Performing the VD weekend blues

I kicked off the VD blues with The Zeros Keep Going, a timely meditation on the social impact of hardcore pornography. Rather like the public debate, the two sides of the argument - the porn industry and the feminist objectors - never managed to speak on common ground. The bursts of feminist rage struck against the pale faces of Viagra addicted macho thugs and naïve glamour girls. Featuring destroyed relationships, empty sex and endless one-handed web browsing, it was deeply uncomfortable viewing - especially during the ask-the-audience scene - and it sent my serotonin levels through the roof.

Next stop, Dr Sketchy for an afternoon of burlesque themed life drawing fun. I missed the first act because I was stumbling in a gutter and arguing with a green fairy about the nature of hell (“it only exists because of love,” she said.). I sat quietly at the back, being unable to draw. I wrote some bad poetry so that I didn’t just look like a dirty old man ogling “the best bum in burlesque”. Those were the words of Rufus, the host, not mine.

Sketchy rather spoiled my mood of decadent mayhem. Rufus and Lucille sung a few numbers while the artists captured Mia Miaow in charcoal, pencil and ink: Rufus’ voice is especially suiting the slower numbers these days, while Lucille has developed a husky intensity since I last heard her. Rufus gave a few cheeky numbers, suggesting that a future starring role in La Cage aux Folles is not beyond his talents. Enjoying myself far too much, I stomped off to find Love A La Carte.

I was expecting to be sat in a corner, watch the lovely couples and toss off contemptuous looks at the actors who were offering love poetry and appropriate songs. Instead, there on the menu of acts, was Knots.

Knots is half Socratic dialogue, half psychotically analysis, a sort of modern epic poem by RD Laing that cuts the entanglement of relationships into ribbons of assumption, misassumption and synthetic horror. Translated into a duet for Jack and Jill, it becomes a nightmare from a happy marriage, a bleak commentary on the slow physiological degeneration of desire.

I demanded an encore. 

Then I ordered a scene from Onegin. Closer up Russian romanticism, the desperate male declaration of love and hopeless rejection, the merciless triumph of duty over desire, all performed on the same couch as the audience. At a nearby table, a couple held hands to Shakespeare’s sonnets. I was experiencing the theatrical equivalent of a crying lap dance. 

For those who made wise choices and stuck to the flavoursome cocktails, Love A La Carte was a stylish evening of sweet entertainment. I, of course, loved the feeling of scalpel against raw emotion. As I left, I glanced back at the warm, bright room. The fires which I mock for their pitiful warmth are the same that make me long to burn.