Despite Andrew and I sensibly moving our show forward a day to miss an oncoming storm that had widely been predicted, the storm arrived late. Well, the one that was forecast. Another tempest, a mercurial moment that was not on the horizon, made itself felt instead, as temperatures rose sharply during our act and extremely high pressure dominated the scene!
Andrew, who had decided to sup as much ale as Oliver Reed on an Irish stag do, decided to ‘tap’ me on the head with the microphone stand, during one of our numbers. ‘Cry Me A River.’ He neglected to consider that the chunk of metal was rather heavy, and so the chunk went clunk!
I thought I’d gone on with the show with complete dignity, considering my head could have been bleeding a river. Or a least a rivulet. I thought Ethel Merman would have been proud. Until my partner informed me later, backstage, in the style of an incandescent Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’, that I had actually acted like a soccer player.
“You’re like a fucking, poofy, fucking footballer’, were his exact words.
Before I could stop my hand from moving, it had slapped him in the kisser.
I turned dramatically and made for the front table, full of revellers, still buzzing post show. As I reached the melee and began conversing, Andrew, as a demented ‘Bill Sykes’, came striding intently towards me.
He then chinned me!
I kept my composure. As any proper Nancy would.
Still channelling Oliver Reed, Andrew broodily skulked back to the bar.
It was a proper backstage drama – only front stage!
The two swedish pensioners sitting close-by absolutely loved it, chortling away as if it were all part of the show.
In a way they were right.
There is always a bit of a twist somewhere during our performances. Admittedly, not always called Oliver!
Things cooled down a bit later, after Andrew/Olly, had, metaphorically, slapped a few more revellers hard in the face. Some, more than once.
And explained rather forcefully to the proprietor, what he might like to go and do with himself, were he lost for time!
The night went well.
The following day the inclement weather still didn’t show itself – it was most frustrating. I spent most of it doing a rain dance in the garden, attempting to magic up some precipitation, so as not to feel too wet, should our decision to re-arrange the show prove unnecessary.
It didn’t come.
The next day – the skies opened.
We have still not found a reliable meteorological source here. It seems just as effective to lick one’s finger and hold it in the air to establish whether the weather will do as you’d like it to.
As a result of these nebulous clouds, my mother and my aunty carole, were recently stranded in a restaurant during the starter, as a river burst it’s banks.
At least it was a good establishment and they were able to partake of the owner’s hospitality until the waters abated.
They were well tanked up by the time they were ferried home.
Not the only disastrous gastronomic incident this week though, as the poor family had to suffer yet more food related stress when I was sick during a lunch in Marbella.
I vommed my carbs all over ‘Marbs’. Very Essex!
Actually, Andrew and I have both been struck down with a sick, buggery bug, sodding, thing!
After all the weather, we’re now under the weather.
He seems to have been suffering with a pneumonia/gastroenteritis kinda thing and I seem to have contracted Ebola. Which I know cannot be the case – unless it’s rife in Manilva? One can never be too sure. Whatever, it is it is most unpleasant.
A Dickensian type affair.
Of course, Andrew is now better.
Always a little more resilient than I – thanks, no doubt, to his inner Olly Reed. He has bounced back onto his feet looking and feeling like a youthful Clarke Gable.
Whilst I look like a poor extra from an adaptation of ‘David Copperfield’. Wan and fetid.
Everyone has gone out to take the air – and the dog has gone too.
I am not surprised. I resemble a very grey member of the Les Miserable cast!
Whilst outside the sky is blue.
Andrew couldn’t wait.
‘Come on Bullseye, I mean, Lola. We’re off out.’