Sweaty bits

This post will be a rambling mess with no coherent structure and not many laughs, rather like The Bible. It's good to see the St Matthews in the City church trying to have a bit of a laugh this Christmas by putting this billboard up.

It's a shame the first one was doused with paint by an old man and the second slashed with a knife by an old lady. I don't know if they have been caught however I'd be pointing my finger at the old man with his banjo and the old lady who sing out of tune religous songs religiously on Queen Street everyday except Sunday when they are probably singing out of tune in some regressive church in the burbs far far away from the progressive cess-pool of tolerant filth that is St Matthews in the City. As far as churches go St Matthews is quite hip and groovy. Not only is it a stunning building they also offer civil unions, iGod podcasts and you can hire it for foam parties, discos and they will even bless your dog, cat or llama and clean up its pooh afterwards.

You really shouldn't sweat the small stuff, unless it's a sweaty dwarf hiding in your closet with some paint, a knife and a banjo. I heard a story about a young tall actress playing Snow White losing her virginity to Grumpy during the South Island leg of a nationwide tour which just goes to show that sweaty small stuff can fuck you up when you least expect it. I had a sweaty moment on Thursday night during the opening performance of 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'. I'm playing Rudolph and was sweating and grumpy when the elastic used to keep my big red one on my face snapped 20 minutes into the show. Luckily the back-up mechanism of a whole lotta gaff shoved in the hole stopped it from shooting off and hitting the Christmas Fairy in the eye.

However, as the play progressed I could feel the stickiness subsiding on my sweat soaked snozz and had to dash off while 35 fairies and 3 penguins between the ages of 5 and 12 sang 'We Wish You A Merry Xmas'. It was a shame because they were meant to be singing it to cheer Rudolph up however if Rudolph's nose fell off it may have brought about tears, tantrums and thirty years of therapy. After ripping the elastic off and pressing the nose on as hard as I could I returned and continued the performance holding my head upwards at a 45 degree angle while touching it constantly as if Rudolph had a nose-bleed while performing an old fashioned sobriety test. I had to make another hasty unplanned exit during Dasher and Dancer's rendition of 'Jungle Bells' to reapply fresh gaff which thankfully held to the end. Unfortunately Dasher and Dancer hadn't realised I'd buggered off and as I was meant to stop them singing got slightly alarmed. They covered well though with 'Where's he gone?' and 'That's not very professional' so the audience had no idea how close to disaster the whole production had perilously lurched.

It was my birthday on Thursday as well. Thanks again to all those who left messages on Facebook, texted and called. I turned 36. It's a credit to my healthy KFC diet and liberal application of hydrocortisone to my face everyday that even in my mid to late 30's I can still pull off a role like Rudolph, supposedly the youngest and most innocent of all Santa's reindeer. I'm thinking I could still have a crack at pulling off Oliver after my stunning performance 22 years ago for the North Canterbury Musical Society.

I will try and squeeze in another post before Christmas but if I don't I hope you all have a wonderful festive holiday. If your evenings are free up until Xmas eve come and see Rudolph and marvel at a sweating 36 year old man with a strap on nose surround by young children. Aboobedeedo.

A Giant Fingering Winking Santa

It's been nearly a month since my last post which is inexcusable. My excuses for such an extended period of inactivity are sickness, work and laziness. Nearly a month is an eternity in the blog world and I'm sure some of you will have given up on mine and moved onto other more regular blogs such as this one. If you have hung in there I can only apologise and promise that it might not happen again.

Two really exciting events of world importance have happened since my last post. The first is the revelation that Tiger Woods has been sharing his one wood with every woman everywhere every second of every day. I'm not going to pass judgement except to say that getting into the rough with Tiger would provide some great opportunities to shout out things that golfers say without having to give up a day playing golf. Imagine screaming, 'Get in the hole!' just as Tiger is about to mount you. That would be fun. As Tiger took you from the front nine to the back nine and his member's bounce was dimpled for your pleasure you could respond by shouting 'bogey, bogey, par, par, par, birdie, birdie, eagle, eagle, ALBATROSS!'. If you felt like another lay-up with Tiger you could pull and push until he was pin-high and then after a quick up-and-down scream 'FORE' as he hit your sweet-spot and flop-shotted right onto your green in regulation. Good-good!

The other significant world event was the unveiling of the new Santa that graces the Whitcomb & Tombs store on the corner of Queen and Victoria Streets. The Santa actually belongs to another store called Farmers and Haywrights who are celebrating their 1000th anniversary I think so they decided to celebrate by having a fiddle with the big Santa because he looked like a fiddler. Here's how he used to look although the photo doesn't convey the full creepiness of the old Santa. His index finger on his right hand, which looks like it could be caressing a young enormous nipple, actually moved back and forth as if it was caressing a young enormous nipple. To support this action his left eye winked at half the speed of his nipple finger unless it was broken in which it case it remained lazily half open as if Santa had had a stroke or injected too much botox. I'd love to say Santa's crotch moved back and forth while his left hand unbuckled his belt but it didn't. He fingered and winked and that was enough. There's not much super about the soon to be supercity of Auckland however our four story high fingering winking pedophilic Saint Nick definitely was.

Until a few weeks ago! Now he looks like this.

Which because of my crappy photo doesn't look much different however believe me it is. Firstly he doesn't wink or finger anymore. His finger is locked in position as if he's about to make a fist to punch whoever fiddled with him in the nipple. Both eyes remain open constantly like Malcolm McDowell being reconditioned in 'A Clockwork Orange'. All the dodgy, deviant and dubious qualities of Santa have been cut away leaving a beaming jolly giant surrounded by big packages and two reindeer. I'm not sure what I think about our new sanitised Santa however his two caribou are fantastic and below is a photo of another one. This caribou is called Rudolph and is looking depressed because he's just realised he's been painted up to resemble a big brown turd, or a caripooh. This is what I looked like on Saturday night when I MC'ed the 'Christmas at the Zoo' event at the Auckland Zoo funnily enough. It sort of looks like I've just been arrested for lewd rutting and I'm still amazed that parents seem quite happy to let me go near their children when I look like this.

I did this gig last year and made a promise to a small boy half way through that he could have my nose upon completion of my MC duties. I thought he would forget however after I'd fingered the sponsor's nipples there he was waiting at the side of the stage with his little arms outstretched like a tiny person doing the start of 'YMCA'. I had a very nasty cold at the time, as I did this year as well and my nose was full of snot however I couldn't renege on my promise and plopped by moist mucasy nose into his sweaty palm. His eyes lit up and he immediately stuck it on his nose and ran away as if all his Christmases had come at once.  I felt happy and dodgy and devious and dubious.

When a man in his mid-thirties dressed as a giant pooh makes a small boy happy by giving him his snot soaked nose you know it's Christmas time. Miracles do happen.

Get Innocuous Pedestrian!

Regular readers may recall that two posts ago I gushed about all the auditions I had been to and I'm sure many of you are still waiting on the edge of your baited breath to hear about the final audition I had with no lines. I didn't get it! That's OK, it was dumb.

However, while doing that audition Stu the casting director with a lovely dog who used to sit in on auditions but doesn't any longer, popped his head in the door and asked if I could sing. I replied with a resounding 'YYYEEEESSSS' in the key of B sharp and started to tap dance as well for good measure. I have had a tap dancing lesson so I can  tap-dance. I have also touched a horse so I can ride a horse. I have tripped over on a movie set so I am qualified to do stunts. I can say hello in at least five different languages and am fluent in them all. I can swim, surf, fire a gun, drive a bus, truck, plane and do any accent for two minutes until it becomes Welsh or Indian. Stu could have asked me if I can put my head between my knees and whistle up my Barcelona and I would have done it. Actors are very versatile and are great at telling fibs, especially if it may lead to a job. When 'Lord of the Rings' was filming everyone in Wellington could ride a horse, even the horses were going around riding each other they were that desperate to get some work. When I auditioned for that vampire flick '30 Days of Night' (I didn't get it but the film was dumb so it's OK), I hung upside down from the rafters in a black unitard for days and only came out at night to hunt KFC using echolocation.

Stu was obviously impressed with my singing ability and called me back the next day to audition for the role of 'PEDESTRIAN', another role in the same commercial I had already unsuccessfully auditioned for the role of 'BELL HOP' in. I was very excited. I don't look like a Bell Hop but I definitely look like a Pedestrian. I don't even own a car and have a lot of experience being a Pedestrian so I didn't have to do any character research. I was born to play this role.

And I nailed the audition. One line, sung direct to camera, two takes on my back, two takes on my front, four takes of gold. There was comedy, pathos and just a hint of cheekiness. I even gave them a choice of octaves. I was the Pedestrian who had just been knocked over by a car  they were looking for. On Sunday they called and wanted me to go in for a call-back on Monday. I went back in and the American director and producer were there. The director was nice and shook my hand, the producer was staring into his Apple Promacintosh and looked at my outstretched hand as if it was a big pubic crab trying to get into his pants. The director asked me to lift my head slowly and not smile before singing the line, then lift with smile, then lift look at my body then sing, then lift fast, sing, lower slowly, then lift fast, smile, sing and lower quickly, then lift, look at my body, smile, sing, lower slowly while still smiling, then keep my head on the ground and smile and sing, then keep my head on the ground and sing...he really liked the last one.

On Tuesday I got the call I was on hold and had to go in for a costume fitting. I went in and tried on lots of clothes from The Warehouse, Hallensteins and St Vincent de Paul. Later that night my agent called and confirmed I had got the part. What a joyous night it was.

I shot it last Saturday. I lay down on Fort Street underneath the bumper of a Mercedes four by four and gave it my all all the time. My shot was the last of the four day shoot (or the martini for those in the know), and I could see that all the crew were engrossed in my performance, except for the 98% of them who were ripping down lights and set all around me as I acted my little Hallensteins shirt off. We ran way overtime and I had to change into my lovely WORLD suit in a taxi on my way to Ellerslie for a gig after. I asked the nice driver how my tie was and he said it looked good. I think he was either Indian or Welsh.

On another completely different note here's a link to a top tune. I've filled up a bit of blog space by ranting about music I don't like so I should try and provide some balance. It's by an American band called Mason Proper who I know nothing about except for producing a piece of perfection  by taking two good songs and putting them together to make an even gooder song. Who would have thought that 'Get Innocuous' by LCD Soundsystem and 'Love Lockdown' by Kanye West would work so well together? It's bloody genius and you can have a listen to it here.

Nickelcats

errzsa

The opening word today was typed by puss puss with her two back paws. I've googled it and it means nothing which is disappointing. I'm hopeful I will discover the first British Blue who can touch type and turn her into a worldwide phenomenon in the same vein as Nora the piano playing cat and Fatso, aka Keyboard Cat, who played the keyboard in the 1980's and died in the year 2000.

Poor Fatso. He probably died of shame for being forced to wear that horrible blue shirt while his owner, a gentleman by the name of Charlie Schmidt, jiggled his forlorn feline's front legs up and down in time with the pre-programmed cheese emitting from his horrible little organ. Here is a link to Charlie Schmidt's website. Apparently he is a professional graphic designer, actor, inventor, movie maker, painter, sculptor, performance artist, builder of hot rod cars, teacher, 2nd degree black belt, musician and philospher. Be careful with his website, it's very wacky and makes wacky noises when you move your cursor over his wacky icons highlighting what wacky things he does, the wackiest of which appears to be nose dancing. What a cock.

I've just read another article that says keyboard cat died in 1987. The more I delve into the life of Fatso the murkier and sadder it becomes. Fatso was an orange Spokane cat and in many ways was just another disposable victim in the globalised industry called manufactured pop. The steps are quite simple:

1. Find someone good looking and desperate for fame, talent is not required but a modicum is beneficial.
2. Write a terrible song for them.
3. Make them wear terrible clothes.
4. Make them change their name.
5. Put your hand up their arse and control their every move with an iron fist.
6. Make a terrible video.
7. Make lots of terrible merchandise.
8. Make lots of money.
9. Make the artist sign a contract so they do not make lots of money.
10. When popularity wanes go to step 1.

Most of these steps are easier when you're dealing with a cat.

My favourite manufactured pop impresario was Larry Parnes who invited lots of young men to his house in the 1950's, changed their names, gave them nice suits and made them famous for a while. Larry and his menagerie had hit after hit but his real talent was devising evocative names guaranteed to get the younguns all juiced up and ready to part with their hard earned pence, not that Larry's men saw much of it. Billy Fury, Vince Eager, Lance Fortune, Georgie Fame, Duffy Power and my favourite Dickie Pride. Dickie Pride's real name was Richard Charles Kneller and you have to wonder why Larry just didn't add an E and drop an L to Kneller to get Dickie Kneeler. The only man to stand up to Larry, he hated his young boys standing up, was Joe Brown who bravely resisted Larry's desire to launch him as Elmer Twitch. Larry did turn down a band called The Silver Beetles which wasn't the greatest move although he did use them as a backing band for Johnny Gentle.

On the subject of horrible music with no artistic merit here is a disturbing picture. These pieces of eye torture are everywhere in Auckland at the moment. Every breath I take, every move I make, every vow I break, every smile I fake, every claim I stake, every leaf  I rake, every time I wake, every baby I shake, every brownie I bake, every muss I jake, Chad Kroeger, his brother Mike and the other two drop-kicks are watching me behind their sunglasses which they even wear at night because their eyes are red because they are all the devil's children.Thank God they are only inflicting us with one show, although it is their biggest show EVER! When you've rocked the world for over a decade your biggest show EVER! must be pretty big. I hope Auckland's show rocks as much as this one in Portugal where the brave Portuguese pelted Chad with Portuguese rocks until he left the stage. C'mon Auckland, let's show Portugal that we can rock harder than them, more rocks, bigger rocks, the biggest rocks EVER! Kia kaha.

Don't call us...

What a week this is turning out to be, three auditions! Yesterday I auditioned for a television commercial where I had one line. Only one line you ask, what is so exciting about that? I'll tell you, not only was this one line sung, it was delivered direct to camera! That's how exciting it was. I played a dodgy bell-hop and I would love to tell you more however I signed a confidentiality clause. The call-backs were today and I didn't get called back but I'm cool with that. It was a dumb commercial and the product it was for is stupid and if I got it I would be typecast and it would ruin my career and all of you who saw it would have thought I was dumb and not read my blog anymore.

Today I auditioned for a television series! I had lots of lines but they weren't my lines, they were the lines of another actor who hadn't done a very good job so they needed someone to say his lines for him betterer. I would love to tell you about this television series however I signed a confidentiality novel and this ship is so tight people with loose lips can't sink it because their lips have been severed with a sword swung by  Kirk Douglas while he rogers Xena Warrior Princess. Ha ha! I have dropped numerous clues into the previous sentence as to the identity of the mysterious TV series, see if you can work it out. If you do you'll probably be killed by an American TV executive so be careful. Anyway, I was auditioning with six other men and after two hours was told I wasn't betterer enough to deliver someone elses lines better than them and was released. 'Released' is a technical term for being free to say yes to all the other film/TV/theatre/childrens show/wandering around dressed as a woman work I am always inundated with. I don't care. It's going to be a dumb worldwide phenomenon that will make all involved very famous and get them on the covers of Woman's Day before they are forced to become Scientologists and roger Tom Cruise in John Travolta's cockpit.

My third audition is on Friday and this one is really really exciting because I have no lines! I hate learning lines so small parts are right up my alley. The smaller the part the happier my alley is so at the moment my alley is positively creaming itself with anticipation. This one's all secret squirrel as well so I'm sorry, no matter how far up my alley you probe you won't get a hot scoop. I really hope I get it, unless I don't when I won't care because it was dumb.

I should go down to Christchurch for eight weeks more often. I think my agent may have forgotten who I was and assumes I'm new on their books and will make them 10% of a small fortune or maybe there's just a spike in the 'quirky and distinctive yet normal and likeable guy' demand curve. Who knows. Sometimes this whole acting business is like trying to fix a toilet with a fish and a tuba instead of shitting in the tuba and wiping your arse with the fish.

All allergies all the time

According to wikipedia an allergy is, 'a disorder of the immune system often referred to as an atophy.' I have never heard anyone refer to an allergy as an atophy and I'm not even sure how to pronounce atophy correctly so wikipedia is looking dubious from the outset. Upon clicking the atophy link wikipedia informs me that it is (pronounced /ˈætəpi/; Greek ἀτοπία - placelessness) which clears things up nicely.

Atophy is a real pain in the arse. I've never had an atophy on my arse which is something I am very grateful for however I've had my fair share on other parts of the body. If I did have an atophy on my arse it would give me an excuse to drag myself along carpet on my bottom like a dog with worms which is something I've always wanted to do so it wouldn't be all bad. I have no problem doing something odd and threatening as long as you have a good reason for doing it. When I get an itchy throat I stick the index finger of my left hand in my left ear and jiggle it, scratch my head with my right hand and make a 'quoaaaaaarrrrrrr' sound from deep down in my gullet that sounds like a bit like the noise the Skeksis made in 'The Dark Crystal'. This video doesn't really give you much of an indication but it's still very funny and will hopefully bring back happy memories to those of you who still remember 1982.

I've had the old standard allergic reactions eczema and asthma since I was born. These two seem to go hand in hand to torment the world, like Foster and Allen, Hall and Oates and Country and Western. Luckily I've largely grown out of both. When I was young I would only have to enter a room that a cat had even thought about walking in and my extremities would puff up, my eyes would water and I would start wheezing. I would turn into an old crying wino who had smoked 40 fags a day before your eyes and then the cat who had thought about coming into the room would come in and sit on my face to show how sorry they were for causing my distress. What was and is even more distressing is that I love cats. I love dogs as well but they never seemed to be as much of a catalyst for my afflictions as cats. I could give you a list a cats that were catalysts purely to milk the pun but it's not worth the effort.

Being allergic to things one really likes is cruel and you start to wonder if your body is just taking the piss. I'm certain my hypersensitive immune system had a choice in what things would make it start activating my mast cells and basophilis so had a quick sniff in my brain to discover the things that would cause me the greatest distress and found cats, weet-bix and beer. Thank god I hadn't discovered my affection for KFC when I was young or my life would not be worth living. I'm not strictly allergic to beer but I am allergic to wheat which rules out some beers and all weet-bix. Giving up weet-bix was really hard. I had continued the long Cooper tradition of covering your dry weet-bix with just enough boiling water to moisten and soften them before pouring milk on top to create a nice wee warm milky puddle at the base before covering generously with sugar. Heaven! No bloody more though. Thanks to my immune system a family tradition that has strectched back hundreds of years to when my ancestors were making barrels for Vikings to put the fermented blood of their victims in has died.

I'm also allergic to bloody dairy products as well. Milk and cheese and wheat and cats and dogs and some beer...if I was Julie Andrews these would be nearly all of my favourite things. I found out I was allergic to dairy and wheat when a chiropractor put little samples of them on my tongue while I was lying on my back and then tried to press my left arm down. With all the other food samples...brussel sprouts, swede, rancid olives, affogatos I could resist his pressings with vigour however when the cheese and wheat were applied I gave way like John Key. I still don't understand why my lack of shoulder resistance meant that wheat would make me go red and scratch my inner arm and leg however my parents were paying an arm and a leg to find this out so no questions were asked.

A few years ago hay-fever decided to join the party, probably because my immune system was angry about having grown out of most of my asthma and eczema. I usually only get hay-fever when I go to Christchurch so I'm probably allergic to Christchurch as well.

Anyway, at the moment my nose is blocked and my asthma is playing up. I have two inhalers for asthma, one is red and one is blue. If I use the red inhaler, the preventative, I never learn the truth about the world of asthma and saunter oblivious through my life breathing freely. If I need to use the blue inhaler it means I am naked in a liquid filled pod with tubes coming out of every orifice feeding me ventolin. I've been using the blue inhaler a bit recently and my holes are getting sore so perhaps I do have an atophy on my arse. I'm hoping it's just adjusting to being back in Auckland, the humidity and change of season. It could also have something to do with a cat. Miss Charlie, or puss puss is a British Blue short-hair. She is gorgeous and naughty and likes to run with toilet paper. If she is responsible for my allergic flare-up I don't care. Anything this cute sitting on your lap is worth it.

Fisting

Week seven of eight now and my two months of fun in the Christchurch sun are almost at an end. The Poe show is humming along nicely. We have decided to dispense with the dialogue and hum the entire script to the tune of 'Gloria' by Laura Branigan. The audience seem to be receptive although I don't like it when they join in for the chorus. I was a huge fan of Laura Branigan as a youth, I think her hit was on the Tracman 82 record that my brother and I went halves on, along with Electric Avenue by Eddie Grant and Eye of the Tiger by Survivor. Sadly Laura passed away in 2004 but not before guest starring on three of my favourite TV shows of all time, CHiPs, Automan and Knight Rider. She really had it all.

Although Poe has been fun I would give my left ventricle to not do the show tonight. I haven't not wanted to do a show in Christchurch this bad since U2 were here on their Zoo TV tour and I walked out of the theatre after bemusing 18 people to hear the distant cries of "oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh." This was not the sound of unimaginative intercourse in Room D, (although that is not an uncommon occurrence), but the orgasmic cries of 70,000 Cantabrians singing the chorus of 'Pride (In The Name of Love)'. I looked in the 36 eyes of the 18 audience members as they left the theatre with malice and hate and they looked into my eyes with hate and malice and I wanted to ask them why they had bothered coming but they were to busy asking themselves why they had bothered coming while Bono was asking all of us what more in the name of love?

My reason for wanting to abandon the tens of audience tonight is to watch The Fight of the Century. If it's billed as the fight of the century you know it's going to be special, especially when this century is still wearing nappies and shitting in them every day. The previous one was in 1971 between a couple of journeymen called Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Apparently that 15 round epic was a rather good match however it happened before I was born so it doesn't count. My fight of the century is screening tonight and Ali is replaced by David Tua and Smokin' Joe is Shane Cameron. I'm sure it will easily match up to the fight of the century back in 1971 however I won't be watching it because I will be dressed as Edgar Allan Poe humming Gloria for 82 minutes. Gutted is not a word I use lightly because it's often used by sweaty sportsmen and slaughterhouse workers however I'm using it now...I am gutted. I'm pretty sure Tua will take Cameron out in three rounds but I'm still gutted. I am missing my fight of the century. I will not get to see another one in my lifetime because I will be dead.

I went to see Peter my boxing man this morning and we discussed the fight in earnest while he slowly crippled me. Pete knows everything about boxing, he coached Tua early on in his career and Shane Cameron stayed at his house for 12 days while he worked with him as well. As he whacked me in the head with his focus pads everytime I forgot to keep my hands up I wondered what it would be like to actually get whacked in the head with the fist of another man. I love boxing dearly and thoroughly enjoy the training and tradition of the sport however I have never actually been fisted by another man in the ring, or on the street. The closest I got was one Friday night many years ago in Christchurch.

As with all major moments in my life this took place at a KFC establishment, the slightly scungy one on Colombo Street. I think it was after a Scared Scriptless show and myself, Nic and Stu decided to soak up some of the many $3 beers we had consumed by indulging in some of the colonel's finest. As we sat at our table gorging ourselves I noticed two likely looking lads glaring at us from the opposite table with one two piece quarter pack between them. At first I thought they were just hungry homeless urchins of the Oliver Twist persuasion enviously eyeing our three three piece quarter packs. I was wrong. Nic and Stu decided they had to relieve their bladders of some of The Court Theatre's wonderously cheap alcohol and off they went to the toilets together. The eys of the urchins followed them keenly and I pulled Nic and Stu's quarter packs closer to mine just in case the famished duo made a ravenous grab for them. Upon their return from the toilets one of the young scally-wags let rip with a chortle and a cry of "Homos!"

I was all for turning the other cheek and filling it with chicken however Nic was having none of this and retorted with a witty repost implying that they might be pots calling the kettles black. This caused great consternation with the rascals and they lept over and began trying to punch us all in the head with little success. I think they were mainly trying to punch Nic and Stu in the head as my head was buried in my chicken box but they didn't get much of a chance as they were promptly dispatched onto Colombo Street by a very large security man who looked like he got paid in left-over chicken at the end of each night.

I hoped that was the end of the affair but it was not. The two hungry boys were now delirious with anger and hunger as they circled the door like sharks looking at the remains of two uneaten bits of chicken and the three of us filling our bellys. Nic bravely decided to go outside with their uneaten chicken as a peace offering but got punched in the head and ran back in. We considered asking the security man if he would assist but after careful inspection realised he wouldn't fit through the door.

We decided the only option was to make a break for it in different directions and take our chances. We ran from the KFC and suddeny all hell broke loose in the campest way possible. The two urchins had mutiplied into about 20 and suddenly all of Colombo Street was filled with young men fighting in the most embarrassing way imaginable. Air punches were thrown with gay abandon and I'm certain at least 1o of them were just hunched over clicking their fingers in unison. We looked just like this...

We really did. If you know Nic, Stu and I it will be obvious which one is which. Anyway, Nic took a blow and some reprobate kicked him in the head when he was down. Stu took a hit as well and was intending to come back and continue things after going home to put on his steel capped Doc Martins but thankfully didn't. I danced and clicked with the best of them but nobody was interested in me, probably because I was wearing glasses. We all took off and left them to it. I think I heard the strains of 'Gee, Officer Krupke' as the police arrived to break the rumble up.