Well, not exactly. I was there, in Paris, on Saturday night with Ass Monkey (that’s the boyf, and yes, that is his name). If you had been there too, say, as a French spy, a French fry or an overpriced bar of nougat, you would not have seen me present the show, but would have heard running commentary along these lines:
‘There are guys in the Moulin Rouge? What for?’
‘Could they have put a taller German man in front of me?’
‘We’re an hour here, and that choreography is still the “Shimmy, Shimmy Shake”. Spare me!’
‘There’s no way they’re singing live in that tank of water’
‘Oh my god, are they real ponies??’
‘If there has to be men in it, they could at least whip their pants off or something…??’
And so it went on. €200+ down, we were. Amused and entertained, we most certainly were not. My feeling was that I had seen, and presented, better shows in Dublin! I have presented shows on the once burgeoning Irish burlesque scene since 2004, with both the very girlie dance troupe The Pink Panties, and Dublin burlesque superstars, The Pony Girls. Of course, when I had my son Jacob, I hung up the corsets and stockings until further notice. I mean, who do I think I am – Twink?!!
Between glimpses of cheap lamé costuming over the shoulder of The Tall German at The Moulin Rouge, I was reminded of how much presenting excites me. Our class at the GSA last week was magic, even though we were missing a few heads, John’s ginger one included. Stationary Shauna returned after a week off and we had our usual gossip about The Kardashians. Shauna knows exactly what Kim’s dute date is, and I am pleased to tell you that my brain rejected that information and I have forgotten it already. The work we had to present was a piece of worldwide journalism that spoke to us, or was on the same topic that we are interested in presenting. They were all truly varied and interesting, but the one that struck a chord the most with everyone was from Niamh, who read part of Donal Walsh’s published letter on the subject of teenage suicide. The gorgeous and brave Donal had just passed away the previous night, so it was both poignant and sad, and definitely resulted in a few tears from me.
My own piece came from the Scary Mommy website, called ’10 Ways To P*ss Off A Pregnant Woman’ – a tongue in cheek list of all the things to not say to a pregnant woman, if you could help yourself (lots of people apparently cannot). It was only after leaving the class that I realized that I hadn’t explained that the list was a facetious one, and now they all probably thinks that I condone rubbing the pregnant bellies of complete strangers and shouting into their belly buttons like microphones… Another Shazzy Clanger!
Still mortified from Week 3 when, after class, I almost followed Bill Hughes home to his front door, I took it especially handy on the arse-licking front. It took all of my strength not to accost him after class for chats about Blathnaid NíChoffaigh’s ‘alleged’ attitude problem, or what his views are on force-feeding Ryan Tubridy a sausage sandwich, but I managed it. And then I regretted that I didn’t all week. Not only am I indirectly sabotaging our chances at being BFFs, but I’ll never know the answers to those questions now. And here I am with the sausages on…
So tonight, I’m going giddy-up. The waft of freshly-baked blueberry muffins is coming from my kitchen and they are being delivered in pretty boxes to the class later. There’s an upgrade on bringing an apple to the teacher for you. Ach, I jest – they’re for everyone. The exercise we have to deliver tonight is on The Person That Means The Most To Us In The World, so I’m bringing a little sugar comfort in case it’s needed. Lord knows, I’ll be the first to cry as usual, although maybe not quite as much as Ass Monkey did when he forked out the cash for The Moulin Rouge.