Valentine’s Day. Oh the joy. I was going to get some more pitches in for the summer, but figured that everyone would be bunking off early to change into their gladrags ahead of steak and prosecco for £100 a head in a crowded shouty room. “Fack you moaning abart? Facking candle onna table, innit. Facking romantic, vat is.”
I’m off to Vault to see a one woman show about guinea pigs. And sickness. It was a tenner, so I just bought it immediately. There are two of us going, but typically it sold out before she could get one too. I’m going to give mine to her and then hope that my pass will get me in. It probably won’t, but worth a try. The Vault pass allows free entry into shows that aren’t sold out. Also a small drinks discount. Very cool now that Pantechnicon is finished, especially considering the Festival goes on for weeks yet. Although it’s not something to use willy nilly, this capacity to not pay for people’s art. I’m not sure how many people came into Pantechnicon with a pass, but a fairy dies for every one of them. But then two fairies are born for everyone that paid for a ticket and could’ve used a pass. So by buying a ticket and then using a pass, I’ll be making a net profit of one fairy for the artist. I’ll find out before long how many fairies died for our little show in a van.
Right now I’m in The Young Vic, shorn down to my little pink cheeks. Even the furry lip squid is finally gone. With my Mediterranean heritage it’ll all be back in a week. But for now, in exchange for daily expense and bother, I look young again. Fresh faced. Like a baby, but with better smelling poo and a worse smelling head. I’ve been putting words into my brain today, and playing too many mobile-phone-crack-game distractions. My early night went to shit last night after the rude email managed to keep me up until 5, on and off. That peculiar form of insomnia where you feel tired right up until you switch the light off, and then the elephants parade in front of your closed eyes until you dance with them and they insist you switch the lights on again and consume crap fiction. I read a whole Sláine anthology, and not even the stuff that was illustrated by Simon Bisley. The painstaking black and white mystic scratches of Glenn Fabry. Beautiful examples of British comic book art, mindless enough in plotting to induce sleep in the busy mind on a normal night. My subscription to the 2000AD collection has helped my sleep immeasurably. It got me through dry January. But even with gin it took a long time before I finally succumbed to gentle mad Celtic warping dreams.
I’ve got a glass of primitivo. I’m waiting for her to show, although I’m not entirely sure she will. We made this plan before either of us realised it was Valentine’s Day. Cheers.