"Scaramouche! Scaramouche! Will you do the fandango?"

We Will Rock You.

A very bold claim for anything to make, let alone a musical based on the back catalogue of Queen.

But, fair do's, my tickets were free. So I shouldn't complain.

Does NOT mean I won't though.

First, the fact that the set and costumes looks like they were sponsored by some sort of collaboration between Dixons and your local S&M store. TV screens as set are friggin lazy. Charging people £45 a ticket to sit and watch a massive television show pictures of deserts and rivers for just over 2 and a half hours is down right rude. As is advertising it as a family friendly show and having the female ensemble dick about in their underwear for the majority of it.

Secondly, when did musicals stop needing plots?
Plot seems to have fallen out of favour circa 1999 with the birth of M*mm* M**. (No, I can't even bring myself to say it.)

Having seen it now about 10 times (not paying once) the story seems to be something like, its the future, all non-autotuned and manufactured music is banned, this guy hears song lyrics in his dreams and thinks they'll make good songs, he finds a load of "bohemians" (haha!) who celebrate music from "the good ol' days" and finds out about Queen, he then finds Brian May's guitar, plays We Will Rock You, then him and the cast do encore after encore and leave the stage 2 and a half hours later.

In summary. Shite.

Finally, the MAHOOSIVE PLOT HOLE.

If all man made rock and roll music is banned, how the hell do the main characters get away with not only singing Queen, but singing it with a live band?
For anyone who hasn't seen the show, this often happens when they are onstage with members of "Globalsoft" the folks who make the rules and make sure people obey them.

It makes my head hurt.

The only redeeming feature is the quality of the cast. Props going to Amanda Coutts who played Scaramouche, an enormous voice for a tiny tiny person. Props also going to Noel (of of Hearsay) Sullivan who played Gallileo for having a nice car but failing to signal in it and nearly knocking me off the pavement in it. My waistcoat's pretty hard to miss mate!

'nother redeeming feature: Brian May, who came out on press night (that's why my tickets were free) and played the guitar solo for Bohemian Rhapsody. Even if it was right at the very end meaning I had to actually sit through the show first, that's one of those moments in life that are pretty fucking special. Noel from Hearsay couldn't believe his luck, first performing for Nicki Chapman and now Brian bloody May! Just look at his face on that picture.

We said goodbye to the show on Saturday in't 'Deen. I believe they're heading to Birmingham for 5 weeks next, but if you must see it it's on at the Dominion Theatre in London running from now til the end of effin' time.

One can only hope that Freddie wasn't a musical loving gay.

"Shaggy, Matty, Greasy, Oily . . ."

About 4 weeks ago I made THE most diastrous hairstyle decision since I was about eleven and decided I wanted to look like Buffy.

11 year old obese females from Lancashire are NEVER going to look like Sarah Michelle Gellar, especially when she has naturally straight and obedient hair, and they have something like a cross between a jew-fro and a springer spaniel.

Having not learned from my previous mistakes I decided that now would be a good time to get a fringe.
I've had many fringes before, but these have been mainly your yellow bellied kind, a chicken fringe if you will, as they've always been to the side.

Over Easter, I went for a full blown, blunt edge, eye-lash skimming, bloody awful fringe.

FML.

Reasons why this was a bad decision.

1) My hair has a natural side parting. The fring tends to part like lopsided curtains.

2)When it rains or I exercise (Yeah! I do that now!) it transforms itself into a mess of curls.

3)IT MAKES THE MOON FACE MOONIER!

Seriously! I didn't think number three was even possible. Turns out, it is.

The fringe isn't the only issue.

I went with specific instructions to the hairdresser.

"No more than 2 and a half inches off the bottom, please."

Bearing in mind my hair fell about three inches below my chest, this would have kept its length and balanced out the fringe:moon ratio for my face.

Turns out she obviously couldn't fathom what 2 and a half inches looked like as now my hair falls about half an inch above my tits.

Nae. Happy.

Apologies for a fairly boring post, but where the hell else am I supposed to vent my rage and ten to one in the morning?

I'm looking at wigs as we speak.

Great rates for cancer patients, but I'm not sure it's that serious an issue.

Mine'll grow back at least.

"Your looks are laughable, unphotographable but you're my favourite work of art . . ."

Things I've learned whilst being in a relationship.

1) Valentine's day can be nice.

2) People's surprised faces when you say "I have a boyfriend" are funny.

and

3) I will get up at 3am and walk across town in the rain for sex.

Lets deal with number one shall we?

I have always always liked the idea of Valentine's day. Guys taking a risk and actually saying how they feel, even if it is through a tacky as hell card or a bouquet of petrol station flowers or a box of cheap heart shaped chocolates, is really really sweet. And anyways, the thought and sentiments are there and that's enough. (Granted, if your other half shows up with any of these items on any other day of the year its probs because he's been sticking it somewhere he shouldn't but, I digress.)

To be fair though, I'd never actually experienced a Valentine's day as a part of a relationship until 2 days ago, so, I very much had had the typical RomCom Single Girl experience, except without the witty dialogue or the ability to pay a personal trainer and dietitian to help me lose the "Bridget padding." In short, I had no problem with the idea of love being displayed gaudily in public for just one day of the year.

So this year my expectations weren't much different.

I didn't actually hear off of the boyfriend until 4pm in the form of a text message that read:

La Tasca? 6pm X

Odd now that I think about it. No mention of Valentine's day whatsoever. You'd think a romantic like myself would have freaked out, started sobbing or comfort eating or both but, nah.

I replied with a simple:

Ta. See you there :) X

Tres laid back.

I didn't put much effort into getting ready.

Sort've showered, did my face, sorted my hair, put on a frock and was doing my lippie when someone knocked on my bedroom door at 5.30.

Dickhead didn't wait for me to say come in, just opened the door to reveal himself all done up with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a huge parcel in the other.

I practically jumped him there and then. But waited until the flowers where safely in some water and the present had been unwrapped.

Boy did good.

The present was equal parts cute and filthy. Moi to a tee.

We then went and did your typical date; ate together and watched some people do some acting on a big screen, before heading back to mine.

It was lovely.

Romantic, but not overly soppy.

I'm pleased to report that there was no PDA, apart from when the bitch of a waitress flirted with him. There may have been a bit of hand holding to mark one's territory, but that was all.

All in all a good night.

And I didnt have to walk across town at 3am to get the goods 'cos they were within reach all night long.

"I Heard Somebody Say . . . Burn Baby Burn"

Being President of a Musical Society is no mean feat. Especially when that society is "Treading the Boards."

First of all there's the election process; writing your speech, trying to persuade people that you're not going to ruin the company, trying to make yourself funnier and more appealking than the other candidates. Sounds easy, sure, but remember that this is me, the awkward-everyone-must-love- me-or-I'll-die-and-I-want-everything-so-badly-I'll-explode-if-I-don't-get-it me.

Then of course when you get elected there's organising your committee, making sure your production team stay on target and don't act like a bunch of wankers all the time and making sure you don't run out of money.

The latter is possibly the most important.

Musicals eat money like Charlie Sheen's prostitute problem and are far less rewarding.

They also swallow all of your free time. If I'm not studying or working chances are I'm in the dance studio running a scene/number/routine for the umpteenth time.

This year, our marvelous production team decided to do "Disco Inferno" a romp through the 70's jukebox catalogue. Yup. Its as a gay as it sounds.

Somehow I managed to land a lead who wasn't a fat chick (I know right!?) but actually a vamp - I got to get my boobs out and everything - A far cry from the Scumshaw days of playing a mute obese best friend. Not that I'm not over that . . . obviously.

We auditioned, casted, rehearsed and staged this show with a total of 30 numbers in just under five months, which is impressive considering at least 1 month of that was what's known as "dead rehearsals" where you might as well not have bothered showing up because no one else has.

This was due to the ever fascinating Aberdeen am-dram scene having swallowed up our males, not, I might add, as filthy as it sounds. There's only a very limited number of lads in the Deen who for one actually like theatre and who can then actually sing and sort of dance. It follows then that every company in the city wants them and they end up doing more than 1 show at a time, picking and choosing which rehearsals they want to attend and making their castmates lives a living hell for 2 or 3 months.

But the show went on and on and on for two and a half hours every night for a week and sold lots of tickets. And got a rave review. And was nominated for local awards. And was voted the number one thing to do in Aberdeen.

All in all pretty epic.

Then we all got wasted at the aftershow at my place.

I love my TTBers to pieces.

But God I am more than willing to step down at the election come May. 1 year is more than enough.

Maybe next year I'll take up a more relaxing hobby like watercolour painting or crocheting?

Yeah Right. . . . I'm allergic to paint.

"The Houselights are Dimming, The Footlights Are Bright, The Toast of Society's BurningTonight . . ."

I actually have the best job in the world.

I go in, seat people, sell a few programs, watch a show, sell ice cream, watch the rest of the show and go home!

And get paid to friggin do it!

I have a tiny torch that I get to shine in people's faces if I catch 'em filming stuff or talking or rustling sweets too bloody loudly.
I have been bollocked several times for the latter.

"He was rattling his friggin' M&Ms!"
"We sell them! He's allowed to eat them! You cannot flash your torch in his eyes!"
"He was on his third strike!"
"You most certainly can't then take them off him and attempt to escort him off of the premises!"
"Ahhh bollocks!"

My first shift was a genuine "pinch yourself" kind of day.

Boss: "There's a spare shift going for The Sound of Music over at HMT. Do you reckon you could keep an eye on the stalls?"

An hour later I was sat in one of the boxes (that's the best place to "watch the audience" apparently) watching Connie Fisher twirling about a mountain.

It was a bit weird later on like, when I bumped into her backstage. I wasn't stalking her or owt, our changing rooms are right next to the dressing rooms and we crossed paths. It got even weirder when I bumped into Captain Von Trapp looking for George Street then practically walked him there. He was wearing lycra running shorts. *SHUDDER*

Ice cream selling is a skill. Balancing the bloody tray around yer neck whilst trying to stop greedy little nose pickers tea-leafing tubs out of it is an art! I find a good swift shin kick does the job.
And I don't think I've ever had to smile so much in my life!
I've actually developed dimples! And with my friggin' hamster cheeks that is quite impressive!


There's only one downside.
You do have to deal with snobby theatre folk, who I can effectively offer no comment on as I'll sound like a bloody hypocrite.
Except this: I offered to walk you to your seat, you refused, and now your sat in someone else's seat because you have counting issues. Please don't look at me like I'm thick or treat me like I'm special needs because you can't tell the difference between numbers and letters. And if you tut at me, I will shove my torch through your teeth. I'll see you at the interval twatbag when you'll no doubt pay for a £1.50 tub with a £50 note (true story!) and take all my change so I can't serve any bugger else! Enjoy the show! *FORCED SMILE*

"Nobody Screws, Somebody Who's, Legally Blonde. . ."

Apparently, studying Law used to be up there with studying medecine in the "Prestige League" but that was before every Tom, Dick and Polytechnic started offering it as a degree level course. Now, literally anyone can blag their way onto a course and there's so many different ones (LLB/BA/Diploma) that no one actually gives a shit anymore. According to the the latest legal journals (yes I've read them, I spend half my life these days in the friggin' library in between hangovers) law firms are now looking for students who've pursued an interest of their's as a degree and later converted to law, with the intense 1 year conversion course before they take the DLP (Diploma of Legal Practice) in Scotland and the LPC (Legal Practice Course) in England, as it means that job candidates will have a wider amount of knowledge. The list of preferred subjects includes (seriously) History of Art, English literature and 20th century studies.

Excuse me?

You're telling me that I could have been spared 4 years of MIND NUMBINGLY BORING lectures on the importance of delegated legislation, Donoghue v Stephenson and Delictual feckin' liability and sat around reading the works of Charles Dickens instead whilst essentially coming out of Uni with a more worthwhile qualification to the legal industry?
Not only that but I would have been spared the TORTURE of the cliche law students, most of whom fall into one of three categories:

1) The Rich Git/Git-ess

Mummy and Daddy are paying their little Angel's way, sending them care packages including smoked salmon (I kid ye not) and emergency cheques, which quickly get spent on Jack Wills merchandise or reservations at Soprano's or behind the VIP bar at Tiger. The Rich Git/Git-ess do not need to study, their parents get on famously with the course leaders and have given a large donation to the Taylor Library so it can afford some new tables to give the poor kids somewhere to study. They sit on FaceBook during lectures on their brand new netbooks and contirbute to conversation monosyllabic expressions such as "Ya" "Hmmm" and "Right." They control the law society, and make the law ball so expensive anyone who doesn't own half of the home counties can't afford to go. I don't like them.

2) The Activist

They buy all their clothes from people tree, don't believe in deodrant and are studying law to help the ruddy planet. They're your stereotypical hippies and when they're not protesting against the campus recycling policy or holding up the queue in Tikki Cafe ("WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T HAVE SOYA MILK?!") you can find them lecturing the lecturers on international environment laws out on the corridor. On the unfortunate occasion that you find yourself sat amongst a group of them in a 3 hour public law lecture you will be bored to death whilst they fill any pauses with talk about themselves and their travels. You will hear the phrase "y'know" more times than you care to remember but enough times to know that you want to actually consider throwing yourself from the top of the MacRobert building. (To my non-aberdonians, it's bloody high.)

3) The Know it Alls

Their hands are permanently raised. They've done all the required reading and then some. They spend hour long tutorials arguing with the tutor on the finite complications of replacing "and" with "or." They shoot daggers at you for answering a question. They smirk when you get it wrong and bristle when you get it right. Wankers. The lot of em. You do not want to get stuck with a bunch of these when you're working on a group report worth 25% of your final mark.


Seriously???
It's a bloody good job I don't want to actually be a lawyer.
Could you imagine strolling into an interview after four years of uni then two years on the DLP to be asked:

"So what can you tell me about Van Gogh?"
"Ermmm, he painted some daffodils or was it sunflowers?"
"Ahhh, that's the trouble with Law students these days, they may well possess the skills to defend Robert Mugabe or come up with a solution for the current backlog of legislation within Parliament, but they know jack shit about the history of art."

"Oh Hallowed Halls and Vine Draped Walls, The Proudliest Sight There Is . . ."

This is a love letter to my now adopted home town: Aberdeen.

Thank you for giving me a place at Uni.
Thank you for giving me amazing flatmates.
Thank you for giving me the chance to nap in an afternoon.
Thank you for giving me Belmont street, Siberia Vodka Bar, The Priory, Pearl lounge and Liquid.
Thank you for giving me a job within 4 weeks of living here.
Thank you for giving me the chance to meet like minded people.
Thank you for giving me impressive weather.
Thank you for giving me King's College; I feel like I go to Hogwarts.
Thank you for giving me a scottish lecturer called Dr. Taggart who has to say "murder" a lot.
Thank you for giving me Mental Mitchell and his amazing drunken compositions.
Thank you for giving me Law Society Socials.
Thank you for giving me a lead role in your musical society's production of Bad Girls and my new drama friends XD
Thank you for giving me the chance to appreciate the mates that I've left behind, feels like I'm missing an arm.

Thank you for making me realise there's more to life than education (It's only taken, what, 14 years?) and there's definitely more to the world than what the NorthWest has to offer.

I would not trade this city for the chance to perform at the Albert Hall.
I would not trade this city for the chance to star in a brand new Alan Bennet play.
I'd be tempted, but I'd be more than happy to say no.

Cheers Aberdeen!

Now it's off to work to hand in my resignation and to drown my sorrows in The Bobbin.
But not before a quick 40 winks.