back up blog

For about 26-and–three-quarter years, I’ve suspected that, deep down inside of me, buried somewhere between the melanzane parmigiana and inability to communicate without sarcasm and inappropriate sexual innuendo, is a dancer. This is based on two known truths: 1.  When I am sick I watch the Step Up movies on repeat 2. I have an impressively massive arse, ipso facto can Shakira the SHIT out of anything with a dirty beat, irrespective of number of iced Bailey’s cocktails consumed. And before we get to my point, because I have one- probably- I don’t mean massive arse in that self-depreciating way most of your girlfriends in the Topshop changing rooms mean it. I’m not sad about it, or in need of sympathy. In fact, it’s quite the point of pride . I’ve got legit back. Gluteus maximus for days. Bum enough for a one-night stand with The Artist to become a three-month fling because, ‘This,’ he’d say, grabbing handfuls. ‘I need more of this.’ My behind is so round and plentiful that The Italia

Last night my brother discovered me swaddled in a cashmere blanket, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, and listening to Frédéric Lodéon at full volume as I devoured even more feminist literature and the last of the Boursin. He observed that, in that exact and perfect moment, I was a metaphorical pig in shit. I was in my element. And until last Friday, had I the means for a foot massage and the privacy for a wank, I’d have been inclined to agree with him. But, what I learnt this weekend is that until you have looked a stranger in the eyes at three o’clock in the morning and screamed at him BABY THIS IS SERIOUS, ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT YOU- OR US? circa three minutes twenty-one seconds into Celine Dion’s Think Twice , right when the key change comes in, then, quite frankly, you’re doing Fun wrong, and no amount of creamy French cheese will take you back to that level of euphoria. Extra points if in that moment your friend double-handedly spanks your singing partner as she jumps up and down

‘Helloooooooo?’ ‘Be right with you, darlin’,’ a portly chap with a shaved head said from behind a makeshift desk. We stepped away from the portable blood donation station and enjoyed the low winter sunshine, both gazing up to the sky with eyes closed. It was nice to be out from behind my own desk. ‘They film Dragon’s Den up there.’ I opened my eyes. The man walked down the tiny van steps, pointing at the next building. ‘Got an appointment?’ My friend nodded and handed him her paperwork. He looked at me. ‘I don’t have an appointment, BUT I spoke to a lovely Irish lady on the telephone and she said to come on down and that likely you lovely lot would be able to accommodate me because you’re brilliant like that.’ ‘That right?’ the man said, amused. ‘You look like the chap that can,’ I said. ‘Am I able to donate? Can you make it happen?’ I do this thing when I am trying to get my own way, when I’m putting on a performance. The Laura Show. I put on a posher voice and curtsy a little bit an

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RULE NUMBER ONE: Everybody who wishes to see Bodyguard: The Musical must take The Bodyguard Appreciation Test. Full marks must be obtained for a pass. Those who pass will be allowed entrance into the theatre as part of a maximum of two. Discussion amongst these two people will be limited to hushed whispers of reverential admiration. Groups of people will not be permitted and must instead apply for Mamma Mia! tickets.* *Demographics unable to apply for The Bodyguard Appreciation Test include Straight Men, who apparently have not learnt that the theatre is not the woods- noisy consumption of sweets with wrappers is unacceptable- and Foreign Women, who have a tendency to sing along WITH THE WRONG WORDS. Also unacceptable.   RULE NUMBER TWO: Watching the performance through the camera of your iPhone means that you will be escorted out of the theatre to find your fucking sense, you cultureless oaf. Who wants to see your Earlybird- filtered blurry stages shots and your shaky footage of All