Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Honey, What's This..?
Megan Mullally was in town all last week performing her one-woman show, meaning that Soho was pretty much a ghost town for much of it. Of course I got tickets, darling: you get a special discount for being a fairy. Simply present three tokens from the back of any Nivea variants with an extravagant hand gesture and you were swifty shown to your seats. Although I must not have sashayed correctly as the Boy and I were placed in the very back row in the very back of the theatre. So when Megan came on stage, if you squinted she looked like Tina Fey. Clearly it was a two-for-one deal on gay icons this week.
Mullally appeared nervous when she took to the stage, not even acknowledging the audience until she'd sung two songs, possibly in case she was worried there'd be a mass bellowing of "Do Karen..!" from the Stalls. I'd had her first album for years, purloined in a divorce from a more tuneful ex, so I think I was more prepared than some in the audience. I don't think it was really fair to refer to this as the 'one-woman show' some reviewers were calling it, more 'Megan Mullally In Concert'.It would have been nice to have got more chat from her - the few thumbnail sketches of stories she threw in while she was lining up her lyrics were wonderfully blase' about including Mick Jagger and living downstairs from the woman who played the villain in 'Superman II' - but clearly she's more comfortable with a coterie of Hollywood writers around her. As would we all. These few insights were completely charming, but the juxtaposition between this quiet, almost nervy lady and the outlandish character she is more well known for was a little too much in the audience; two rows in front, some shrill queen whispered sotto voce "Is she going to sing all the way through?" I didn't hear his friend's reply, but the first responded back with a rather minty "Well I can tell you this now, we're not staying for the second act."
Meanwhile I was preoccupied with the Gentleman Who Can't Catch sitting to my right, the one that my dear Boy referred to as being the kind of person who wears loud shirts in lieu of a personality. Oh dear reader, I knew him. He was the ex-boyfriend of a very good friend of mine who, due to a misunderstanding between myself and his ex where we were discussing decorating plans for his bathroom and his desire for one of those enormous metal Victorian baths at the same time as discussing his then-boyfriend, the descriptions of both got muddled. Hence this ginger ex of his being referred to as the 'roll-topped, free-standing, clawfooted ex-boyfriend' from then on in.
As you can imagine, we didn't embrace each other with long-lost friendship gone, just made sure that we didn't nudge each other on the armrest thus invoking any kind of acknowledgement. Perhaps I should find this behaviour odd in retrospect: we had enjoyed a dalliance on the sofa once. Well, I say 'enjoyed' - he'd found me in his front room on the pull-out sofa bed, woozy from sleep and the steaming hangover that you can only get from a night on the tiles with my friend, and decided to stick his hand down my boxers and have a fiddle about. By the time I'm opening my eyes, he's opening his bath robe; my thought process was pretty much 'Ah, well. It'll get rid of the morning horn before I get to work...' and the next thing I know, he's mopping up using the sleeve of his robe, the premature and classy cow. I wonder at this point - are heterosexuals like this in general? In regards to the stigma of sex, I mean: here's someone who I'd had what some would consider passion (what other would consider 'a fiddle and a diddle') and we're not even acting like friends. Or even passing friends. I know girls who can count their partners on one hand, yet most the wendy men I know have had more pricks than Helen Keller during her stint in an inoculations clinic. Are we all just whores through circumstance?
I've just read that back and it all sounded very Carrie Bradshaw. Perhaps I should take to writing these things in a sequined turban on an Apple Mac with a post-it over the Apple logo on the lid.
Anyway, as we left the theatre, there was a pointed non-look at each other as we exited the row of seats from opposite ends - before fate brought us together once again at the exit. We didn't make eye contact, but then we didn't make eye-contact way back then, either. Ce la vie.