So we ran the dog last night. Maybe should have taken it outside and introduced it to a shotgun. The dog was hot, sweaty occasionally foaming at the mouth and 2 1/2 hours long. Surgery was the only option. Highlights of the revolting mess were four naked bodies (one more excited than the others) Anna-Maria getting possessed by the same demon which got Regan spinning her head and puking satanic snot, something about “this is my space…” which kept only two people amused, and who should really be separated if the show is to go on, and the beer drunk after washing down the day’s gossip.
I had the infinite joy of making two more death metal pieces to compliment the one already scaring the natives. It’s all blurring into one, but Tim got in touch with his inner metalhead (it was a bloody great pop-eyed Maori with spinning tongue), and Anna-Maria did something unspeakable, then Jens, Tom and Mathieu in diamantéhot pants and eyeball choreography … let’s just say dancers screaming “Go have sex with Jesus Christ you faggot” is a sure way to peddle influence.
There was week-long chatter about going to a gay bar after, but my subtle despotism and control-freakery meant we only got as far as the river again before I refused to move unless it was in the direction of the bar. Much muttering and queenieness from the resident fags over the percentage of breeders ensued, but when I am surrounded by dancers who say, “I love you, Frances” on-stage (“this is my space, and it’s embarrassing me”) and the frottage quotient is high, I’m as happy as a pig in muck.