Swan Lake – St. Petersburg Ballet

 

I was ushered to my box and was seated with My Friend With Tits. I’d had two double G&T’s and needed a piss. Just a quick one, I thought, I’ve plenty of ti… the bastard conductor walked on and applause happened. Shit. I was fucked for at least an hour. Then, after a bunch of classical music happened, the curtain went up and a bloke with huge clockweights began to prance about. It was the gayest thing I’ve even seen, gayer than Alan Cumming playing with a ball of wool in a wedding dress.

I’d ended up subjecting myself to this nightmare because of work. A client who I genuinely like ‘kindly’ invited Myfwt and I to see St. Petersburg Ballet doing Swan Lake at the Royal Albert Hall. I was unable to refuse; to decline such an offer in my line of work is akin to a dear little Rhesus Macaque bringing you some bananas and you, in return, pulling its head off and fucking it in its twitching neck. Besides, if Myfwt had discovered I’d refused ballet tickets (especially to such an esteemed company / production / venue) she’d have injected my tits with raw sewage.

Basically, I had to go.

Even the word ‘ballet’ bores me rigid, and the whole Swan Lake thing is as inconsequential to me as a child picking its nose in Moscow. Arseholes. Yet there I was watching people poncing all about with this dreadful twiddlesome cacophony pouring into my brains needing a wee wee. For over an hour I put up with this sheer time wasting nonsense, fighting my eyelids and the desire to pull out my tool and just piss off the side of the balcony.

After what seemed like half a generation, a break happened. I asked Myfwt what the fuck was going on. She told me the story of Swan Lake but I was so bored with it all she may as well been reading the Footsie 100 Share Index in a cardboard jumper. The interval offered me the chance to micturate and drink wines; I had two glasses and two cigarettes and went back to my box a broken man. Happily Myfwt was enjoying the experience immensely so all was not lost.

The middle bit didn’t last as long as the first. Due to partial intoxication and bladder relief it seemed mildly more interesting too, a certain symmetry made itself apparent to me and I started to get what was going on. The next interval involved yet more wine and tabs, and because I knew there was less than 45 minutes to go I was feeling rather cheery when I got back to my seat. By now being pissed and able to focus on proceedings aware that I’d soon be able to go back home I threw myself into the performance and began to actually enjoy the experience. Actually, it rather got to me. The climax built up and the dancing became quite sublime, in parts incredible. Blimey, I was being moved by it, to the point that by the time the curtain went down I noticed my eyes were all wet and shit.

It’s still well gay though.

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