I'm driving back from London today, listening illegally to my mp3 player in the car when Josh Rouse starts up and I'm transported, instantly, to Perth Theatre and the first few shows of "Abigail's Party". Extraordinary, to mis-quote Noel Coward, how potent house music is. And how enduring.
Even a run as short as "Beauty Queen" leaves its mark - I can't watch that bloody Thomson holidays ad without the shudder of excitement and apprehension that "Welcome to My World" used to generate over the tannoy. And although I'm never likely to hear the original music from "Midnight" in a shop or restaurant for obvious reasons, a few bars of Jonathan Day's jazzy intro and I feel the lack of a kimono immediately.
What's odder is that I can look at those show posters and souvenirs without a pang - it's just the madeleine of the music which does it. Like visiting, very briefly, someone you were once much better friends with.
2 comments:
I've heard that only, mad dogs and film-makers go out in the 02 after drinking all day. Actually that's not true, they don't let dogs in the 02. Hold on that's not true either, they let dogs in, in their droves. They don't let K9's in and we are not talking Doctor Who? Here neither. I've not seen any remote control dogs in or indeed being kicked out of said establishment.
Imagine my suprise when whilst walking my horses early on Sunday morning when I pulled an up and coming screen writer out of a ditch filled with rain water. The poor boy was incoherent, other then managing a few simple words 'Dineen, Dineen' was all he could mutter. I helped the retched fellow up, and left him on a park bench hoping that somebody would be able to understand his slurred speech and get him to his home. He was either mentally unstable or had simply [and by the vaporous breath] been drinking for what can only be and unthinkable amount of time.
I ask you what or who could drive the poor fellow to be in this state in a ditch in the Cowley Road area of Oxo-ford?
J Smithee, it's very easy to scoff at the misfortune of others when not completely au fait with the facts. Hence your analysis of the situation is somewhat askew, and I feel duty bound to put the record straight.
I too stumbled upon the (alleged) writer during the early hours of the morn in question, and became clear to me that the dishevelled one was in fact searching for a Northamptonshire river, the Nene.
After sobering up in a nearby cafe, he claimed to hail from Canada and was asking for directions to 'the Nene' in his native dialect "Hutterite German" (an Upper German dialect of the Austro-Bavarian variety of the German language, spoken by Hutterite communities in Canada and the United States), and I got all that for the price of a cup of tea, three bacon barmcakes and a Twix. Do your research Smithee!
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