Ding dong merrily on high...
Last night was cabaret night. And Mr GPants and I were stepping out.
Just being in the car was exciting enough. Heading into the bright lights in our finery, high on heady 'fumes and mighty in crippling footsqueezers we wondered what was in store. The last time Mr GPs had seen a cabaret it involved glove puppets in Morocco apparently. Hand actions supplied. Yeah.... Anyway, back to the now... We hoped for dancing girls. Mr GPs hoped for no trannies. I hoped for plenty.
We got the girls. We got a can-can. Not as saucy as the waitresses but still - nice knickers.
We got a little bald chap in a nice tank top spinning plates. Took him about 45 minutes to set up for a 2 minute set. And then another 45 minutes to pack it all up again. He must love his job.
And yes we got a big glam singing trannie with the most astounding silver glittery shoes. A bit like a pair of mine I've got stashed under my bed, only about 7 sizes bigger. Not as impressive as the very tight leotard however. Not a trace of a bump. But hairy arms. Now my theory is, you wouldn't go through the bother of the Chop-Op and then not get round to waxing you arms. So his flexible friend had to be stowed away very neatly, somewhere. Well-wowed with those resonating bass notes then. Topic of the evening.
And YES s/he came and sat on my Mr GPants' lap. Bless him he took it well. I was hugging myself with glee. That box smartly ticked - tish!
And the little bald chap came back for another 2 minutes of juggling. Less to pick up this time. Just 5 balls and a hat. Much better. Do that next time little bald chap.
And one of the can-can girls came back too. She wouldn't. She might. Nah. Yes. Oh I say! She DID! Silver glittery nipples! I want some of those.
Shame the poor lass had to scramble back on later in her combats and hoodie to pick up all her discarded knick-knacks. Surely she could've sent someone else to do it. The little bald chap was free. But maybe she's had problems with this kind of thing before. Maybe a few too many special little items have been swiftly snaffled into some jugglers sequinned hat. Probably best left hands off eh?
But I really must say the true highlight of the evening was my Mr GPs all along. Elegantly pin-striped, a pencil-thin Clark Gable 'tache, a spot of Just For Men and a with naughty twinkle in his eye - my dashing rogue was just perfect. I even went so far as to declare I would change his name in my blog to something more fitting.
So it's goodbye Mr Golf Pants and HE-E-LLO-O-OO Mr Roving Blade.
(Which reminds me..... any ideas on that leotard storage? Still on my mind. Don't really want it on my mind. Need closure. Let the bell end here!)