The magic of mullets

It was Saturday, around tea-time when we were thrown into the final spin of Wagner’s Ring Cycle – six hours’ worth of warbling, scrambling up the scenery and dry-kissing by some very chunky individuals. Our hero, Siegfried, had thin lips and a straggly mullet while his Brunnhilde, a passionate red-head, looked like she’d run up her own dress from a couple of potato sacks and a Doctor Marten shoelace. No wonder he ditched her for the lopsided lady with the Tressy hair and the tin boob. Siegfried had a horn and he used it to maximum effect to woo sack woman and tin woman. It looked to me like half the chorus also fancied him, especially when he  leapt off his boat and stood, legs akimbo, sword a-thrust, and suggested to a man he’d only just met that they should both self-harm and then get all Twilighty with each other. Everyone, it seemed, was keen to get hold of Siegfried’s ring, especially, three be-sequinned river nymphs who kept climbing up the ‘river’ on their hands and knees and then hollering, ‘give us your ring’ as they slid down like they were on the Helter Skelter at Brighton pier. All I could think was how shiny their bottoms must be after each performance. Anyway, then Siegfried got speared by his new mate’s brother, a colossus of a man with messy dreads, at which point, tin tit woman started lamenting how she’d ‘never hear his horn ever again’ – and the man next to me started crying (there were a lot of light-footed types in the audience, as well as mature ladies with lazy bladders). We had two intervals; during one, I had a rose-flavoured cup cake and darjeeling; during the other  I munched on a Jamaican pattie from Cummin Up, a pop-up shabeen on the other side of Preston Circus. The following evening, I was delighted to see the director – who had so skillfully coaxed my perfect performance of ‘lady in autumnal tweed chit-chatting with gentleman friend at cheese and wine party’ in the short film, GG –  was awarded the Bafta for his screen-play of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. I still daydream about David Morrissey with no socks rammed up against a bookcase while I shared nibbles and Ribena with a mature homosexual. Happy days.