCKING kidding me?' He screams. 'You are the worst fag hag EVER. I'm telling everyone on Facebook immediately.'
Which he does.
It's only a short skip from there to him remembering my admission, a year previously, of having never seen A Star Is Born.
'You're watching it right now,' he insists.
'But I -'
'Immediately.'
It's the original three hour plus version where all the lost scenes are replaced by stills photographs and what remains of the sound clips. Take my eyes.
At first I'm just humouring him. To me Judy Garland was the girl I watched every christmas day afternoon skipping up a yellow brick road with a bunch of hangers on and a can do attitude. I've always kind of loathed Technicolor. When I was very little I loved watching black and white films. I believed, for far longer than I'm willing to admit, that the world was monochrome until about 1950. And all the more glamorous for it.
As soon as the film starts I'm struck by how ahead of its time it is. There's a fly on wall quality to the filming that makes it feel more real than I'd anticipated. And then Garland's voice sounds a few moments before we see her. And there's no big entrance. Same for James Mason, he just kind of sidles in mid action and becomes a part of the scene.
As we're watching my friend gives me little snippets of Garland's biography. By the time this film was made she had already suffered a great deal. Divorces, breakdowns, problems with addiction. She was constantly haunted by the notion that she wasn't beautiful enough, a notion that had been firmly planted by the big cheeses who shaped her career. Did you know that the blue gingham dress she wears as Dorothy was specifically to 'blur' her figure? No, me either.
Mason, from the very beginning, touches her in a very moving way. He strokes her face, moves her around by her tiny shoulders with a distinct familiarity.
'He looks like he owns her,' I say. 'Or rather that she belongs to him.'
'Spot on,' my friend says.
There's a scene in the film where she's given a make over by three exasperated men who have no idea what to do about her problematic nose. She comes out to meet Mason looking like a Geisha in a terrible wig. He takes all the make up off and pulls a strip of rubber from her nose. She looks fine just the way she is as far as he's concerned. Whilst reading about her life later on in the day I discovered that she had been treated in the exact same way in real life; forced to wear rubber on her nose, something or other over her teeth. I remember her face in the film as she tells Mason that she's ugly, she doesn't look right, just before he scrapes all the make up off and disabuses her of the idea. She looks in the mirror desperately. She doesn't look in character. She looks real and so sad. This happens several times in the film. You see her experience the immediacy of love, its desperation, her unwillingness to give up on it despite the damage it wreaks on her life. She's a sponge, porous and vulnerable and utterly compelling. My friend says that she was one of those who could never fully be a person, she only existed within her art. Or something to that effect. Well, I thought, child stars, it so rarely ends well. A director once told me those moments of truth in acting are called 'leaking' and casting agents love them. Garland was one big leak. How can you not love someone who stares out at you from a screen and begs for you to really see her?
And then of course there's her singing voice. There's so much power coming from such a tiny vessel and beneath it the constant catch of a sob.
She produced this film and starred in it in 1954. She was dead by June 1969 at the age of 47.
Seven years older than me. I feel like my life is barely beginning and she was already on the decline, worn out by a world she had no clue how to live in.
Three hours plus later I get it. I finally understand why she is the icon she is. Why Rufus Wainwright re-created her Judy At Carnegie Hall show, why Somewhere Over The Rainbow is so tragic, why she is still so loved.
For me she had always been just another talented mess brought down by alcohol, or Liza's mum, or a gay icon because well, she was so camp! She wasn't camp. She was utterly sincere.
Obviously I was weeping like a sore by the end. For the sadness of the film, for the briefness of her life.
'See,' my friend says. 'I told you so.'
I'm thankful that no one made me live my life so fast, youth rushing past in a blur. No time to figure out who you are, what you want, who to love or be loved by. I was a terrible writer at twenty. I'm a better writer now. I'll be even better in twenty years time I suspect.
I wanted to be a success at twenty but I was a child. I couldn't understand why my peers seemed so much more able to navigate their worlds. I could never get going, move past a certain point. My twenties were spent moving from job to job treading water. My thirties were much the same. It's only in the last couple of years that things have started to make sense. I still have no idea what I'm doing most of the time but I am much clearer on what I want.
My friend Kate told me a theory the other day, though I may be recalling it inaccurately; We have four rings on the cooker. One is family, one friends, one career and one love. To be successful you have to disregard one ring. To be really successful you have to disregard two. If you become a success when you're still a child then those rings are decided for you aren't they? And then how would you ever get them back? I'm not successful. Not yet. But I know better now what is worth and not worth having.
Thirty five years ago I watched a pretty young girl click her heels together and intone that there was no place like home. And at forty I know what she means.

Tuesday 21 April 2015

Young Men and Ladies Groups

 

I stumbled across an advertisement on Facebook for a 'Ladies Group' in my town. The only necessary qualification for joining is that you're aged between 18 and 45. So, not quite the Women's Institute, and apparently un church related. Perhaps it's a precursor to the WI? What can it possibly involve? It claims to be a way of making friends and trying new things. I suspect 'trying new things' means reading the bible from front to back. I posit another twenty or so possibilities before actually clicking on the link and taking a look.
The cover image is of ten or so women, none of them under thirty, sitting around a dining table smiling stiffly. I try to visualise myself amongst their number. I can't see it. They all have colourful ladylike clothing on and shiny neat bobs. And I can't help but notice that whilst their plates are full there is a bottle shaped hole in their midst. What kind of hellish cult is this?
18 to 45. 18 to 45? What happens when you turn 46? A final dry meal, a nervous pat on the back and then you're thrust back in to the lonely chaos of Cath Kidston and day drinking?
I notice they have a calendar of events and click on it with feverish finger.
Oh.
They meet on two tuesdays a month for 'fun and informative' dates.
I check the next one and blanche. In May they are having a special presentation by Katie from 'My Hymen Has Entirely Regrown'. She will be teaching the ladies how to pack for a two week holiday.
It's 8.45am and the gin bottle is blinking at me peripherally.
I skip through the events over the coming months, they are booked up and busy as bees until APRIL OF NEXT YEAR. Though some of the later dates have a 'tbc' on venue.
There's a historical walk of Winchester. Take my eyes. I've actually done this walk. Kate came to visit from Australia and as I know next to nothing about my home town it seemed like a good idea. To her. All I remember from that hot afternoon is that the red bricks in the old walls may look modern but are in fact Roman. And the river Itchen is the fastest river in Hampshire...or the UK....or the world. I also remember walking past six pubs and staring at them longingly.
There's nothing you can't learn about Winchester if you're willing to pay for the drinks and sit in front of the mumbling nutter with the beard. Every pub here has one. A sort of unofficial hallucinating guide if you like.
There's also Croquet, Archery, a games night, clay pigeon shooting, cocktail making and – good gods tell me it isn't so – Cooking for the Round Table. Yes. We have a round table here. It's because of the round table in the museum and that stuff about King Arthur.
I have an uncomfortable sensation that I know what this is but I click for details anyway:
'Preparing breakfast for those hungry men building the bonfire.'
Oh fuck off.
No, really.
I want to build the bonfire!
I don't want to stand in a dank kitchen perfecting my poached eggs in a 1950's housecoat hoping against hope that one of these knuckle dragging arsonists deems me worthy.
That's not fair. They might be very nice men who never asked for anyone to make them breakfast. But still.
I toy with the idea of joining. Somehow. Maybe employing a disguise that makes me look like one of them. I try to picture myself looking sunny in a flowing maxi dress with a basket of flowers over one arm. The reality comes crashing through: Psoariasis on the elbows flaking gently in the breeze. Tattoos ruining the effect of my empire line frock. My hair. All of it.
But if I could join their ranks I'd show up for breakfast making duties with a litre of hard liquor, some ice, NO FUCKING MIXERS and a copy of The Female Eunuch.
'Sit down ladies, we need to talk about Emmeline Pankhurst. Sit the fuck down.'
Don't get me wrong, I love women. But the women I love don't have girlie nights in, worry about cake or take tips from magazines on how to keep their men.
The women I love are sometimes shy and quiet, sometimes bold and aggressive, young, old, big, small, but always, I'm certain, unwilling to band together and make breakfast for a load of men whilst they take care of the men's work.
They might provide a drink but only if they were already fixing one for themselves whilst suggesting that the fire will take better if we place all the bras around the top tier.
I've noticed lately that a lot of younger women I know don't identify themselves as feminists. They cite all kinds of reasons, most pertaining to image. They think of feminists as butch, aggressive, angry.
'But surely', I weep in to my beer. 'These are ideas perpetuated by men?'
There's only one question you need to ask any women who's unsure about feminism:
Do you think women and men should earn the same amount? Of course you do. You are, therefore, a feminist.
Don't get me wrong, I love men. There are some fine feminists amongst them. Bill Bailey and Joss Whedon to name but two.
I spend a lot of time with men. More recently, young men. The reasons for this are blatantly obvious. When you get to my age and are neither married not have children you're left on a kind of social shelf. The young are still available to do what you want to do. And the gays obviously. If it weren't for my gay friends life would be very dull indeed.
Young men are free to sit in the pub until 2am talking nonsense. They also look really pretty. Yeah, I can be sexist too. It's also really good fun to go out with a beautiful young man and wait for the hordes of young girls to circle. This happened with Jack once (And by once I mean always). He was having a shitty time of things and we'd gone to the pub to talk things through. Jack is particularly lovely looking and charming and very clever. He's also a little shit. We had our heads bent in discussion and he was entirely unaware of the circling beauties until they were sat at our table inching closer with every boldly taken sip of wine.
'Hey,' one of the girls smiled. 'You two are such a cute couple!'
She knows we're not a couple. It's blatantly obvious we're not a couple but she's looking for an opening. She has either assumed I'm draining his blood to remain youthful, or there's an outside chance I was a young mum. Not that young though.
Normally we'd have a bit of fun with this but tonight neither of us are in the mood.
'We're not together,' I say. 'He's 22, I'm 40.'
She fake gasps.
'Never! You look SO young.'
'I know. I'm blessed that way.' I sip my drink and silently congratulate her on her tactics. Get me on side first – direct path to the bait.
We try to continue our talk but the girl and her friend shuffle up the bench until one is pressed up against Jack and the other....me.
Well this is a new turn of events.
I look down to find her hand on my thigh.
She's about 20, maybe 19. I look at her pretty unfinished features and want to take a cloth to her face. Remove the drawn in eyebrows, the hot pink lipstick the overly rouged cheeks. She's so fresh and lovely and she's ruining it with paste. When she gets to my age she'll be trying to do the reverse, wearing nude make up to try and look the way she does naturally now. Not me though. I'm in Coco Chanel's camp. I read somewhere that she felt red lipstick only looked good on women of 30 and over. I actually just tried to find the quote on Google and ended up with a list on 'How to convince your parents to let you wear make up!' Which was a pleasant trip down memory lane. My mum didn't let me wear make up when I was a teenager and lived in Malta where other kids had their ears pierced and wore make up by the age of four. My aunt used to hide me an eye liner and some mascara in the post box downstairs, she even included a tiny mirror.
I own every red Mac lipstick available. And some other brands too. The ones that you paint on and they do not come off. Not for days as it turns out. What is elegant and stylish on day one is invariably ghoulish and terrifying on day four.
Anyway, I digress.
We eventually get rid of the girls by simply refusing to engage. Jack is at that age where he still separates women in two camps: The ones he wants to talk to and the ones he wants to sleep with. He's still looking for one that he wants to do both with, and fair play to him. At least he's looking. On this night he wants to talk and so he can barely even acknowledge these young girls and I have his undivided attention. We end up getting very drunk and find ourselves sitting in the park at 3.30 am trying to roll that last cigarette under a tree. He wakes me and I spit grass out.
'We have to go home, Thea.'
'I'm comfy.'
'Noooo, we're in the park. We HAVE to go home.'
'I'll sleep here.'
'We can't sleep in the park. Grow up!'
Bloody hell. A 22 year old is telling me to grow up. Maybe I don't have it all figured out just yet.
In the last week he has decided that we're going to LA together on holiday, we're going to see Book Of Mormon for his 23rd birthday (poor old thing), we're having dinner at at least three of his favourite restaurants in London:
'Yeah it's called Lobster and Burger...or Burger and Lobster.'
'What do they serve?'
'Lobster. Or Burgers.'
'One or the other?'
'Both if you want. Fuck it.'
'Okay!'
He made me download Whatsapp. Yet another means of communicating directly. He likes to record little insulting voice messages and send them to me.
'Jack, enjoy your looks whilst you have them. I suspect it's a small window. You're not going to age well. I just seem to get better with age.'
'You say that....you've looked better. You have that aspect of someone about to have a breakdown and get a dog.'
'NEVER say that to a forty year old woman!'
'Hahaha. Coffee tomorrow? 11?'
I'm taking him to a friend's gig next week. It's like a cultural exchange. I don't really know where I fit in anymore. It's definitely not the Ladies Group. I'm not one of the gays (I've been told I'm the shittest fag hag ever). I'm not young. I don't know how to be forty. I sometimes think everyone is faking it. But friendship and a shared sense of humour does seem to be blind to the details. And like my Mutti says: A handful of good friends is far better than one adequate lover.

Monday 9 February 2015

In Case I Forget To Tell You




The ghostly trio
Lips is squinting at his mac screen whilst Stephen changes the water in the vase that he has somehow managed to cram a tree in to. I stand at the counter working my way through a box of pastries I bought at the La Brea Bakery.
I had to wait a while to get served because – Remember Scrooged? The Bill Murray film? Well, there was that homeless man in it who was very childlike and had a button nose. He freezes to death and comes back at the end as an angel. You remember. Well HE pushed in front of me at the bakery. He wasn't acting in that film, that's exactly how he is, childlike and a bit lispy.
“I'll take a muffin and cwoffee pleathezzz.”
He's not my first celebrity sighting but he's definitely the sweetest.

We went to see Dame Edna's Farewell Tour the previous night and I'm still giggling about one bit where Edna goes to an Ashram to find herself;
“It was during a morning yoga class whilst I was doing the downward dog that I had an epiphany. I realised I just needed to love myself more.” She makes a sad face and then breaks in to a huge grin. “And possums, I couldn't have been MORE successful! I can now see myself through your eyes! Aren't I wonderful!!!”
She constantly refers to the people in the cheap seats as 'The Missers' as in 'Les Miserables' and tells them to hold on tight to the wall and not clap lest they should plummet to their deaths. Funny fucker. At the end of the show Barry Humphries comes on as himself and chats to the audience. He'd been sat at the table behind us at dinner before the show and we were all weirdly a bit star struck by him. As we leave Lips and Stephen decide I need a pair of Dame Edna glasses despite my protestations. I'm then made to wear the glasses and pose in front of a life size poster of Edna whilst they amuse themselves taking pictures.

'Okay, that's booked,' Lips says.
'Whath bookthed?' I mumble through donut.
'Las Vegas.'
I'm so excited I don't react at all. Just stare unblinkingly until Stephen nods at me.
'We're really going to Vegas?'
Lips nods casually.
'We're booked in to The Cosmopolitan, you have a smoking room and we have tickets for Cirque Du Soleil's LOVE.'
I kiss Lips and do what passes for an excited dance – I basically nod and shimmy my shoulders a bit. My knees have been KILLING me for the last week and I'm hobbling about like an old crone.
'I'm overexcited,' I say. 'I need to go and lie down for ten minutes.'
Backup Mimosa

They've ruined me those two. Completely. Stephen popped out the other day and left me by the pool writing. But before he went he made me a mimosa. And a back up mimosa on ice. It's alarming how quickly I can adapt to that kind of thing...




We go for a bite to eat before meeting Barbara, an old work colleague and friend of Lips, at Chateau Marmont. I've been really wanting to go for a drink at the hotel because it's iconic and I've read a lot of biographies in which people have overdosed there. I associate it with John Belushi whom I love. When we arrive there are paparazzi stationed across the road.
'It's the Grammy's this week,' Lips explains. 'Lots of celebs staying here before the ceremony.'
Security establish regretfully that we're not on the list and they're 'at capacity'.
Lips phones Barbara who comes out and waves at us. Security see her and immediately let us in. As she's not staying at the hotel we're curious to know why she has such sway.
'Oh, I've been drinking here for years.'
I watch as famous people I couldn't recognise in a line up strut past me. They all look about twelve.
We head up to the bar and settle in to big armchairs. The place is exactly what I thought it would be; Dark, elegant, cosy and slightly 70's in its attitude.
A woman with white curly hair walks past and Barbara tells us she's a brilliant photographer. I've never heard of her so she googles some of her work which is easily recogniseable.
There's a garden area through the doors to our left under a high stone archway. A long table has been set up and people are sat with white flowers on the table and bottles of wine, smoking and chatting. The party is in honour of a tiny elegant blonde sat at one end whom I'm later told is Michelle Williams when she glides past us on her way out.
I order a cocktail called Big Trouble. It's bitter and awful, like a negroni, but I drink it anyway. I let Stephen choose my next one and he picks a Daisy Buchanan which is basically gin and elderflower and suits me perfectly.
Barbara is a sweetheart, funny and clever. She works at HBO (I think) and tells us stories about Sarah Jessica Parker's frequent presence at work. Apparently she's very nice and very tiny. She tells me about her son Atticus whom I will be meeting at brunch on saturday. She shows me a video of him. He's five and adorable.
I head downstairs, slightly tipsy, for a cigarette. There's one other man there smoking and he waits a beat before saying hello. We have an animated natter for about ten minutes and part ways. I recognise his face, I know he's famous for something but I couldn't for the life of me tell you who he was. He was oddly fascinated by my trip to Australia and asked a lot of questions about crocodiles.

The following day Lips is finally finishing jury service (he was guilty) and the three of us are spending the day in Malibu.
Whilst Stephen attends an acting lesson in the morning I wander down the promenade in Santa Monica window shopping and smoking. A man approaches me.
'I'm sorry Ma'am but you can't smoke here.'
I look up to see if there's a ceiling I've missed but can see only blue sky.
'But I'm outside...aren't I?
'Yes ma'am but you can't smoke on this street.'
'Just this street?'
'That's right. You can smoke on the next street or along one of the alleyways here but not on this actual street.'
'Okay...' I scurry in to an alley and find the rest of my people dragging on fags and looking a bit gimlet of eye.
At a loss for any proper way to thank Lips and Stephen for all the spoiling of me I decide to buy them a book each. Yeah, that'll cover it. I pick two Raymond Carver short story books.
Lips arrives and I give him his. He immediately dashes in to Barnes And Noble and buys me a copy of one of his favourite books.
I text my niece in Malta: “I've bought champagne, I've bought books. Short of making them something out of antacid pills I'm sunk.”
She writes back: “Make a matt out of your pubic hair. That way they'll know you really put something of yourself in to the gift.”
She says I made her this way.

As we drive along the coast Lips tells me that Malibu is where all the beautiful people are. And all the plastic surgery too.
We arrive and have a Bloody Mary at a place called Hank's so I can see the view of the ocean and all the surfers. We then head to a Cuban place for lunch. I don't see any beautiful people. I see a lot of scary thin miserable looking women in expensive clothes that hang off their scrawny arses. One woman completely freaks me out. She's got to be about sixty judging by her neck and hands. From behind she looks twenty. She's wearing low slung tight jeans just above her pubic bone and has huge fake breasts. Her hair is long and blonde and her face is smooth and line free but slightly puffy looking. Her lips are full and sensual and her eyes are old and sunken. She's such an optical illusion I can't stop watching her. She's weirdly coquettish, almost shy which just adds to my deep sense of unease. I see her several times as we wander around the shopping area. She's alone, wandering too, with a skimmed something or other with a straw which she takes frequent sips from. She looks lonely, like she needs a bear hug. I watch her flutter about nervously before climbing in to her red sports car and driving off to god knows what.
Sunset at Nobu
They take me to Nobu on the beach where we drink champagne and watch the sun set. It's so lovely we stay for hours and end up eating at the bar. I have a Lychee Martini and offer a taste to Stephen who sips it and nods;
'Yup, hate it. Couldn't hate it more.'
He doesn't mince his words that one.

The following morning we're up at 7am, Lips immaculate as always, me staring in to space with a coffee and a fag. We're having an early brunch with Barbara at Cecone's. We drop Bradley and Andersen off at the “Posh Pets Hotel” where they don't give us so much as a backward glance.
When we get to Cecone's Barbara is there with her husband Darin, their son Atticus (who's smile makes even my atrophied ovaries wheeze briefly in to life) and a friend called Amy. Amy and her wife live between New York and Venice Beach. She's dry and funny and we discover we're on the same flight to london on monday.
I go to the toilet and when I get back Barbara is grinning at me.
'So I hear you're planning to meet a cowboy in Vegas and get married by Elvis.'
'Yes, that's correct.'
'Not going to happen,' Lips assures me.
'But - '
'Thea, no.' Stephen says in the same tone he uses when Andersen Cooper pisses inside the house.
Darin hugs me and says bye with the following wisdom:
'Have a great time. Be bad.'

We leave and head over to Rodeo Drive. I'm on the phone to my mum as they hand the car over to the valet.
'Mum, I'm going to Vegas!'
'That's nice dear. Give Lips and Stephen my love.'
'MUM. I'm going to VEGAS.'
'I know. I can see the headlines now: “I lost my child to Vegas.” Don't marry anyone.'
'But - '
'And don't drink too much. And don't gamble away everything you own.'
'Harrumph.'
When I get off the phone Lips says;
'Do you know where we are?'
I look up. It's a posh hotel.
'This is the Beverly Wiltshire.'
'It's nice.'
'It's where Pretty Woman was filmed. I thought we could have a mimosa here so you can see it.'
Honestly, I couldn't love him more.
Breakfast
I dash inside and look for Richard Gere.
We sit at the bar and watch people come and go. There are monuments of champagne everywhere.
Again, because of the Grammy's it's heaving with people in huge sunglasses looking like they really don't want you to know that they are very famous and therefore wearing sunglasses in the complete lack of sun glare to make sure you don't recognise them...and their entourage.
I turn to Lips and quote Pretty Woman:
“In case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.”
He rolls his eyes and gives me a kiss.
'C'mon, Doll. We better head to the airport.'
Stephen suddenly looks panicked.
'Where's you luggage?'
'Here,' I say pointing to my satchel.
'That's it!?'
'Change of knickers and a toothbrush.'
'Wow,' he says conservatively.
It's time to go to Vegas.

Wednesday 4 February 2015

A Stroll Down Sunset Strip


I wake to a text message from Lips:
“There are baked goods down here.”
I scurry downstairs to find banana muffins and warm quiche which I eat standing at the counter without a plate. It's 9am and Lips has already dealt with a hundred work emails, walked the dogs, done two loads of washing, met a friend for coffee and brought home breakfast.
This is why he has a pool and I don't.
He heads out to jury duty and I take the Cooper Brothers for another stroll.
I get back to find a gift bag on the side. There's a picture of a beastie on it and the slogan “Party MONSTER!”
'That's for you,' Stephen says. 'It's nothing. Really.'
I pull out all the tissue paper and find some bubble bath, some 'reverse the damage' bath pearls and three different kinds of antacid pills.
'Ah reckon if you mix the Pepacids with the chewy ones and throw in a Zantac you'll be all good.'
'Oh Stephen, you had me at “Pepacids.”'

He sits next to me on the sofa cuddling the dogs. Bradley Cooper was the first and he's calm and passive. Anderson is the younger brother and he's fucking mental. Stephen is cuddling them both simultaneously with varying degrees of success.
'I love you both equally but differently,' he says. 'Is that a kiss Bradley Cooper? Well thank you so much. That's very nice. Okay. Okay. Anderson. Anders – Okay that was a bite. We're gonna have to work on that....'
I spend a lot of my time laughing at Stephen. He's actually really quiet and self contained but once you tune in to his frequency he's completely hilarious. He keeps up a constant patter of quiet comic observations that floor me several times a day. They are frequently at my expense which I consider a huge compliment.
Whenever he thinks something is shit or terrible or a really bad idea he calls it 'interesting'. It took me a full three days to realise he was insulting me on a number of levels every few hours.
Poor Lips is now definitely on the Jury and has to be in court five days a week from 11.30 till 4.30 which scuppers some of the plans we've made.
He's gracious about it and offers what I'm sure is a symbolic gesture:
'Perhaps you guys should go to Vegas without me...'
Stephen doesn't even blink. 'Okay. We'll miss you.'
'Seriously,' Lips says. 'You should go.'
'I heard you. And we will miss you.'
When we were walking up Runyon Canyon Stephen noted how many people had their dogs off leash.
'It's so dangerous. I mean it's a pretty steep incline down the side there. A friend of mine walked his dog up here and it just hurled itself off the side. He had to climb down there and carry it back up because it wouldn't move. It took hours. I don't know what I'd do if one of ours did that. I'd be like: “I love you Anderson! Good luck. I'll miss you. Thanks for all the good times.”

I've been in the garden writing with dogs keeping guard of my feet all morning when Stephen returns from the gym.
'Feel like a stroll down Sunset Boulevard?'
'Sure.'
'We could stop for a coffee...'
'Okay...'
'...or a cocktail...'
We race to the car.
We amble along in the afternoon sun and he points out famous places.
'That's Chateau Marmont right there...we'll have to go for a drink there before you leave. That's The Viper Rooms where River Phoenix...well you know. Oh and that there is The Saddle Ranch Chop House, that's real famous. You will have seen that in a lot of films.'
'Are there cowboys in there?' I LOVE cowboys.
'Sure, but mostly it's the bucking bronco that draws people in.'
We stick our heads in the door. The place is kind of fabulous. And sure enough there's a mechanical bull right in the middle.
We stop at The Standard Hotel to have a drink by the pool. It's a fancy place with hanging chairs and beanbags but the prosecco arrives in unbreakable plastic flutes.
'Interesting...' Stephen says.
We sit and talk about our families. We've both lost our fathers, him much more recently.
'...I flew back and was sat on the floor by his hospital bed. I was exhausted as I had been for the past (he laughs) 14 years. He wakes up sees me and says: “Son you look tired, why don't you get in the bed.” He was...'
'He sounds wonderful.'
'Yeah, he was.'

On the way back we see a girl in a short tight skirt and high heels staggering around on the sidewalk. She leans heavily against a wall opens her purse, pulls out a baby bottle of vodka, downs it and staggers on.
'Oh shit. Should we...'
She disappears around a corner. It's like something out of a dark movie.

When we get back Lips is home and we head out for Pizza locally. The food is always so good and usually features brussell sprouts in at least one dish. It's the new kale apparently.
They tell me about a great one man show they saw called 'Buyer and Cellar.' It revolves around the idea that Barbara Streisand has a Mall in her cellar purely for her own use. She pops down regularly to browse and 'buy' things. In the monologue the man who works in the mall says that she comes down and picks something up and asks how much it costs.
“I'm thinking, this lady is nuts! So I say 400 dollars. Streisand blanches. I'd never pay 400 for this! I'll give you 300. She's crazy. She already owns everything in here. I say: Well I'd never sell it for that. She leaves. Crazy lady. She comes back a few minutes later victorious. “I found a coupon!”

Lips gets advance copies of all the Oscar possibles on DVD. We go back and sift through them looking for something to watch and settle on The Imitation Game.
As we wait for Lips to send some emails Stephen sips coffee and stares and the blank TV screen.
'I have got to get him to teach me how to use the remote for this thing. Or when he's on his next trip I'll just be sat here like this...I may have to start reading....or perhaps I could write a blog...I've got things to say...'
Benedict Cumberbatch is good in this and I've almost forgiven him for season two of Sherlock.
Keira Knightley gurns her way through yet another performance that could have been done better by almost anyone else.
There's a great quote that's repeated three times: “Sometimes it is the people who no one imagines anything of who do the things that no one can imagine.”
By the time Benedict has invented the first computer, shortened the war by two years and been chemically castrated for being homosexual we're all ready for bed.
'I can't believe what lightweights we've become,' I say.
'I was just thinking that!' Stephen laughs. 'We're either balls to the wall or in bed by ten. What is up with that.'
We have The Dame Edna Farewell Tour tomorrow night and that will not be an early one. We're all excited about that.
'And we need to check flights for Vegas on saturday,' Lips drops in casually.
Could Vegas actually happen? If it does I'm going to marry a stranger just so I can have my picture taken with Reverend Elvis.
'That is not going to happen,' Stephen states.
'It could happen.'
'It will not.'
'I could slip away whilst you're gambling.'
'We'd find you. I would rugby tackle you to the ground, ahm tellin' ya.'
'We'll see.'



Tuesday 3 February 2015

Clench Your Hoo Hoo

Calvin is a large man with a big voice. When we arrive he is still moving himself from his wheelchair to the piano seat and we stand outside looking at the suburban streets of Van Nuys whilst he gets himself settled.
'Come in y'all,' he calls through the window.
He has a shock of white hair and a slightly curly beard. His eyes are bright blue and mischievous.
'And what brings you here today?'
'Stephen thought I'd enjoy a lesson with you.'
'Have you had any other training?'
'Does karaoke count?'
'Ha, no. But how lovely.'
He tells me his story from humble beginnings at William And Mary to his good friend Glenn Close convincing him to head to NYC and be in a play. He's worked with a lot of people. He drops a lot of names. He sings for me and he is magnificent.
'Okay let's do some scales and see what your range is.'
We start low and stop when I am screaming like an angry cat.
'Wow you have a really low voice, you're in Elaine Stritch territory there.'
'So what am I?'
'An Alto. You can sing in the soprano range but it's not your happy place.'
He wants to push me up a little higher and I just panic and squawk.
'You can't worry about sounding terrible, you have to open your head and throw the sound forward. When you're approaching the highest note clench your Hoo Hoo.'
'Clench my what now?'
'Your Hoo Hoo.'
'Oh my God.'
He has a deep rumbling laugh.
He's talking about technique and cites Alison Jiear as an example. But he pronounces her name 'Jeeer'.
'It's Jy -Ahhhh,' I say.
'Oh you've heard of her?'
'Heard of her? I've been goosed by her. Richard always uses her to try out new material.'
'Richard?'
'Richard Thomas the composer.'
There's a seconds silence before he explodes.
'OH MY GOODNESS I LOVE HIM! I LOVVVVEEEE JERRY SPRINGER THE OPERA!!!!'
I've just name dropped one of my best friends. I feel no remorse what so ever.
After a ten minute interlude in which he tells me how many times he's tried to get the rights to put on Jerry in LA we get back to the lesson.
'I think Bette Midler will suit you real well and I have a particularly beautiful song you're going to learn right now. It's called “Hello in there”, do you know it?'
'I don't.'
By the time Stephen comes to fetch me we are bellowing the song out together and I can't help but grab hold of his head and kiss him.
'That was SO much fun. Thank you!'
'Oh my pleasure. You have a nice voice, darlin'. If you're ever back in LA do come by again.'
He gives me his card.

Stephen has brought me a bottle of water - 'I drank half of it though' and a brownie.
I clamber in to the car.
'I can't help but notice you didn't open the car door for me. You're dropping the ball.' I sniff.
'It's the least you can do. You are destroying me.'
'Fine.'
Lips has to entertain clients in the evening so Stephen and I make plans to see a movie at The Grove, grab a burger and go and support Gasparin at the showing of the second episode of Ellen's Design Challenge.
We are getting over the hedonistic weekend, actively not drinking and trying to hold our shit together.
'Stephen can I just suggest that whatever film we see tonight, it should be light and fluffy. Nothing too dark.'
'No shit Sherlock. That's the most profound thing you've said all week.'

A couple of hours later I'm sat by the pool pretending to be a writer when Stephen pops his head out with the cinema listings.
'Paddington is on.'
'Absolutely not.'
'Or there's some Jennifer Lopez thing that fits with our time frame.'
'That'll do.'

We drive to the The Grove and park right by the door.
'That never happens,' Stephen beams. 'Good job!'
Armed with popcorn we head in to the cinema screen. It's practically empty. We find our seats which are right next to a man sat on his own. As there are only six other people in there it would be creepy to sit right next to a stranger, for all concerned.
'Those are our seats,' Stephen says. 'But we'll just use the row behind.'
The big tightly wound looking man pulls out his ticket.
'No this is my seat.'
'No, it's fine,' Stephen says. 'We'll just sit behind you cos...'
The lights are dimming and the man has misunderstood us but it's empty, who cares.
We sit. The man gets up walks to the end of the line, checks the row letter and comes back.
'What's your seat number?'
'It doesn't matter,' I say. 'It's just we would have been sat right - '
'Cos this is my seat. I'm in the right seat.'
'Yeah, it's fine. The place is empty,' I say.
'I'm in the right seat. Maybe YOU got it wrong.'
He sits and continues to mutter.
My rational mind tells me to ignore him. The still slightly fragile from the weekend part of me thinks there's a good chance we're going to get stabbed. I glance at Stephen who is blissfully ignorant of the imminent danger, munching on his popcorn.
'So what's this film about?' I whisper.
'No idea,' Stephen mumbles happily through a mouthful.
'What's it called?'
'The boy next door.'
'Oh, sounds sweet.' Maybe it's a rom com.
A woman sat on her own in the row in front of scary dude is talking quietly on her phone.
He stands walks over and tells her to get off the phone of get out of the god damn cinema.
Stephen is engrossed in a trailer and misses it.
Well, as long as I can outrun him I'll be okay. There is no way I can outrun Stephen but I have the advantage of knowing there's a chance I will have to so I'm in with a fighting chance.

The film is not a rom com.
It's a violent graphic thriller about a 19 year old boy who stalks Lopez and kills everyone she loves.
spoiler alert
She kills him in the end by stabbing him in the eye with an epi pen then gouging his eye out, dropping a ton of concrete on him and leaving him in a burning barn.
These stalkers never go down easy.
Poor Glenn, all she wanted was to be loved. Poor rabbit, all he wanted was not to be boiled alive.
No one wins in these situations.
The credits roll and I remove my bag from my head and turn to Stephen.
'What part of “light and fluffy” did you not fucking understand?'
Stephen giggles.
'That was crap. Let's get our burger on.'
As we leave we see the scary dude standing aggressively in front of one of the staff shouting:
'It is NOT OKAY to use a phone in the cinema!'
The woman on the receiving end of his wrath is also there.
'You're a fucking psycho!' She says and stomps off. Bold move.

We go for burgers at the Short Order and mine is messy and falls apart and I'm covered in sauce.
'Good job this isn't a first date,' I say.
'Yeah, it would have been a last date too. You missed a bit.' He indicates my entire face.
Vegas
We're pissing around in a tourist shop when a text from Lips comes through:
“Tom Ford is sat in the next booth. He looks immaculate.”
I'm trying on a variety of comedy roadkill hats. Stephen takes a picture of me with a skunk on my head and texts back:
“You're with Tom Ford. I'm with this.”


We stand and stare at a water fountain for a leeetle bit too long.
'Wow, it's just like Vegas,' Stephen says with absolutely no inflection.

He tells me a fabulous story about his “crazy” cousin.
'The whole family were heading to his wedding. We're all dressed up, hats an' ev-ery-thang and as we're walking up the path to the church we see him on the roof, absolutely hammered in his morning suit with a bottle in one hand. He hollers down to us: Good news an' bad news! Bad news, the wedding is OFF! Good news, the Partaaaaaay is ONNNNNN!'

We go and meet Gasparin and his friends and watch the second instalment. Gasparin made a lovely side table and we all clap.
'Your game face is slipping,' Stephen points out.
It's time to head home.
I climb in to bed with a copy of Valley Of The Dolls. The cover is a close up photo of a bubblegum pink glittery mouth, the teeth biting down gently on a pill.
This is going to be good, I think. And promptly pass out.