You know those days when EVERYTHING drives you into an insane rage?
I had one the other day. I was so tired and exasperated by EVERYTHING that I sat at my desk and e-mailed my friend, Ben, bemoaning the fact that I wasn't skilled enough with punctuation marks to design an emoticon which accurately represented the full extent of EVERYTHING happening to my face - annoyance, disbelief, frustration, ennui, mild hysteria - and that this failure in itself was adding to my mounting pile of impotent fury.
:( Wasn't going to cut it.
:'( Pfft! Where's the ANGER?
D: I hadn't seen a ghost!
D': Or a spider.
Ben does not enjoy a constraint. I'd go so far as to say he actively dislikes one, which is why he shunned the frankly limited medium of key-strokes and drew me this instead:
He's a freestyling fucking genius! This is EXACTLY the right level of hissy! The attention to detail and sheer depth of feeling conveyed is even more remarkable when you consider that it took him about 5 seconds and he was probably in the middle of cutting a brain into 0.008mm slices and sealing them in wax or something. (Should probably mention at this point that he is a scientist - not a serial killer.)
And this is one of the reasons Ben and I are friends.
One of my most enduring memories from childhood is being simultaneously thrilled and scared senseless by the sight of Tim Curry stumbling out of a freezer, having stabbed Meat Loaf to death, and dropping his pick-axe on the blood-stained ice, while Little Nell screams from the soul and pulls her hair in the background.
I can't remember how old I was when I first saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but I must have been young. Mother - if you are reading - I'm not questioning your parenting skillz BUT you probably do have a lot to answer for! Just sayin'.
Rocky Horror was my main obsession for many years. I was in the fan club. I had posters, t-shirts, rare cast recordings. The works. I even had pen pals. Although this age of internet forums is perfect for a greedy, stalkerish, instant gratification kind of bish like me, I sometimes forget how exciting it was awaiting the arrival of the latest newsletter by snail mail or taking hours decorating a lovingly hand-written epistle with glitter and lipstick kisses and anticipating the reply.
I had two older pen chums whose lives seemed impossibly glamorous to me. One was a young lady who used to send me mix tapes loaded with obscure songs by the cast of the film. We spoke endlessly about our mutual love for Curry in women's underwear. You should know that my love for Tim meant I wasn't even afraid of this! The other was a gay guy who would regale me with tales of fabulous debauchery. At least that's how I remember it. We would write pages and pages about our Rocky Horror related antics and send each other pictures of ourselves dressed in our sluttish finery.
My 'real life' friends shared my passion as well. One of the reasons I bonded with one of my bestest and oldest friends was because we were sat together in an art class one day and she noticed the doodles on my portfolio included lyrics from Rocky Horror and also by David Bowie. I think our first real conversation began when she turned to me and asked bluntly 'So you like boys who wear make-up too?'. It was love at first dirty sight.
We'd go to the stage show at every opportunity. Back in those days we had to make our own costumes and everything! Look how fresh faced we were: Ahh...it seems like only yesterday. But it wasn't. It was about 15 years ago! THIS was yesterday: I'm not sure why I hadn't been to see the stage show for so long, but slipping into your fishnets and sequins to heckle some scantily clad actors is like riding a bike or doing the Time Warp - you never forget how. And now I am born again I will never stray far from the path of this joyous filth. I mean, is there anything finer than a perfectly toned man wearing tiny pants and covered in body glitter who can back flip and sing at the same time? That was a rhetorical question btw. The answer is NO! Duh.
It's been interesting to follow how the show has evolved over the years, and how each new production keeps the story fresh. The sex has gotten dirtier. Way dirtier. As another gorgeous friend (and the organiser of last night's outing) noted, the current tour has dispensed with condoms - a staple of the bedroom scenes for years - and includes practices which may have been quite an education for some of the audience members by the looks of it. It's testament to either the actors or the wardrobe department that there are no visible side effects from all that dry humping. Either they are all consummate pros or that underwear is sturdier than it looks. But I digress...
I'm always amazed at the diversity of the audiences. For all the die-hard fans who turn out in stockings and feather boas, there are always newbies and those who look slightly out of place (terrified?) to me. I often wonder what is going through their heads as they hear a room full of people screaming 'SLUT!' and 'ASSHOLE!' at Michael Aspel for the first time.
When you think about it, the story makes very little sense. Neither do the lyrics. But I guess that's not what it's about. I think it's been popular for so long because of Richard O'Brien's excellent tunes and because it gives people an outlet. While we are at the Frankenstein Place we can laugh at kidnap, cross-dressing, molestation, incest, murder, jealousy, cannibalism, the Nazis and genetic experimentation. Anything goes. It's all very cathartic!
Although transgressions are punished and relatively normal behaviour is reinstated at the end of the story, it is the anarchy and decadence - embodied by Frank - which is prevalent for the most part. Although he stands for everything we are told is wrong - violence, pride, promiscuity - it is Frank we root for. He is literally playing God in his house, constructing his own depraved little universe where there is none of the order or restraint imposed on the rest of us. And everyone adores him, even those he has mistreated. So much so that they are prepared to die for him. Riff Raff's claims that his master must be destroyed because of his extreme lifestyle are undermined when he reveals he doesn't feel anyone 'liked' him. Jealousy appears to be the overriding motive.
Whatever their reasons for loving this lush, dirty little musical, it certainly seems to bond people which can only be a good thing. And anything which gets accountants, lawyers and school teachers wearing corsets and feathers, and more boys in glitter and heels is doing the world an invaluable service as far as I'm concerned.
I was obviously deeply affected by watching this cult classic at such a tender age. More so than I realised. Although I had neglected my own alter-ego for too many years... ...it seems she never really left me: That is my everyday hair! But not my everyday clothes (although they WOULD be if I had my way).
And she and I STILL enjoy boys in make-up.
UPDATE!!!
My mother has confirmed I was TWO YEARS OLD when I first saw it! TWO!!! This explains a LOT!
Yesterday I was on Twitter (as is my wont) when I noticed that one of the trending topics was simply 'Rudd'. Subsequent and very cursory research revealed this was of course Kevin Rudd, the ex Aussie PM, due to recent activity surrounding the elections. BUT for a few seconds when I saw that hash tag, before reason prevailed and disappointment set in, my brain was all like 'Wow! Finally Paul Rudd is getting the love and recognition he deserves as an actor and a gentleman!'
I LOVE Paul Rudd. I'm not sure when I first realised this. I think it was a slow burning thing. It kinda crept up on me over the years. Paul Rudd is more than the sum of his parts. Sure, he was pretty hot as Josh in Clueless even if it took Alicia Silverstone the whole damn movie to notice. Like, DUH Cher! But that wasn't the defining moment. Maybe it was as Phoebe's boyfriend in Friends? Nah - I actually pretty much hate Friends so probably not. He's clearly outstanding as Brian Fantana in Anchorman."That's the smell of desire m'lady." Now we're getting somewhere. Then there's this. "Your index finger smells like Rupert Everett." Yeah. I think we're pretty much there. But THEN there's THIS. WOAH! Holy shit! We've hit the paydirt. Bromance and cock rock. I didn't stand a chance! Take me NOW Paul Rudd. And while we're on his faptastic dancability, how about this:
And YES, I do enjoy that Family Force 5 song. And NO I am not ashamed. Much.
I'm not alone in my Rudd infatuation. I have found that in a room full of people, in any given situation, if you mention that you love Paul Rudd, 99% of the people there will be like 'who is Paul Rudd?' and when you explain they look at you with a mixture of confusion and pity. They can't fathom your enthusiam at all. They assumed he would turn out to be some actor of smouldering intensity from obscure arthouse films, a hero of cult '70s slashers or even a porn star, but instead it slowly dawns on them as you get further through your list. "You know," you say, with a manic grin and a slightly unhinged glint in your eye. "The one in 40 Yr Old Virgin? Knocked Up? Role Models? Forgetting Sarah Marshall?" "Oh...HIM!" they say, eyeing you with suspicion. "WHY?"
But then there will always be that one person. That one in a sea of blank stares who is returning your fervent look. Their excitement is palpable. They thought THEY were the only one who loved Paul Rudd that much. They have found a kindred spirit. "I LOVE PAUL RUDD!" they say. "I KNOW RIGHT!?" you reply. You are now firm friends.
Sometimes it's someone you've known for years, but due to circumstances beyond your control you've never had a conversation go the way of Rudd, or sat to enjoy one of his movies together. But once you DO discover your mutual passion, your friendship will always be that much richer for it. Conversely, someone you hitherto thought was a dick might inadvertantly disclose their love of Rudd and you decide they can't be 100% tool if they like Paul. That's the healing power of Rudd.
So ANYway, after writing on Twitter yesterday that I love Paul Rudd, and how I had thought (somewhat rashly) that the Rudd trend was about Paul Rudd, I got an e-mail which said in the subject line:
Paul Rudd is now following you on Twitter.
Imagine, if you will, the rollercoaster of emotion I was riding for the time it took me to open that e-mail. Confusion. Excitement. Fear. Possibly a more well adjusted person would have assumed that it was one of their friends playing a joke. Or that someone who just happened to be called Paul Rudd, but not THE Paul Rudd, had misinterpreted my Tweet and thought I was in love with them. Come to think of it, that would actually be quite weird as well. But MY train of thought went something like this:
OMFG! Paul Rudd is following ME?!
How did he know I love him?
I didn't even hash tag his name when I wrote that Tweet about loving Paul Rudd!
Paul Rudd must spend all day just scanning Twitter for his own name!
That's a bit strange, but then again if I was a slightly famous Hollywood star probably that is what I would do.
What if Paul Rudd saw what I wrote about him and started reading all my Tweets and now Paul Rudd is in love with ME?
Holy crap! That must be it. Paul Rudd LOVES me.
And I love Paul Rudd.
What if he's leaving his wife for me right now?
Oh God! Do I really want that on my conscience??
They've got a small kid forchrissakes!
What will I tell the boyfriend? Am I really leaving him for Paul Rudd?
I'm gonna have to. He's PAUL RUDD. I'd be a fool to pass that up.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ. I understand now. It's my destiny to be with Paul Rudd.
But just as I'd made up my mind that I was going to have to move to the US and set up home with Paul Rudd, my message opened and I could see that in fact Paul Rudd wasn't following me at all. It was the Twitter account of Paul Rudd FANS. Their bio says 'Biggest Paul Rudd Fan Page Ever'. And they have 16 followers :'( That makes me a saaaaad panda. I'm pretty sure more than 16 people (now 17 including me) like Paul Rudd. Come on Rudd addicts. You can do better than that!
So, it looks like I'm not going to be the next Mrs. Rudd which is kind of a shame. I was pretty upset for about an hour but I had wine and some Galaxy Counters and think I'm OK now. But for those of you still not getting the awesome power of the Rudd, I leave you with this:
I have inherited a cat. I never wanted a cat. I have had an empty fish tank sitting in my hall for two years because although I love tropical fish and kept them for years, since we moved into our last flat I seem to be the kiss of death to them. I cannot deal with the guilt. Also I am very lazy. There are 101 things I would rather be doing at any given time than standing elbow deep in fish poop cleaning a filter. Yeah, I know - amazing! Also, due to the fact that I have spent the last two years carefully training my neighbours to leave me the hell alone, keeping all interaction to brief pleasantries when we happen to be taking the bins out at the same time, I have no one to feed said fish when we go away. But despite all this, I can't bring myself to get rid of the tank because deep down I still harbour a longing for it to be full of scrummy, wriggly little critters with brightly coloured tails and lush plant life.
So I find myself slightly stunned that I have ended up with a cat. A bloody second hand cat. I have known this cat since it was the family cat, but now it is my cat. That means it looks to me for all its feeding, watering, grooming, lavatorial, and entertainment needs. I can barely do all that shit for myself! It follows me around the house, even when I go for a wee. It is waiting for me when I get up in the morning and when I get in from work at night. It stares at me expectantly all the time I am home, its yellow eyes boring into my very soul. It meows at me. It headbutts me. It trys to beat me up the stairs and trips me up, getting itself toe punted in the process. What does it want from me!?
At this point I should mention that Mr. Pinkwood is highly allergic to cats. He is currently under referral to the local hospital to see about getting allergy shots. He is munching his way through the SE London reserves of antihistamines. He is wheezing, itching and generally miserable. Poor, long suffering bastard. It reminds me of this:
So aside from the neediness, the litter tray cleaning, the expense, mild anaphylaxis, the morbid fear that it might get ill or run over while in your care and the need to facilitate a relationship with ones neighbours with a view to asking them to feed the damn thing so you can leave the house for more than a day at a time - what is the downside to owning a cat you might ask? Well, there's the increased need for housework. Hoovering. And life is just too short for hoovering. And there's the snags and pulls in everything I own from clothes to upholstery to carpets. Nothing is sacred. I am slowly coming to realise I cannot ever expect to have nice things EVER again. Only shredded, tattered, hairy things.
Bloody second hand cat. It's a good job I love it.
Let's make one thing clear: I am in no way proud of this. In my defence a man from Winkball (whatever that may be and careful typing it into Google) stopped me outside the Electric Ballroom and started asking me very banal questions about OK Go. I was drunk on beer and high on Damian and I can't NOT talk to people when they start it. I find it physically impossible. Anyway, I will leave it up if only for the AWESOME T-shirt I made which is full of win and in no way the work of someone unhinged. Also it will remind me not to eat ever again! It is my greatest dream to have just the one chin. One day...one day.
Anyway, the boys were stunning as always. I would be posting photos and all that jazz only my camera battery ran out before the band came on. Yeah. Yeah. So instead of a lovely post with fancy rock 'n' roll action pics and Damian's O face, we have this.
Science. Hard isn't it? Even quite simple physics sends me into a kind of existential panic. I'm basically about four rational brain cells away from being a Flat-Earther. Luckily we have people like the amazing Prof. Brian Cox fronting programmes such as the awe inspiring Wonders of the Solar System to lead us through, distracting us with startling beauty while gently pouring mind blowing facts into our poor frightened ears. We all love Brian don't we? Even our dads are a bit gay for Prof. Cox.
Back on our own planet, natural history and biology have always seemed less scary to me. Perhaps because we have David Attenborough. It's almost physically impossible to be even mildly perturbed while he is whispering about the diversity and majesty of life on Earth in that hushed way that makes you feel like everything will be OK. Better than OK. It will all be delightful. Damian Kulash knows it. Of course he does. He's Damian.
Except there was that one time when some chimps chased and caught another screaming chimp and ate its brains out. Not even Sir David could make that painless, but at least he was on hand to soften the blow. Like a kindly grandfather, he carefully explained that where there is life there must also be death. And sometimes it's nasty, shrieking, visceral, cannibalistic ape death.
But there can also be beauty in death. Inside Nature's Giants is a programme which takes a sad event – the demise of an epically proportioned animal – and uses it as an opportunity to literally turn the specimen inside out. While it is undeniably icky in places, the subjects are treated with such reverence that you soon forget to be squeamish. Watching the team examine the mechanics of a giant python's jaw, I almost forgot it was a real creature. It was more like Predator.
It's a truly brilliant series, but my favourite aspect of all has to be biologist Simon Watt. Whether he's dropping a huge frozen snake, getting freaked out by a liger or being spun around in a NASA centrifuge machine until he faints in order to simulate the pressure on a giraffe's brain, his soft Irish lilt, lopsided smile and slightly apologetic manner make for compelling viewing.
“I'm OK, I'm OK,” he mumbles unconvincingly as he is dragged out of the centrifuge by two men, limp as a rag doll and green around the gills, before heaving over a hastily positioned waste paper bin. Never losing sight of why he is doing this, he continues to educate us as he pulls a whitey on the floor: “I wouldn't be having these problems if I was a giraffe!”
Indeed Simon. But you're not a giraffe, silly sausage. You're a man. A beautiful man.
I don't really want to contemplate a world without Sir Attenborough, but when that terrible day finally comes, we could do worse than pass the mantle to Simon. Just look at his lovely, clever face. I hope it's going to be around for a long, long time.
