An orgy at the opera

I think I am getting into this opera thing. Following my last visit to the ENO (English National Opera), I last night upped my game and went to the Royal Opera House to see Verdi’s Rigoletto. However, having forgotten I was going, I decided to wing it and figure out what the damn thing was about alone, despite having about a 15% view of the stage from my seat up in the ceiling, left. Well, you get what you pay for. Thus, without further ado, let us relive my experience of Verdi’ masterpiece:

Don't forget your binoculours

Picture the scene. Stage lights GO. Cue an orgy in a court with everyone dressed in pantaloons. Oh my God, gay, straight, lesbians – they’re all at it, 17th century style. And the pantaloons….

Isn’t opera supposed to be classy? The women all have their boobs out and now we see a bare man’s bum. Oh my God, I’m sat next to my mum. I cover her eyes while I grab my opera glasses. Peachy. Is he going to roll over? Yes, but in my blind spot, damnit.

A hunchback and the court jester, Rigoletto enters.

Rigoletto: OMG, this is disgustingo!! Put it away, you filthragging mongrels! Especially you, Duke, with that! It’s nothing worth waving about. You are all mean to me, PS. No-one respect Rigoletto. Maybe because he refers to himself in the third person all the time? I dunno. Poor Rigoletto.

Duke: Eff you, Rigoletto, spoiling our orgy good times! I CURSE THEE (points something at him. Wand, or the other thing? I can’t see. I hate these seats)

RIGOLETTO RUSHES HOME TO SEE HIS DAUGHTER, DAUGHTER (THIS SEEMS TO BE HER NAME)

Rigoletto: Daughter! Rigoletto love you so, so much. You are the only thing worth living for. It’s a bit pervy, actually. NEVER LEAVE THIS HOUSE, DAUGHTER.

Daughter: Father, what is this shizzle? Tell me your name, or at least my own name?

Rigoletto: (weeping) DENY

NIGHTFALL. RIGOLETTO HAS GONE FOR A FAG OR SOMETHING. A KNOCK AT THE WINDOW.

Duke: Daughter, it is I, a poor student (but really the Duke)! I love you, man

Daughter: I love you also, my God, it burns. I am so innocent in my white dress. TAKE ME

Duke: I love thee TOO much to deflower thee. I shall come back for you, once I’ve got rid of this er…

HE LEAVES. THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED BY THE ORGY GANG

Orgy gang: Hoorah! Let’s kidnap Rigoletto’s lover. It’s a bit weird how she’s so much hotter and younger than him, but let’s not trouble ourselves with that now. There are orgies to plan.

Daughter: Aughhhhhhhhhhhh!!

RIGOLETTO RETURNS HOME TO FIND HIS DAUGHTER GONE AND IMMEDIATELY GOES TO THE COURT TO KICK OFF.

Rigoletto: Right, mofos. I know you have her, Rigoletto’s one and only love…yes, my daughter! Give her to me!

THE COURT PROTEST BUT THEN GIVE UP AND GIVE BACK DAUGHTER

Rigoletto: Daughter! Light of Rigoletto’s life, star of Rigoletto’s loins…let me hold thee…closer…

Daughter: We must escape to Verona. Romeo and Juliet had a great time there…

Rigoletto: Rigoletto will kill the Duke, for this overnight annoyance! Aha, let me hire this passing assassin.

Assassin: I shall use my hot daughter to draw in the Duke, then kill him. Isn’t it weird  how we all have hot daughters?

Rigoletto: So hot…mmmmm Rigoletto….

DAUGHTER IS HIDING IN THE ASSASSIN’S HOUSE FOR SOME REASON WHEN SHE SPIES THE DUKE WELL COMING ONTO HIS HOT DAUGHTER:

Duke: I love thee, hot daughter! Marry me! You are the only one!

Hot Assassin Daughter: Hmmm. Well, I do love thee, Duke, with that thing there…sigh…father, we must kill someone else, not this hot Duke!

Assassin: I gotta kill someone, I don’t care who. Duke, you can sleep in the stable and I’m gonna fuck up whoever knocks on my door next. That will solve all!

Daughter: My heart is broken! I know, I shall knock on the door dressed as a man. I will die, because I can’t have this Duke, even though he is clearly a total douchelord. Now that’s good math.

THE NEXT DAY, RIGOLETTO COMES AND IS GIVEN A BODY IN A SACK. CURIOUS, HE OPENS IT, KEEN TO SEE THE DEAD DUKE WHO TRIED TO DO HIS DAUGHTER

Poor Rigoletto!

Rigoletto: NOOOOOO! Daughter! The curse has backfired upon Rigoletto. This is tragic.

Daughter: (dying)…daddy…issues…

AND SCENE.

In which I cockblock all the gays and ‘get’ the Internet

Is cockblock one word or two? Anyone..? So, hola bitches! – I’m back and after a lengthly period (my whole life) of refusing to ‘get’ the Internet, I have given in to the inevitability of technology. I am officially online. Now what? I can finally get round to doing all the things people ‘do’ online that I couldn’t do at work – I hear that Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee video is quite good, and apparently there’s this thing you can do called ‘downloading music’ which is really great for the music industry because it allows artists to totally give their work away for free AND YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO USE A CD. If anyone wants to give me Internet lessons get in touch. Also, do you still have to capitalise the ‘I’ in ‘Internet’? Like with God? I still feel guilty if I spell it god.

Mega digression. So it was Friday night and after a long, hard week I met a few friends to attempt to dull the memory of it by crushing my brain cells with white wine. Two guys, an American and an Aussie sat opposite us and by my powers of deduction (eavesdropping), it quickly became apparent they were on a blind date. Somehow, we all ended up chatting and having a jolly old time, especially the bit where one of them would go to the toilet and then we’d all round on the other, whispering “sooo? What’ya THINK?” It was lovely, like being Davina McCall on Streetmate. I always though they should bring back Streetmate, only I’d well be Davina. Anyway, two gallons of booze later, the pair decided to go to a friend’s party in Shoreditch and though my friends went home, I decided to tag along as I’d devloped a bit of a schoolgirl crush on one of them by virtue of the fact that he was from West Virginia and thereby sounded like a cowboy “hi y’aaaaalll!”. He’s probably reading this, actually. Hi, Blantley! I mean, howdy! We went to the Electric Showrooms in Shoreditch, which by the way, has a light-up dance floor – what is this, 1994? – and  had a good old drunken time dancing

Imagine my face here

 

though I think I may have upset the Aussie by robbing his man-friend because when I got home, I text him to say I had made it home and he text back ‘thank God’. Umm. The night HAD taken a turn for the peculiar as, when the cowboy and I had gone out for a cigarette, he offered to ‘make out’ with me. I considered it, thinking to myself ‘what a strange night! First I date-crash two decidedly gay men, and now one of them is offering to totally do me (well my mouth. Hm that sounds bad.) like kissing is something you just offer to do, rather like proffering someone a chewing gum. Do all Americans do this?’ Anyway, surprisingly I managed to control my urges and say “no, I’m fine thanks!” despite my brain going HE’S LIKE A COWBOY, A REAL GAY COWBOY! IT’S EFFING BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN 2!” as it didn’t seem right to further cockblock Mr Australia. And for that, y’all I am quite proud of myself.

Dog eat dog

I have never been a dog lover. This may or may not stem from my intrepid fear of the rottweiler who terrorised, nay destroyed my childhood, but for certain,  in the conversational controversy that is ‘are you a dog person or a cat person?’, I was always Team Cat. In my mind, cat lovers were much like the objects of their (totally platonic) desire: gentle, quiet creatures who preferred lying face down on the top of the stairs, staring at at the floor and Wondering About Life, whereas dog people were jumpy, energetic bastards who liked chewing things for no apparent reason, ‘going outside’ and ‘doing stuff’. Not for me, thanks. No siree.

However, this weekend I had a friend’s pug (actual dog left) to stay at my house and I don’t think I am being dramatic when I say EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED. The sounds of his teeny feet scrabbling along my wooden floor lifted my heart. The sight of his ugly but oh-so-adorable wrinkled face made my icy heart melt. Taking him for a walk in my silliest sunglasses cured my hangover (I had to refrain from the matching dog collars, but I would have done it, had I been alone, make no mistake). People stopped and smiled, as though to say ‘aren’t you two a nice pair?’ Hot boys paused for a second on their bicycles as little Bowie tried to race them. “Together, we are hotter,” I told him, squishing my face inappropriately close to his. It is probably lucky that I don’t own a pug, because I have absolutely no doubt that I wouldn’t be able to resist dressing him up as a pumpkin/santa/king (delete as appropriate).

Now he is gone back to his home in Peterborough though, I am left with a small, pug-shaped hole in my life. I am too flighty to allow myself the responsibility of a dog just yet though, so in the meanwhile, I will think about what my dog future holds…

More dates than hot dinners

Last week I had more dates than hot dinners = FACT. Slutty, and skinny. I’m so Taylor Momsen right now (why are all the people I relate to depressed 16-year-olds who play angry teenagers in American TV shows? It’s so embarrassing.).

The reason for this dating plethora is that, in a moment of post-festival comedown, I signed up to a dating site – one which many of my friends are on and had recommended as being ‘full of hotties’. It was actually quite fun making my profile, namely because I am self-obsessed and enjoyed answering questions about myself , such as ‘what adjectives apply to you?’ – AWESOMENESS – and ‘what qualities are most important to you? – ‘BUNS OF STEEL’. Though some of the questions were real thinkers , i.e. ‘what’s better, the carrot or the stick?’ Does anyone know what this means? What do carrots have to do with anything? That was a thinker. I was also asked to define my style, but given the best option was ‘my style is fresh from the city streets’ (what am I, The Fresh Prince?), I neglected to answer this, as well as ‘what sports do you play?’ (ability to hula-hoop throughout the whole of Hollyoaks was not listed as an option).

I wasn’t expecting a great response, but hi-ho, the world is full of perverts and soon I found myself inundated by emails, mostly from 50-year old Asian men (‘ur funny!’), 40 year olds who were frankly punching above their weight and Italian men sending me poems about my eye (‘che bella patatina che sei!’). I was temporarily freaked out, but decided to set up some dates with the best of the bunch after some riveting email chat ‘you like Fleetwood Mac? OMG ME TOO!’

It was a crazy week. Here are some things I learned:

1: Pessimism is key – if people are unattractive in their photos, do not assume it was taken from a bad angle. They probably have a neck rug (did you know these exist? I never until now realised that mean could grow full beards ON THEIR NECKS. This has taken my neck phobia to new heights of horror).

2: For God’s sake, PESSIMISM IS KEY! ‘A few pounds overweight’ does NOT mean ’2 pounds’; it means professional pie-muncher.

3: Germans really do say ‘ya?’ after every sentence. Also, wear denim blazers.

4) Americans do not get irony and this can lead to embarrassing misunderstandings and painful apologies “I was joking! I know you don’t fancy men! Your butt is just fine! It’s Lovely!” etc, etc.

So a week later, I’m exhausted. I still have one dude’s keys which he has not yet asked back for (is he staying on the streets? Either way, it doesn’t bode well). I’m totally wiped out, yet discovering I am number ten most popular lady on the site has brought out my secret competitive streak (I can’t leave until I am NUMBER ONE). It’s like a horrible new addiction to lie about on the site (“Drinking? I enjoy the occasional Martini, but that’s all. Smoking? Only at barmitzvahs). But after this next one, I’ll quit. I swear it.

…in which I do an OAP

Not really. But one was getting seriously saucy with me, guys! I was at the delightful Uxbridge Arms in Notting Hill, drinking a lovely Chablis (house white) of the beer garden. An old chap gave his seat up for me, which was nice, while I was waiting for a friend. I think this is mainly because I was wearing fuck-me heels. So I took him up on his offer, and the next thing I know, my friend and I are embroiled in a bitter debate about the state of the country. It was racist, I’m not gonna lie. Old people really don’t like immigrants. Really really don’t like them. “But they’re fleeing persecution!” I kept protesting weakly. “Some of those Polish builders are really quite fit! Though they did fuck up my kitchen floor and cause three leaks in my bathroom. But they’re tidy and broad-shouldered!” Anyhoo, it turns out my opinion doesn’t matter because I Am Young And Don’t Know Any Better.

The debate was quite exhausting and by this point I was frankly wankered. The old boy opposite me kept stealing my fancy Vogue cigarettes (surely he can afford them more than I can?) and despite my best hints, didn’t offer to buy me my next drink. Then, behold, this guy turned up and started talking to me!

Humanahumana right? (What does this mean?). This is actually how he started chatting me up. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not wearing any stockings.” OMG creepy. But I was drunk and quite delighted. “Oh, you noticed? Well buddy, this is 2010 and girls only wear stockings when they are trying to make boys go out with them and they pretend they wear them all the time!” “You’re a very attractive lady,” he said, before telling me that he was an artist who paints mainly nudes. Pffff. I nearly volunteered, imagining myself in a Titanic moment, but thankfully it was closing time and I was forced to totter back to the tube. I’m all for sugar daddies but last night I discovered my line, and it can be seen, above left.

Labia Day

Yowsers.

I mean, that is exotic. I remember as a 13-year old bony teenager having a tie-dye swimming costume along the lines of this which I wore to Loughton swimming pool. MUM WHY DID YOU LET ME BUY IT????? I still have the nightmares. I mean apart from Cher, who is excluded on the grounds of wearing this and BEING AWESOME, certain lady bits should never see the light of day:

Did anyone else ever do Cher’s exercise video?? It was glorious and gave me the buns of steel I still enjoy to this day.

Anyways, do you think Gaga got up and thought, ‘I’m having a fat shoulder day. I KNOW. LABIA!’

Essex Pride

This gives me a warm glow. It’s only 5ft compared to the 45ft Hollywood sign but it still apparently cost £90 grand. Yes, 90K…for THIS. Glory be.

Aussie rap joy

Amaaazing!!

Va-jew-jew

Oh my god.

www.mtv.com.au/news/7a845ff2-wino-loves-her-vagina/

The day I stole roof

Last night Lady F went to Shoreditch House Literary Salon. If you don’t know what this is, it is when loads of 20-somethings who work in publishing go to watch some poor schmuck read out loud in order to get easy access into Shoreditch House and also to soak up the free Hendricks and Tonic (I managed two).

Well, I saaaaay I went to the Literary Salon, but the truth is, my companion and I took one look at the three hundred or so freeloading bastards before we decided to take our free G&Ts and sneak up to the roof terrace. This is the only reason to go to Shoreditch House, apart from sharing a lift with Gail Porter (this has happened to me twice. Man, it is really hard not to stare at a bald person’s head when you are REALLY trying not to).

Behold, the beauty of the rooftop:

Just after I took this, a man leapt in and starting doing laps. No kidding. When SH opened, there was a rumour that Tracy Emin did laps there at cocktail hour. This was probably started by the PR department to make people want to go and look. Like a penguin at the zoo. It made me go, anyway.

And this is the view:

Admittedly, it’s not as beautiful through the iron prison bars. But is is actually very spectacular.

I have a real problem with places like this, in that I love them, but I hate people that can afford to belong. Does this make me bitter? Or just poor? I’m not sure.

Anyway, as I was distinctly unliterary last night, I will continue with my ambition to become a book reviewer and tell you what I’ve read this week. Please hire me, Guardian! I’m lonely!

The plot:

Man, it sucks being thirty. Women just have babies even if their painter husbands don’t want them and you and your lover just drift apart because women don’t like sex after babies. Nightmare! It’s okay though, because you can go to California and find God to give you inner strength. Then you can come home and paint lovely pictures of your wife (who has been drinking too much Chardonnay of late, and you’re getting worried) and it will all be okay. Phew.

The moral of the story: Men hate babies, but if they are painters they can like them again.

The plot: David Sedaris is awesome.

The moral of the story: Be David Sedaris.

The plot: Life is an effing nightmare and men will treat you mean and lock you in their car boots and rape you, especially Mexicans. Drink some beer and befriend a fat woman though and it will all be okay.

The moral of the story: No matter how depressed you think you are, Willy Vlautin is more depressed and so are all his characters. This has the surprising effect of making you feel happy in comparison. I love you Willy. Marry me and we can do sexy simultaneous suicide. Hoorah!