IT'S CHRIIIIIIISTMAS!

Hello and welcome back to a little snippet of my life.  You will all be glad to know that my life has finally returned briefly because…I have finished uni for Christmas.  Yay for me, boo for my liver (but it’s ok, because I have two.)  I had my penultimate recital ever on Wednesday and it went pretty well if I do say so myself.  Just have to hope the grade reflects my feelings on the matter.  After said exam I had to travel to East Kilbride to do a run through of the first act of the show I’m in for a few elderly people who may not even remember what they were doing last Wednesday for all I know.  So this may have been totally pointless.  Anyway, once this was done I got to do what I have been waiting all December to do.  Have a drink!  And, my oh my, was it good?  Who knew gin tasted like gold after a fortnight of not having any?  (For anyone that doesn’t drink it, it does.)  But, because I am a good friend and had other people performing the next day I decided to be sensible and only have a couple.  This, of course, took every fibre of my being to do, but I succeeded.  So off I went with a merry head and a skip in my step to bed. 

Hello Thursday.  All is fine, no head ache (wouldn’t usually expect to have one after two, but it had been an unnaturally long time since I had had a drink (2 weeks, remember) so anything is possible.  Up at 8:30, showered, dressed and out the door to be in uni with tea and croissant at 9:20 ready for a day of listening to lovely music.  Well, I say lovely.  Start of the day was extremely promising with a couple of great recitals on organ, cello and a few percussionists.  Great, I’m in for a treat.  But then, what should happen?  A band starts to set up.  A band?  Yes, a band.  Sound check and all.  Where have they come from?  Nobody knows.  Whose recital is this?  Nobody knows.  All very odd.  And this marks the days turn for the worst.  I start to despair at my horrendous choice of front row seat (chosen so I had a great view of a friends performance earlier in the day, not because I am any sort of geek.)  My mind cannot feel anything other than sheer horror, yet my face shows the most disturbing fake smile which tries to express “Wow, that’s great, you’re doing wonderful, really pushing the boundaries, you look like you’re having so much fun.”  However, all is put right when a couple of pianist friends come out and end the day on a high with great playing and great programmes (and no bands.)

This marks the end of performance exams and the actual start of drinking.  All head to QM (and by all I mean 6 of us) and start on the cheeky vimtos, of which I was a virgin, but now love.  They really do taste of vimto.  Who knew?  Apart from the person that named them.  After three of these I move onto vodka, then a couple of gins just to even it up, don’t want the spirits thinking I have a favourite now.  Over this period our group has slowly depleted to just three and we head to another bar with a lovely little £2 a drink offer.  Who could refuse?  And what do I find on entering?  Only my favourite thing in the world.  A PUB QUIZ!  It was relatively boring other than the fact we came second, which is surprising given some of our earlier answers included gems like an actress called Big Fat Jaq (because we knew she was tall, fat and all the names included Jack in the answer; and ditto was another favourite in that round (although surprisingly enough, if my memory serves me correctly, that was correct).  Anyway, pub quiz over it was time to get some food.  On leaving the pub Catherine and myself spotted the fancy swing hanging beside the door.  Now what responsible drunk person would pass a swing (a piece of wood hanging on two pieces of rope from the roof) and not want to get on it.  Me and Catherine were these people.  Sit down, easy, oooo take a photo, such fun, now swing.  Not so much.  You see the physics of the swing were not thought out properly by the creator because on lifting your legs you merely topple backwards into a big pile of drunken mess on the cobbles below.  Mortifying but still hilarious (especially when 2 seconds after we had fallen a couple of girls did exactly the same on the opposite swing).  Get up, dust off, eat food, then KO in Catherine’s bed until the next day when we get up stupidly early.  Have ridiculous conversations with Catherine regarding everything from me being a football fanatic (or at least that’s what my underwear told her) to contact lens solution (which actually wouldn’t have gone amiss given I’d slept the entire night with them in, ouchy eyes).  Ok, so miracle of miracles, I still feel fine.  No hangover.  Nada. 

New day, new hair.  Go to barbers to get haircut (have uni night out tonight so must look dashing, obviously) and then walk home in the freezing cold.  Get home, shower and then power nap.  Get up, wash essentials (not those essentials, naughty), dress then out the door to purchase a bottle of champagne, wine, vodka and gin.  This night could not possibly end badly with a shopping list like that.  Get to Catherine’s, again, drink champagne, then drink more that Catherine bought and leave for our civilised dinner.  Lovely night of food and drink with lovely people, all very merry and very (my computer wants me to change this to much, why?) civilised.  Head back to Catherine’s, again, to get stuck into the litre of vodka.  Which we do with a vengeance.  By 2 o’clock I’m lying in the dog chair (they don’t even have a dog) with a throw over me hoping I don’t vomit everywhere.  Get up to go to toilet, sit on toilet without taking trousers off or lifting the lid to find this a ridiculous idea and leave the toilet.  I didn’t need anything just before you think I defecated or urinated in my clothing, I did not.  Lollop into Catherine’s room to gatecrash some conversation by flinging myself on bed and losing consciousness.  How did I become that old man?  You know the one, the one that always ends up asleep in the corner at parties.  That’s mainly all I remember of the end of the night. 

Now, it’s Saturday.  Get up ridiculously early again as Catherine is going home and I am working.  Oddly enough I feel grand again, except my eyes given it’s the second night I’ve slept with contacts in.  Why didn’t I take solution given the previous days conversation?  Because I’m an idiot.  So I get home at 11:00, hop in shower and have to leave for work at 11:30.  Still feel great (are you seeing where this is going?)  Get into work and start my shift, great on a bar by myself so nobody has to worry about my sleepiness.  Only have 190 people on my level and it’s a matinee so not many people will be drinking.  Great.  Not so great.  Turns out the minute my shift starts I get the hangover.  Why?  Because karma’s a spiteful bitch, that’s why.  And to top it off, apparently afternoon ballet crowds are alcoholics.  So I actually had to work.  This did not please the hangover and slowly paralysed me with hangover badness until all I could do was moan softly into the forearm on which my head was almost constantly resting.  I feel the lesson I learned this time round is not to drink three nights in a row, when you haven’t had a drink for an age.  No matter how much fun it seems. 

Well that’s you all caught up on the last few days for me.  It’s Christmas holidays now so no doubt I shall have a return to entertaining stories of drunken debauchery in the new year.  Until then, have a merry Christmas/Hannuka/Bodhi (or whatever you do) day and a happy new year.  I will.

Passport Photo

Hello all, well it’s been quite some time since I last wrote to you all.  Not much has been happening really.  I’ve been snowed under with uni work, but yesterday I made a break through and wrote far too much so I have awarded myself a snow day.  What have I done on my snow day?  A load of washing and cleaned my bedroom.  Was it worth taking a snow day?  No.

You’ll be glad to know my postgrad applications have been sent off (my parents won’t.)  Personal statement was finished thanks to Catherine’s help and it didn’t make me sound like a total arse.  It was a great feeling getting them finished.  All I had to do after the form filling was done was get passport photos to send off with them. 

Easy. 

Not so much. 

Trying to find a photo booth that is not out of order is murder so I decided to go to a shop that takes the photo for you. 

Worst decision of my life.

I walked into the tiny one-hour photo shop to find it relatively busy for a shop with a customer area of about 4 foot square.  Walked up to the counter and asked if I could get my passport photo taken.  This in itself led to an awkward moment of being asked what kind of passport, for me to babble on about how it’s not a passport just a passport size photo.  Shop assistant thinks I’m crazy already.  But, what happened next was the most surreal photo moment of my life.  He came out from behind the counter with a camera, pulled down a blind at the window and produced a seat for me to sit on.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SHOP! 

Who does that?  Most places take you into a nice beige room at the back of the shop to avoid the embarrassment of the decision making process.  My first photo, obviously, looked disgusting so I had to say I needed another one, second photo was just as bad.  Take it again.  Third one was horrendous.  What did I do?  In a state of total panic I said it would be fine.  I did not want to spend any more time in the middle of a shop having people stare at me as I get my photo taken.  So that was fine.  Photo taken, I have viewed it, let’s get it and leave.  Except I can’t because now he’s showing the whole bloody shop.  Well, not so much the whole shop - just Catherine - but still, don’t do that.

After the horrendous event I wanted to run away with my photo and never see any of the customers or staff ever again.  Unfortunately, there was another person waiting for a photo too so I had to wait for the smug bastard to get his one bad photo taken, wait for him to adjust his collar, then be happy with the second.  I never knew too much neck in a photo was a problem for customs.

It then took roughly 15 minutes for the photos to be processed, cut up (in full view of the shop) and then given to me.  Needless to say, I will not be returning to that shop ever again.

I Love My Job

Oh how I love my job.  Truly, I do.  I told you earlier, if you were paying attention, I work in a theatre.  It is the best job I have ever had.  I get to watch amazing shows (almost every week), meet famous people (read famous as starred in soaps over 10 years ago) and generally have fun.

Another part of the job that is so much fun is the public.  Now, don’t get me wrong, they can be a total, utter pain in the arse, but sometimes there are little gems.  Like today for instance, there was a children’s play on today called Room on the Broom (not important, I’m not going to tell you anything about it, other than the last song is so catchy.  I even tried finding it on iTunes.)  Anyway, I was working in the bar on the highest level of the theatre and a mother/son combo arrived at the top of the stairs for Robbie (son’s name) to get extremely excited and run to the seating area to see the stage and the fun dragon prancing about on stage.  Mother, at this point (who will remain Mother with a capital M because she was horrible) roars at him about not running off and that he must give the girl the tickets.  Robbie does this like a good little boy, then, after being told where to go decides to tear off in front of his mother to get to the seats.  The excitement is too much for him as you can probably imagine.  What does Mother do?  Shouts at him again.  Give the boy a break, it’s 9.30 on a Saturday morning.  He’s probably been up for at least 4 hours.  It was Mother’s choice to come to the theatre, I doubt very much little Robbie was perusing the newspaper one day and thought, “Oh Mother, how I would love to go to the theatre, there seems to be a spiffy play on at the Royal next week by the creators of the Gruffalo. Can we go Mother? Can we?” (although, I would love it if he had done that.)  So Mother comes in, gets a coffee, looking mildly distressed by the whole affair of having to climb a hundred stairs with a hyperactive child en route to the nose bleed seats and I can see in her eyes that if Robbie says one more word she will literally pick him up and throw him over the edge of the balcony, resulting in most definite death and also the probably that of several other children below as his ragdoll body thunks on top of their heads most likely breaking their necks resulting in their death too.  To cut a long story short, Mother did not do this, they both left happily(ish) and I’m assuming made it home safe.

The Vagina Monologues was another gem of a show to come.  Bringing with it a very specific niche market of middle-aged, generally drunk women who find it hysterically funny to listen to Anita Dobson talk about her “cludge-bucket” (or as I like to call it, the gaping abyss.)  Now, most shows have a late-comers policy.  You can’t let the late patrons in until a suitable point in the show for several people to be a total nuisance and ruin the enjoyment of the show for everybody else for 10-15 seconds.  So, one evening this late-comers policy was put into action with myself helping keep the patrons at bay.  I had a charming group of older ladies, a few of which had the beautiful aroma of beer and cigarettes mixed together (I think they call it ‘eau de boke’.)  While chatting away to try to keep their mind of the fact they were missing ten minutes of the show one of the group kept butting in with the fact they were only two minutes late, they need to see it blah, blah, blah, for me to reply with company policy blah, blah, blah.  Then came my favourite quote from any patron, “Oh, come on son, you must be able to get us in.  You look just like Harry Potter.”  Well yes Mrs Patron I do, however, unlike Harry Potter (the fictional character) I do not possess the power of magic.  Neither do I have a cloak of invisibility in which I could cover us all and get you to your seats without anyone noticing (which I might add were in the front row.)  This woman was clearly either insane or so drunk the lines of reality and fiction were totally blurring together.  This, in my mind, was not a good state to go into an auditorium and listen to three women constantly talking about their vaginas. 

Anyway, I must try to sleep as I have to be up in 5 hours so I can go to work in the morning and do the whole children’s play again.  Hopefully some beauties will pop up and I can inform you again.  I bet you are on the edge of your seats waiting.  Well, not long to wait.  Enjoy.

TV Night

Hello there, how are you all?  Not that any of you will answer and if you do that will just be weird given you will be talking to yourself.

I have been away for a while trying to do something productive, but if I’m honest, it has not worked.  I have done very little the last couple of weeks what with my ‘viral infection’ (not chicken pox in case you were worried.) 

I am in the middle of my Sunday night routine of sitting in bed watching X Factor results, getting very angry by myself and randomly writing about it.  Usually do it via Facebook but why not let you all hear about my opinion.  What is the point of the Sunday show?  You are all miming.  And at that, you are miming badly. 

Paije is a little (insert black racial comparison.)  I don’t like him.  That is all.

Aiden – they will hand out knives as you walk into his concert so you can commit suicide when the fancy takes you.

Mary – my God, you are boring.  I slip into a coma every week.

Katie – I like her (don’t lynch me and keep reading, please) She seems like a bit of a twat, but never mind I like her voice.

Matt – Undecided.  Sometimes I think he’s amazing, other times he sounds like he’s just shouting.

Cher – Great, love her.  Even if she does look like she knows how to break into your house, kill you and steal all your worldly possessions. 

Wagner – What’s the point in saying anything.

One Direction – Please learn to harmonise.

Rebecca – Phenomenal.  I don’t care what anyone says, she is absolutely amazing.  She’s the opposite of Leona.  But better because she has a personality and isn’t dead behind the eyes. 

You don’t need three guesses to see who my favourite is. 

Oh, hello Westlife will you be doing something up-beat?  No, of course you won’t.  A ballad it is then.  Although I kind of liked it.  Don’t tell anyone.

Wow just watched an advert which essentially showed me what member of JLS masturbates the most.  Terrible.

I love Mr Williams.  You can do no wrong.  Ever.

I am going to stop writing now because he is coming on.

I promise I will write something relatively good next time.  Stay tuned.

Motivation (And Other Topics)

I think motivational speaker, as a career, is a no go area for me.  I have been holed up in my room like a wee hermit for the past two days, the perfect chance to do some work for uni, but no.  What do I do?  Sit on the internet all day, mindlessly refreshing Facebook and Twitter, waiting for something exciting to happen.  Guess what…it never does!

I have resorted to just molesting my flatmates page with endless comments on her status so she has hundreds of notifications when she logs on.  Such fun.  (Well, actually, it’s not.  It’s just as boring as not doing it.)

So, back to the motivational speaker part.  My motivation levels are around about zero at the moment.  I say “at the moment” but you should read that as “all the time.”  I have deadlines slowly approaching, but I have no worries about these because I am such a good academic I will breeze through it without breaking sweat on my way to get my First.  If only.  This is the problem; I will never be able to get a first because I’m a lazy, lazy student.  16:50 and I am only just starting to use my keyboard.  Maybe later I will realise I love doing endless writing that will eventually be deleted as it’s total rubbish.  I think I may be getting a bit of practice in here.  Apologies. 

By the way, is anyone that reads this actually a motivational speaker?  I could really do with a little chat. 

I’m also still scratching away.  I bet you’re delighted to know that.  You’re welcome. 

I finally phoned NHS 24 today to see what they have to say on my possibly childlike condition and essentially got abuse thrown at me because I don’t know who is/was my doctor.  Again, look back to the lazy, lazy statement made earlier.  I was meant to register with a new doctor when I moved, but it got pushed back to make way for other things I had to do.  I think these mainly consisted of drinking and probably some other really “important” stuff.  So now it has resulted in me not knowing if any medical expert knows anything about me. 

Back to NHS 24 though, so I got all the abuse and lectures from them to then be asked questions which were so specific it was unreal.  Do you experience light sensitivity? No, I don’t have meningitis.  Do the spots go away if you roll a glass over them? Yes, seriously, I don’t have meningitis.  Have you got stiffness in your neck?  A little, but that’s because you are annoying me with the meningitis questions, lady.  Have you urinated in the past 3 hours?  Yes, have you?  Irritating questions over she then proceeds to put me through to a nurse.  Thank you kindly.  Two minutes later, the same voice comes back on.  You are not a nurse and I don’t have meningitis.  No, she is not a nurse but a nurse will be in contact within the next three hours.  Three hours?  Seriously?  So now I am just waiting for the phone to ring and obviously can’t start working until the awkward conversation is over as it will totally disrupt my train of thought.  Perfect excuse not to do anything.

I shall keep you informed as usual.  And again, sorry if you read all of this.

Itchy Bits

So, I haven’t been feeling too healthy the past week or so.  Just thought nothing of it until today when I couldn’t stop itching.  Decided I’d have a proper look and I’m now coming out it little spots which I have already assumed are…chickenpox. 

I’M 23!!!

I am too old for children’s ailments.  A couple of years ago (the day after my 21^st birthday in fact) I thought I had measles.  Luckily it was not, I had just vomited so much that my entire body broke out into a huge rash-like mass of ugliness.  Something to do with blood vessels.  All very odd.  So I am now sitting in bed hoping it is something like that, but not really convincing myself. 

At this point of writing I have taken around about 3-5 mins off just to have a good scratch.  God it’s satisfying. 

One of my friends thinks it’s karma for my huge tax rebate, I can have the money, but I can’t leave the house to do anything with it.  Unfortunately, my iTunes obsession is taking over.  Already bought Cheryl’s new album and rented a couple of films.  I can see it being a long day/evening/night.

I am in a show in March as well (Carousel, 28^th Feb – 5 Mar 2011 in East Kilbride, bookings will be taken any time) and we have been rehearsing every Monday and Wednesday.  Now, I was at a rehearsal last night with just the principle characters.  What are the chances of me being able to single-handedly take down the entire main cast of the show?  It’s a worry, but also if I managed I think I would be secretly impressed at myself.  Although not so secretly given I have just put it on here.

I guess this is another pointless entry, but be warned, there will be so many more if I am going to be living the life of a hermit for the next week or so.  I can tell you are waiting with baited breath.  You surely won’t have to wait long.

I’m off to scratch some more. 

Postgrads

So right now I am currently (or in the beginnings of) applying for postgrads (although right now I am writing this blog).  This, in itself, is making me crap my pants spontaneously at random intervals throughout the day.  Then you have the fear of how do I pay for it?  My life is essentially: I’m poor (see previous post on money), finish my degree, even more poor, apply for postgrads, get into slightly more debt, possibly be accepted, huuuuuuge debt, graduate, file for bankruptcy, eventually steal all the essential things I need ending with me in me in jail.  And believe me, I would not do well in jail.  What a life.

Anyway, I am trying to write my personal statement and I keep hitting barriers.  Now the basis of a personal statement is to big yourself up as much as you can (note to self, never use the term big yourself up), but don’t over-do it so much as to cause violent wretching (dry or wet) on the part of the reader. 

My problem is I can’t get the happy medium.  First I am a critically shy boy who will combust if anyone makes the slightest contact with him.  Ideal candidate for a musical theatre student, I know.  Then I re-write and I am the most arrogant, obnoxious twat in the world.  Nobody is better than me, I am so talented that it’s a wonder I haven’t been famous since I was a foetus. 

Where is the middle-ground?

So far I can’t see any.    What am I meant to say?  I am reasonably talented (I wouldn’t be applying if I didn’t think so) but they don’t want to read that I am reasonably talented.  They want an already well rounded actor/singer/dancer.  I am currently one and a half of these things, but again this would not be well received.  I feel, with me, you need to meet me before you can judge me.  If you have read any of my previous posts you will notice I am a rambling idiot that writes everything that comes into his head.  I haven’t mastered the art of the delete button yet.  Therefore how will a personal statement be of any use to me furthering my career?  Answer: it won’t.

Any suggestions for my predicament are welcome.  Or if, by some weird coincidence, someone that reads this knows me well enough and is an exceptional writer with a high regard for me loves writing personal statements, go ahead.  I will in no way stop you from doing so.  Please.

I started writing this and then realised I have nowhere to go with it.  So this is the end.  Ha Ha

Money

Money, money, money.  Where have you been all my life? 

That kind of makes it seem like it has now made a surprise entrance.  It hasn’t.  And I can’t see it making one any time soon.  I have been perpetually poor for the last God knows how many years and have had all my ridiculous needs and wants funded by the amazing Bank of Mum and Dad. 

Cash machines are a real worry every time I step up to one.  Check balance?  As they say, ignorance is bliss.  Just charge on and go for broke.  This brings the worry of: are you going to eat my card?  Will the cash machine just start laughing hysterically at me for thinking I may have more than £5?  Then, obviously, everyone in the queue would join in just like the hellish feeling of a naked dream.  Luckily none of these things have happened…yet.

I always find it amusing and insulting that cash machines have the cheek to ask if you would like an advice slip.  Would I like an advice slip?  No, of course I do not want an advice slip.  It would simply tell me I am a moron who should not be allowed any of the magical paper inside the machine.  I clearly am not responsible enough. 

On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if it will just give me actual advice; Your room is so untidy; I would maybe clean it if I were you; Seriously, you are actually wearing that.  CHANGE!!!

When I do go for an advice slip it just confirms my suspicions (if you can call actual knowledge suspicions) that I am, still, poor.

Yesterday, however, the money fairy was definitely looking in on me.  Hello there big envelope from the tax man.  Automatic thought was I cannot pay whatever money you want from me.  On closer inspection I find that they in fact owe me.  A whopping £700.  How?  I have no idea.  Am I going to enquire?  Hahahahahahaha NO!  What if it is a mistake?  I’ll pay it back in teeny, tiny instalments that will last my entire life. 

What are you going to do with this money? I hear you ask.  Well as you have probably guessed, I realise I have to do something good with it; cut my overdraft down to size; pay my credit card; put in into a savings account.  This is sensible and I know I should.  So why is my over-riding thought SPEND IT ALL?  Buy everything your heart desires (in the bracket of £700, obviously.)

I, as yet, have no idea what I am going to do with it, but I shall most definitely keep you posted.  Unless you happen to be behind me in a cash machine queue one day and hear the machine laughing.  Then, I think you know what I did.

Alcohol

Why is it that no matter how many times we say we won’t do something, we always end up doing it?  Worst culprit…alcohol.  Let’s face it, how often have we said, “I’m never going to drink again” or words to that effect?  I, for one, am a frequent user of that sentence.  A few days ago I was out and was drinking copious amounts of wine, every glass was going down like a dream, the heart-to-heart chats were happening, we’re such super friends etc etc etc. 

Then the next day… 

…BAM…

…Hangover from hell.  And what do I say?  That’s right, “I am never drinking wine ever again.”  Fair enough this is not as extreme as I’m never going to drink again.  What use would that do?  Then I would just be a moaning sod every time I was in a social situation.  Well, not every social situation, I’m no alcoholic or anything, just the ones where alcohol is involved.  So the next day is pretty uneventful, not a drop of wine passes my lips.  I’m thinking “Hey, this could work.  No more wine for me.  I am so strong.”  Uneventful day passes and we’re onto the next day. 

Uneventful day number two is going great, university, rehearsal, then planning on going home when someone utters the sentence, “Do you fancy going for a drink?”  Obviously I say yes, I don’t want to be rude.  So we go out to the same bar as the previous night but I am strong Raymond now, I know I am going to stick to vodka.  (Vodka?  Yes, it may seem worse, but believe me the next day it is a pussycat compared to the bitch that wine is.)  So I go up to the bar and before I know what I’m saying some hellish demon takes over my body and asks for, none other than, a glass of wine.  Nooooooooooooo!!!  This spirals into another glass, and another glass, and another glass ending in me leaving a friends house at 4.30 in the morning with a belly full of wine.

I know what you’re thinking.  I bet this story has a happy ending and he had no hangover the next day.  Well, YOU’RE WRONG!!!  I lost an entire day of my life.  Sleeping all day, if you can even call it that.  It was more like trying not to move while my eyes are closed to stop any possibility of vomit surfacing.  Toilet visits, all happy visits, no unexpected chats with Hughey.  Bed again to try to stop the room spinning.  “Sleeping.”  And now, at 22:35, I am finally feeling like a human being.  Only, a human being who has now turned nocturnal.  Another thing I need to remember to thank wine for.  So I shall be awake until all hours of the morning waiting for my alarm to go off at ungodly o’ clock tomorrow so that I can start a new, fresh day.  Not involving wine.

Moral of story (it’s not a story, just me telling you how horrendous I feel, but you can’t win them all) is that I am never drinking wine ever again.  EVER! Hopefully…

Musicals (and a weird ramble half way through)

OK, so now for a proper post.  As I said, I love musicals – watching, listening or partaking.  Can you partake in a musical? 

Okay, so a look at thesaurus.com tells me that I do not partake in musicals, it makes very little sense if I put any of the synonyms in. 

Do I absorb in a musical? No. What would that even entail?  

Allure in a musical?  Well…

Arrest in a musical? Again, no. 

Bewitch in a musical?  I’ll leave that up to the audience.

I haven’t got a huge back catalogue of shows I have seen, but let me tell you, I have the biggest amount of musical crap on my iPod.  Things even the composers of the shows themselves haven’t even heard of.  I mean, obviously they have, but you get my drift.   Right now I’m listening to Spring Awakening which is lovely and all, but does it have any correlation between song and book?  Answer, not really. 

I went to see this a few weeks ago when NoNonsenseProductions put it on and was both impressed and disappointed.  Their production team was diabolical – sound guys essentially shouting a conversation over the top of the first act, then not turning mics off when characters left the stage in act two.  There’s nothing more distracting than hearing the cast chatting in their dressing room while the leading lady is singing about her abortion – however the cast were all very good.  The leads were excellent, even if the male was slightly too camp to pull off the “deflowerer” (not a word) of the leading lady.

New thought.  My new favourite people are Michael Kooman and Christopher Dimond.  These guys are like Rodgers and Hammerstein, but cool.  They use swears and everything.  They seriously need to make it big.  If they don’t it will be a crime to every musical theatre lover.  It’s not often I find a team in which every song they have written I like.  These guys are that good.

Welcome

Well, a few things you should know about me before you proceed.  I'm Raymond.  I have a sense of humour that not a lot of people get.  I’m slightly obsessive, I’m slightly compulsive but I am NOT obsessive compulsive.  I am a music student (in my final year) and I work in the theatre.  Yes THE theatre not a theatre.  I love musicals.  I’m gay (see previous statements), but I’m a funny kind of gay. I smile when Cher or Dolly comes on the jukebox (mostly because I'm the one that put it on), but just as happy when a good dance tune comes on or even Einaudi. I annoy females because I don't notice things like new haircuts or the fact that the straps on her dress are in fact her bra straps. Who knows things like that? I dance in my room to my iPod without the curtains closed (that's right, who cares if people can see you.) I've almost eaten my body weight in pizza huts and I love it. I am a Highland Dancer and have been since I was 3, I've played the violin since I was 5, I can play every recorder there is (a little embarrassed about that one, and yes there is more than one.) I'm a student which means I like to drink, but hate to work and find ways of putting things off until the very last minute, the way I see it I could die tomorrow so what’s the point in putting all that effort in when it could totally go to waste?  Although saying that, I have gotten much better at productivity.  And, in turn, saying that I am actually meant to be researching my dissertation as I write this so maybe I haven’t quite got it down yet.  I love sharing inappropriate thoughts with others.  I have three extremely close friends who are probably going to feature pretty heavily in this.  I love using teeny, tiny sentences.  And apparently, going by this section, I also love using brackets.  Who knew?