Monday, 27 February 2017

April 3rd...Hippodrome...STD...



  Oops, let's maybe fully write out Save the Date...
  Another Animated Brain Tableaux email today from my future self.  'Remember that you must act from a position of full achievement.  So, to take just one example of your self-perpetuated negative self-imaging [crikey], imagine that you are already fully qualified to give expert advice on weight loss. '
  Okay...
  Raw Till Four...?

  Cookie Dough.

Sunday, 26 February 2017

April 3rd Countdown, Hippodrome, London

  The secret of success, as Buddha said, is "To walk on.  Walk on..."
  "All well for you to say, Master.  But you never walk.  You sit constantly in Padmasana."
  "Precisely, child.  My legs are buddha'd."

Hippodrome April 3rd Countdown Diary 7

  Yet more passive-aggressive emails from, as we're calling them, Animated Brain Tableaux.  I must remember my goals - My Tutu Went AWOL! becoming a best-seller.  And my process for making that happen - being booked for literary festivals everywhere.  All good, so far.  But to avoid utter psychological enfrazzlement, my future self advises, I must rewrite those sad stories.  And I would, apparently,  know full well which ones.  Yes, indeed, I must rewrite those sad stories as happy, beginning way back in childhood.
  My future self didn't say that the sad stories needed to be our own. So:

Insy-Winsy Spider checks the weather forecast.
Humpty Dumpty observes proper parameters for health and safety.
The mother cat loops the fated Mittens over the Three Kittens' wrists.
Three Sighted Mice...
The ding-dong dell well has a grille fitted.
Little Miss Muffet isn't an arachnophobe.
Confiscated - the Sparrow's Bow and Arrow!
Nellie the Elephant unpacks her trunk having said, 'Hello again!' to the circus.
The hunters miss Bambi's father.
Tiny Tim does die.

  And do you know, it works - quite as well as four gins, a kebab and a botty-wank.

Saturday, 25 February 2017

Essex Book Festival 31/3 and Hippodrome Countdown to April 3rd. Diary 6

  Call me soon, mother dear, for I'm to be Queen of Saturday Live, Radio 4.
  9am March 4th, with Lee Mack.
  I was on the phone to the producer, Steven, for forty two minutes; he kindly worried for my phone bill and offered to ring me back on the Beeb's dime.  Other than the book coming out in a minute, he never mentioned any other hooks for my being guest on the programme.  Just asked questions and either giggled or sharply intook breath at my answers.
  So I thought I must sidestep quoting Hercules Ease, Prettiest Boy of 9th Squadron, Camp Bastion.  When I told Herc in June 2006 that I was going on Woman's Hour to be crowned Forces' Sweetheart, he wanted to know why I was mentioning him on Woman's anything when he was a bloke.
  'What is it, exactly, Eddie?'  He called me Eddie, never making it to Iestyn.
  'Magazine programme, Radio 4.'
  'Eddie, I'm just an honest joe.  My magazines are Men's Health, FHM and Nuts.  And who knew that radio went all the way up to number 4?'

Thursday, 23 February 2017

Hippodrome London Countdown to 3/4 Diary 5

  Therese, soprano from college days, fresh from an audition. Hair clipped back with diamant√© treble clefs; turquoise chintz pinafore dress, six roseate scarves, fake Swarovski bangles.  Ideal for that Disneyland kibbutz.  
  'Is that a library score?' she asked me on a top c flat.
  'Yes. I'm relearning Dandini for the Hippodrome gig.'  April 3rd, saved the date? 'To be accompanied by members of the Royal Marines Band!'
  'Tut tut.  I refuse to even belong to a library, let alone take anything out of one.  The books are forever getting pissed, shit or jizzed on.'
  Years ago I bought a copy of Cenerentola, for some Glyndebourne open day master classes.  That there were no markings in it made me feel oddly lonely.  No previous library borrower to hail as comrade for writing the instruction "Take bloody big breaths like 
the stampeding horse".  Pristine page after pristine page.  Though 
soon marked by me: “Too fucking fast”, “Much too fucking fast”, “Supersonic boomingly too fucking fast”.
  Therese said, 'The books I've been buying recently have been about thirdy worldly angst.  Did you know girls somewhere in Africa won’t go to school because there are no proper toilets so they have to go in the bushes on the way, and then they get attacked by snakes and spiders and the men that live specially in the bushes?  And a woman lost three babies out of four because she cut the 
umbilical cord with the thing she’d just been using to cut the rice down with.’
  ‘What about the fourth baby?’ I asked. 
  Looking confused, she replied, 'Oxfam showed her a film about the potential horrors of when you bring children into the world and she used the rice harvesting thing to castrate her husband.'

Hippodrome April 3rd countdown. Diary 4

  Another Animated Brain Tableaux email from my future self. Would I really want to risk not magically visualising my way to absolutely guaranteed success with a purchase of, let's call it, Rehash Resplendent? 
  At the bar after my recital recently, drinking with Claud and Gordon, the M and S obsessed couple that my mother has fag-hagged since 1976.  
  Gordon said we must be wary of false prophets. 'Booze.' 
  'I always get the right message from my fifth voddie,' said Claud.
  'Drugs.'
  'Only Night Nurse with a cod liver oil chaser.'
  'The rehashed trend for living in the visualised desired outcome of dreams.'  
  'Is that false, too? But I do my affirmations with tealights, a mini gong tinkled, wearing my mother's wedding veil. Shall I not 
get my high tea at the Ritz then, with Doris Day, Marian Keyes and 
the Briefs Factory boy with the YoYo?'
  'Oh, you fickle queen,' said Gordon.  'What about the muscle beauty in the green suit Iestyn got onstage at the Round House for 
that frabjous Boom and Bang show?'
  'Jay Copley,' I said. 
  'And might Jay Cop-Me, please, be at the Hippodrome on April 3rd?' Claud asked.  
  'Busy with his swamped classes at Barry's Bootcamp and modelling.  But maybe.'
  'Well, for another sighting of him, forget positive visualisations: 
I'd positively blue-whiten mother's wedding veil!'
  
  
  

Tuesday, 21 February 2017

Diary Day 3. Countdown to Hippodrome London, April 3rd

  I sing as chosen by Joanna Lumley about 8 minutes in...

  The daffodils I bought opened overnight. They're more flat leaf than trumpet. I knew I should have turned right rather than left on the abandoned railway and bought a bath mat. 
  An email from Kiki in Walberswick saying that she went online and listened to Joanna Lumley's Desert Island Discs, and hearing my dear, unadorned (what?!) voice was like turning in the lane and seeing the first crocuses, or lambs - or realising that, yes, the days were really lengthening.  She hopes I will sing at the Hippodrome gig as she's planning on being there. 
  I've been helpfully paraphrasing:  '...turning in the lane and seeing the first muntjac's scavenged carcass, the Thorpeness ladies golf four doing execrable things with high-vis, fuchsia unwashable nylon shorts - the village idiot singing "Oh, God our Help in Ages Past" masturbating with a still bloodily pulsating ear stuck in his arse crack.
  

Diary Day 2. Hippodrome London Unbound Book Launch. Countdown to April 3rd...

   Smell this morning first thing from the cafe downstairs was unexpectedly chickeny.  Had a phone call from Jillian George-Lewis, director of entertainment at the Hippodrome, about my show there on April 3rd.  Jill and I are often accused of conversing in a kind of interracial Gaelic.  Today's was in full flow. 'Please get your tech specs over as a matter of urgency... ...In a ballet company she would be sixth swan on and keep her very wing-flaps shtum... ...And your postal address for the contracts... ...He'll no doubt soon acquire himself an even higher horse and need to be climbing out of second storey window to get up on it...'
  Email from, let's call them, Animated Brain Tableaux, apparently from my future self warning that if I won't sign up to the full A.B.T. course, having watched the introductory weblog on dissolving negative self-beliefs (with Esther Rantzen's double telling how a lay nun prayed her out of certain and untreatable kidney failure) then I will suffer a complete cosmic collapse.  Have replied to my future self with an apt Madame Galinaism: 'Desperate is never attractive!' 

Monday, 20 February 2017

Hippodrome London Book Launch. Countdown to April 3rd Diary Day 1

  Also a tie in with my talk at the Ink Festival: We'll do the Show Here!

  Ken Levison, writer, editor, dramaturge of brilliance, rang to say that I of course must perform Dulcamara the quack doctor's aria in my book show at the Hippodrome London.  'How nice of them to lend you the theatre!  Gosh.  Yes, I listened to your CD. And speaking as a layman I think you have a beautiful voice and should be doing the character parts in opera, because you have a sense of humour.  And, let's face it, are no longer - perhaps never were - the ingenue.'
  Brera PR agrees with me that acrobat Stefan Alexander in his underwear would be a good selling image in certain quarters.  'But for something like the Woman's Weekly, let's go more with you as Madame Galina off-stage. Perhaps some crocuses at your feet. No, not strewn on the carpet, go out for a walk.'  
  This reminds me, idly, of my mate Gerard's younger brother, Montgomery, asking not to have any more of those leaves (kelp) in his breakfast smoothie 'from bloody well outside!'
  Singing practise, ballet practise, two thousand seven hundred and six words of the new novel done.