Sinister: What has Roland Orzabal done for me lately?

[Liz Daplyn]

Eep the first time I tried to send this it was in HTML
format, which makes me a VERY BAD PERSON.  Just goes
to show how little I post, eh?

*And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad*
 
Coming back to work after a holiday sucks like a
Dyson, especially when you have to go home after a
hard Tuesday and take the lovely twinkly fibre-optic
Christmas tree (with mini mirrorball baubles) down
because it's Twelfth Night.  If I'd had a company of
rude mechanicals handy I'd have laid seige to the
fairies in pique, but luckily it turned out that there
was none available, so I could veg out in front of
Property Ladder instead.

Still, it's not as though I've got very much work to
do at the moment, which is not actually that much fun
if you're a temp stuck with a Christian Finn in a
boring poky room in a hospital medical secretariat.  I
pass some of the time reading free e-books from
Project Gutenberg and have just finished Roald
Amundsen's account of his journey to the South Pole
today, after which I moved straight on to the Wizard
of Oz.  

Ah, but nothing, not even ruby slippers, can compare
to Sinister International Bowling Day's glory of
coming second in two games to the whirlwind
B!O!W!L!I!N!G! sensation that is Mr Kenneth Chu.  OK,
so the margin between him and the rest of us was over
a hundred points in the second game, but I was still
in the silver medal position, right?  After that there
was rubbish pool playing, DDR stardom for Lucy English
Teacher and the lovely Miss Sally (soon to be drawn
into our web of intrigue, hopefully) and lots more
drinking and talking rubbish, hurrah.
 
*The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had*
 
So the bleedin' gas people started (with the charming
assistance of big loud pneumatic drills) digging up
the pavement right outside my house at past midnight
on Tuesday evening, shortly after I'd gone to sleep. 
This was pretty annoying, as you can probably imagine,
and so, in a mildly sleep-deprived rage, I've written
a snippy letter to the appropriate authority.  It's
not often that I do something quite so Disgusted Of
Tunbridge Wells, but hey! Everyone needs to be
small-minded and petty sometimes, and I try to make up
for all the saints who are no doubt milling about the
world with the rest of us.  

After I eventually got to sleep, however, I dreamed
that the flatmate who's shortly moving to Clapham or
somesuch bastion of respectability had suddenly
announced that she hated me and all I stand for
utterly.  In the dream this didn't bother me overly,
as I managed to remember in that dreamy sort of way
that she's moving out soon.  However, when I woke up
far too soon, I became slightly perturbed in case it
was an sign that I had been laughing too loud at the
random Rumiko Takahashi manga I got out of the library
yesterday, which had annoyed said flatmate enough to
send bad vibes into my dreams.  She is a lawyer, after
all, and I suspect them of occult powers, what with
being in league with the Dark Lord and all.  My mum's
chilli con carne just before Christmas gave everyone
who ate it weird cheese-dreams as well.  Are there any
psychoactive agents in chillies or kidney beans? 
Biochemists in the house?
 
*I find it hard to tell you
'Cos I find it hard to take*
 
I really am a terrible correspondent.  I should make
it a New Year's Resolution to actually keep in proper
contact with people I should keep in proper contact
with.  

Of course, transferring email addresses from the
accursed Hotmail to this more congenial provider has
made it easier for me to look into my inbox without
wincing at the horrible spam content thereof.  Despite
the aforementioned weeny HTML format error.

But anyway, here's a half-arsed gig review.
 
*When people run in circles
It's a very, very Mad World* 
 
It was pretty strange being on stage at the Astoria,
still more so doing indie karaoke to a bossa nova beat
with several porn-'tached men.  Still, Johnny 7 did
the job, more or less, but I think Stefano fared a
little better than I did, although they did start
playing entirely the wrong song (i.e. not Can't Get
You Out of My Head) at first for him.  It would also
have been better if I could have remembered all the
words to Heart of Glass instead of having to refer to
a sheet of paper clutched in my sweaty palm several
times.  Bah.  

But enough about me.  The gig was really enjoyable
after my adrenaline rush had subsided enough to allow
me to enjoy my overpriced and rather warm beer.  From
a can: I'm a classy lady, you know.  I completely fell
in love with Mick when he did his shy Sinatra
impression.  Aw bless.  Nice suit as well.  Stuart did
seem a little lackadaisical at first, but maybe he was
merely pooped from compering the wondrous karaoke
support when he would rather have been backstage
snorting crack off whores.  Diamond-encrusted
mud-wrestling midget whores.

Still, he perked up a bit for the latter portion of
the show, and they played some of my bestest favourite
songs, although I can't remember exactly what now. 
People who can reel off set lists after stepping out
of the heady (sweaty) atmosphere of a venue into the
cold clear night air amaze me; I couldn't tell you
what a band played if they had the titles tattooed
across their fetching abdomens and wore crop tops.  
 
I kind of wish they hadn't done Piazza, New York
Catcher, though.  It seemed a bit wrong to have
something that intimate displayed with ten different
coloured lighting gels on the stage and a hobnobbing
London audience.  Not so much chitchattery as usual
from the metrosexual crowd, however, which can only be
positive, although I suspect that this is a symptom of
the prematurely middle-aged coming to enjoy B&S as an
alternative to wearing uncomfortable footwear and
going out on the razzle.  For instance, I and my
companions went for a nice companionable curry
afterwards, rather than fighting our way through the
headscarfed and bebadged masses to squeeze into a tiny
club in order to appreciate Chris' doubtless flawless
skills on the wheels of steel.  Ack I'm such an old
lady now I'm 25.
 
I really REALLY like Dear Catastrophe Waitress (the
album not the song, although that's errr OK, nor
indeed the Rrrriot TweeGirl on the cover, who's a
right little madam in my opinion and would be much
better for a slap and a spell teaching Brownies to
crochet boiled-egg cosies).  Late news, I know, but it
rocks so hard it inevitably makes me happy.  I wish
there were more hours in the day or I needed less
sleep [was less lazy] so I could listen to it more
often.  Bless Trevor Horn for his encouragement of the
shiny, sparkly bitchiness that enlivens this S Club 8
stylee New Direction of the biscuit-nibbling,
cardigan-wearing aesthetic etc. that we know and love
no end.
 
Enough!  Have yourself a merry little January, kids.  
 
Love,
Liz :x
 
p.s. Someone remind me to dis' Fans Only (in a
thoroughly affectionate manner, understand) next time
I crawl to a keyboard in Sinister composition.

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