I saw Mary Poppins last week. I’ve always loved musicals, a by-product of my movie mania. Grease, Chicago, Oliver – I’ve seen ’em all, from West End to Broadway baby. But come Friday night, I had to admit that I’m either more cynical than a g-string in a retirement home, or I’m too old for this shit (to be said like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon).
Not only was it more gay than Rock Hudson in a Doris Day movie, but it was how I imagine my insanity might look – maniacal, melodious and somewhat sinister.
Everyone is singing and dancing, tra lah lah, and a statue comes to life. Oh my! What wonder, to see it frolic and dance so! What magic! What joy!
Cut to: some dude in a nude body stocking, a fig leaf over his fragilistic … luring the pretty children to come out and play. Um … ex-squeeze me? Baking powder?
‘Mary, move yo’ passive-aggressive ass, before we have another court case! Spit spot.’
Meanwhile, I know all children are an alleged miracle, but that little girl was like an off-Broadway version of Chucky, with the mouth of Steve Tyler (cree-py). And they hacked the story like it was Steve Buscemi in frikkin Fargo; bringing in a new character and altering the songs. Don’t get post-modern with my Poppins, mutherfuckers. I aint down with it.
That being said, I quite enjoyed myself. Wucs. My mood was practically perfect in every way, and a part of me still responds to the existential acid trip. My mate NASA (a girl impervious to heat, cold or nuclear fall-out) and I then went on to our usual – a club with sticky floors, wanker DJs and endless 80s music.
Pause for warm joo-joo pleasure and Judd Nelson air-punch.
Which is where the pink wig comes in, mais oui. But wait, the post is ending… what the frik. Alas! It’s an anti-climatic tale for the morrow my friends. As the boss doth lurk, so shall it be.
Watch this hot-pink space, yo.