(no subject)
I'm dead inside. Seriously. Crack open my chest and you won't find a heart in there- just a cold, dark stone with the density of a quasar that would suck you into it's core in a heartbeat. If I had a heart to beat. Which I don't. Emotional intensity is an alien concept to me at the best of times- if I was to become a father on the same day I was cure of head cancer whilst winning the lottery on a space trampoline I'd maybe crack into a giddy smile. Maybe. But I'd probably look as blank as a cow being told knock-knock jokes.
Then Shane Richie happened. Now, Alfie Moon off of Eastenders was never the man who I thought would yank me from my emotional coma- strangely I always thought that when it happened Jesus might be involved. Or Derren Brown. But that's exactly what the cheekiest of cheeky chappies managed on Saturday night at the Palace Theatre in Manchester. That's where you'll find him playing the lead in the musical 'Scrooge' and where, if you'd been there this last weekend, you'd have found me in the stalls having my melon well and truly twisted. Then bent. Then folded in on itself. Then turned into an ostrich. Which was having it's melon bent.
This is because I was drunk. I'd started a few hours earlier in Manchester's resolutely bonkers Christmas market, which smells of a German farm in the middle of a bonfire and where, for a reasonable price, any innocent member of the general public can buy mulled wine which could only be described as 'military-grade'. A small glass of this stuff could power Luton for a week. I had two large ones.
(Before I continue, I should point out this isn't a story about how brilliantly drunk I got and how brilliant brilliant I am for sticking so much booze down my neck. A lot of my anecdotes seem to have that as a feature and it's not a side to my personality I like. The only reason I do it is because the only people worse than those who get spannered then talk about it are people who don't drink, or would tut-tut at those who enjoy a libation or two. If you're one of these people- try this. Get drunk. Get very, very drunk. See what the world's like? Magic, eh? Now sober up. See what the world's like now? Cack, isn't it?)
Anyway, back to the story. Myself and the present missus then joined her family to celebrate her brother's birthday in an Italian restaurant in the company of some luscious red wine, but not before stopping off at the City Arms so I could continute to ingratiate myself with Amy's dad by joining him in drinking ales so real they have soil in them.
So, having survived trial by Bavarian mental-juice, trial by beer and trial by plonk I found myself in the stalls at the Palace as the curtain went up and people started milling about in a Dickensian street scene- fitting really considering the author of the source text. This was fine. I've been to the theatre before and was familiar with it's codes and conventions (I sat in my bit of the building and the loud people in the silly clothes stood on the raised bit at the front and had a bit of a pretend for a couple of hours. Simple.).
Then they started singing.
And I'd forgotten to prepare myself. I should point out that when I've had a bit to drink my train of thought, which is usually prone to more than a little diversion, has a tendency to fly off the rails completely and head for outer space- rather akin to the end of Back to the Future Part III. Therefore, I was at this point pondering which who would win from all the characters on stage if they were to have a game of 'chainsaw darts' when one of them started belting out a tune, which all the rest on stage seemed rather pleased about and joined in.
Then Shane Richie turned up and took charge of proceedings- which essentially entailed more singing when I was just getting used to people talking and then talking when I was expecting more singing. The world, suddenly, was full of drama, excitement and melodic sunshine dispensed seemingly at the whim of simple joy itself.
And what a world it was. It was the world I want to live in, my Xanadu, my Babylon. I saw the light and it's name was Shane Richie.
The next morning I'd sobered up and got a hangover. I stumbled downstairs and put the TV on to be greeted by '20 Greatest Songs From Musicals' on one of the music video channels. I watched for a bit.
About 10 seconds to be precise. Then I put on Soccer AM.
Then Shane Richie happened. Now, Alfie Moon off of Eastenders was never the man who I thought would yank me from my emotional coma- strangely I always thought that when it happened Jesus might be involved. Or Derren Brown. But that's exactly what the cheekiest of cheeky chappies managed on Saturday night at the Palace Theatre in Manchester. That's where you'll find him playing the lead in the musical 'Scrooge' and where, if you'd been there this last weekend, you'd have found me in the stalls having my melon well and truly twisted. Then bent. Then folded in on itself. Then turned into an ostrich. Which was having it's melon bent.
This is because I was drunk. I'd started a few hours earlier in Manchester's resolutely bonkers Christmas market, which smells of a German farm in the middle of a bonfire and where, for a reasonable price, any innocent member of the general public can buy mulled wine which could only be described as 'military-grade'. A small glass of this stuff could power Luton for a week. I had two large ones.
(Before I continue, I should point out this isn't a story about how brilliantly drunk I got and how brilliant brilliant I am for sticking so much booze down my neck. A lot of my anecdotes seem to have that as a feature and it's not a side to my personality I like. The only reason I do it is because the only people worse than those who get spannered then talk about it are people who don't drink, or would tut-tut at those who enjoy a libation or two. If you're one of these people- try this. Get drunk. Get very, very drunk. See what the world's like? Magic, eh? Now sober up. See what the world's like now? Cack, isn't it?)
Anyway, back to the story. Myself and the present missus then joined her family to celebrate her brother's birthday in an Italian restaurant in the company of some luscious red wine, but not before stopping off at the City Arms so I could continute to ingratiate myself with Amy's dad by joining him in drinking ales so real they have soil in them.
So, having survived trial by Bavarian mental-juice, trial by beer and trial by plonk I found myself in the stalls at the Palace as the curtain went up and people started milling about in a Dickensian street scene- fitting really considering the author of the source text. This was fine. I've been to the theatre before and was familiar with it's codes and conventions (I sat in my bit of the building and the loud people in the silly clothes stood on the raised bit at the front and had a bit of a pretend for a couple of hours. Simple.).
Then they started singing.
And I'd forgotten to prepare myself. I should point out that when I've had a bit to drink my train of thought, which is usually prone to more than a little diversion, has a tendency to fly off the rails completely and head for outer space- rather akin to the end of Back to the Future Part III. Therefore, I was at this point pondering which who would win from all the characters on stage if they were to have a game of 'chainsaw darts' when one of them started belting out a tune, which all the rest on stage seemed rather pleased about and joined in.
Then Shane Richie turned up and took charge of proceedings- which essentially entailed more singing when I was just getting used to people talking and then talking when I was expecting more singing. The world, suddenly, was full of drama, excitement and melodic sunshine dispensed seemingly at the whim of simple joy itself.
And what a world it was. It was the world I want to live in, my Xanadu, my Babylon. I saw the light and it's name was Shane Richie.
The next morning I'd sobered up and got a hangover. I stumbled downstairs and put the TV on to be greeted by '20 Greatest Songs From Musicals' on one of the music video channels. I watched for a bit.
About 10 seconds to be precise. Then I put on Soccer AM.